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Cuando vengas a Zipolite no olviden visitar Orale Cafehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?
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IMG_8530. The road from Oaxaca to Puerto Escondido is a windy eight-hour trip over a mountain pass in a mini van, locally referred to as the Vomit Comet.
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PUERTO ESCONDIDO AND MAZUNTE
The road from Oaxaca to Puerto Escondido is a windy eight-hour trip over a mountain pass in a mini van, locally referred to as the Vomit Comet. It’s so bad that people consider taking an overnight bus or a plane to avoid that road. Arriving in the evening, having survived the turns and churns, I went straight to my room and hit the hay.
I stayed in a rustic ramshackle of a hostel on the far side of the main beach called Zicatela. The suburb was called La Punta, which literally means, The Point. The surf break on La Punta is famous amongst local and international surfers alike. As it appeared to me walking down to the beach that first morning, the general vibe that permeated from the surfers was like a Mexican version of Point Break. Bronzed guys riding scooters, surfboards slung across bare torsos, over emphasised knuckle-smash greetings, hands flicking long hair in the air, bright sunglasses and a particular type of slow groove walk. Puerto Escondidio felt like being on a surf movie set, staring local Mexicans and countless cameos by board-short wearing gringos.
Following the advice of the hostel owner I took a collectivo to the market for lunch. Collectivos are essentially taxis that run a certain rout and will pick up and drop off people on its way, squeezing in more passengers than seats. The etiquette is three passengers riding in the back, and two up front with the driver. And yes, my first thought was to avoid the front seat, to dodge taking a trip squeezed between two sweaty men and a hand break.
While I waited for the collectivo, I befriended a 40-year old woman who was heading in the same direction. We got talking, she quickly asked me how many kids I had – none. She asked me where my wife was – I don’t have one. She looked confused, then said that only ugly guys aren’t married. Somewhat befuddled, I switched the topic back to the food at the market.
As we left the collectivo the lady walked me over to the restaurant section of the market, went up to her favourite kitchen and ordered me her favourite dish, telling me I would love it. It was a dish I had tried before, the one and only dish in Mexican cuisine I can’t handle. Essentially it’s a spicy soup with slimy gelatinous pieces of pork fat throughout. I like spice, but it is pork jelly floaters that make me heave. Trying to be the polite, ‘culturally sensitive’ traveller, I forcibly slurped it down, aided by big washes of beer. Until I figure out the name of this dish, I am sure I will have it again.
Following my local culinary delight, I headed down to the populated end of Zicatela and walked along the beach with my feet in the water. Along the beach there were red flags warning of the danger of swimming, even translating the international colour of red for danger into written English for the tourists. I’m no surfer, hence only dipping my toes in the water, but it was easy to see that there was a strong rip.
I spent a few more days in Puerto Escondido, and ended up hanging out with two travellers, Luca (Italy) and Kevin (France). While they both spoke a bit of English, Spanish was their preferred common language. I decided to follow them down to Mazunte, an even smaller fishing town roughly an hour south of Puerto Escondido.
The main beach in Mazunte is a small bay that is overlooked by a bar and a few hotels. I can only say that it could be a peaceful location, except that when I was there the locals had set up a PA that was blasting cheesy Mexican music across the bay. To be fair, I was there during their annual fishing festival.
That evening, I slept in a small beachside bungalow. There where lots of chatty Spanish speaking travellers and the hostel was run by a German mum and daughter team who were your enviro- new-age types. The atmosphere was nice, the food was great, but the beachside bungalows where not as cute as they sound. During the night I didn’t get much sleep, it was more like hiding under a hot sandy mosquito net.
Prior to leaving I had read up about any dangers of Puerto Escondido and the surrounding coastline. I found many articles on Puerto Escondido, which basically pointed to the undertow as being the big killer. However, I stumbled upon one CNN article, stating Puerto Escondido was the crossroads of drug trafficking for the Zetas gang, a group that indiscriminately behead other gangs and civilians alike. But in reality, Puerto Escondido is a relatively peaceful and quiet town by Mexican standards. While Puerto Escondido may not be so hidden anymore, it still retains a sense of authenticity. l’m sure the surfers are thanking CNN for keeping people off their waves.
Leaving Mexico
In total, I spent about three and half weeks in Mexico. I had decided to leave as I had booked myself into a CELTA course in Thailand and the idea of travelling south through Central America seemed a bit of a squeeze. It had dawned on me in Mexico, that while I loved travelling, the money wouldn’t last forever and I had to do some proactive steps to avoid ending up selling quesadillas on the corner.
The highway north to Mexico City was a stark reminder of the troubles Mexico is facing with the drug war. As cocaine is taken up to the northern border, there are certain checkpoints where army officials with their large guns stop and search cars. As I took in this war zone scene, I realised I hadn’t actually observed the face of the drug cartels in any of the places I had been to in Mexico. Only the military and the their guns, which made you feel like the baddies were nearby. Oaxaca is not like other places I have visited, such as parts of Europe, where it is common for the dealers’ advertising jingle to be a rendition of the Queen’s of the Stone Age’s ‘Feel Good Hit of the Summer’ – Nicotine, Valium, Vicotdin, Marijuana, Ecstasy, Alcohol, Cocaine. Not to say there isn’t significant conflict in the north of the country, but I can’t say the sight of soldiers and their firepower made me feel any safer in Mexico.
At some point during my time in Mexico I wrote the following lyrics. Something I do from time to time, hoping they will inspire some vocals out of a friend of mine. While it wasn’t meant to be about Mexico, reading back I think I couldn’t help but be influenced by my surrounds.
Collarless
Untied and free
Stray dog
Learns a wild walk.
Mother of the Children
Power and pride
Blind, open and armed.
Young hound
Climbed a mountain
saw it green
Stole an axe
drove it down.
Tribal chief
Born to raise
The civil
enchained.
Doctor left to his Office
Hands to the ceiling
Sews his mouth
From the 6th floor.
Children scrounge the street
As the mother of the tower
ties her nooses
The chief bangs the drums
Paper gun to head
the doctor prescribes it all
Leaves the man of the hour
Alone to wrestle
In the Isle of Power
