Thursday, 15 April 2010
Making friends.
When I arrived in Zipolite, I made the rookie mistake of wandering down the street with my backpack, looking as if I didn’t know where I was going (which I didn’t). I hadn’t learnt this lesson yet, but the trick is to walk with purpose, at least pretend you know where you are headed - that way you’re less likely to attract any unwanted attention. As I wandered down the paved road running parallel to the beach, the atmosphere was very relaxed. Locals sat outside their stores chatting, bare foot kids kicked a soccer ball around, dogs stretched out in the shade of palm trees.
A guy noticed me walking aimlessly down the street, sweating in the incredible heat. He approached and smiled, introducing himself as Eduardo; he was about 40 years old with a goatee, sunglasses and a baseball hat. He welcomed me to his village and then offered to help me find a place to sleep. Well, that’s nice I thought, what a lovely, friendly little town this is. He took me to a hostel on the main road, a dirty, smelly place with unfriendly patrons – but according to Eduardo “the cheapest in Zipolite”, plus he said he could get me a discount. It wasn’t exactly the type of place I had expected to find, and even with the supposed “discount” was not all that cheap. I asked if there was anywhere I could camp, maybe on the beach? Both hostel owner and Eduardo shook their heads. After some urging from Eduardo that this was the best I would find, I reluctantly agreed to stay. The sun was so hot, and my head heavy from too many tequilas the night before, (my new found friends at Puerto Escondido weren’t about to let me get away quietly, making my plans for an early night out of the question) I just wanted to lie down for a while. Eduardo then took me aside and explained that he was out of work, struggling to find a job and asked if I could please give him some money, ahhhh of course, now I see. I gave him a few pesos and said good bye. I went into my ply-wood walled room and dumped my heavy pack on the dirt floor. It was like an oven. I flicked on the fan which cranked up like a Boeing 747 but for all the noise produced a pathetic amount of wind, and lay down on the slouching, uncomfortable bed. After about an hour of restless sleep I grabbed my towel and headed to the beach. Eduardo was waiting for me on the street, an empty beer bottle and some cigarette butts beside him - I see my money went to good use.
“Where are you going?” he asked
“To the beach.” I replied.
“I will come with you.” Well, ok, it’s a free country I suppose. “But first, would you like something to drink? Maybe a beer, I know where to get ice cold beer - the cheapest in Zipolite.”
Actually a cold beer would be nice, it was still terribly hot. So we went to a small store across the road, I bought two beers and we pulled up a couple of plastic stools and sipped them outside on the street in the shade. Eduardo would not stop talking, telling me about this secret beach he knew about, and all the reasons I was lucky to have met him. I finished my beer quickly and started to say good bye, hoping I could leave him behind. I was beginning to tire of his company. I didn’t get a genuine feeling from him, I was starting to see that this relationship was based on me giving him money, and I felt stupid for falling for his “helpful local” routine.
“Wait, I will take you to this secret beach, come on, it is beautiful.” Yea, yea the most beautiful in Zipolite I’m sure, “You won’t find it by yourself.” One thing I have to give him credit for - he was persuasive.
“Ok, let’s go.” I reluctantly agreed. We walked to the beach, along a clear well-travelled path, and when we arrived, there were probably 10 people there, all males, all nude. Riiiight. “What do you think? Beautiful, no?”
“Um yea, nice uh, rocks… well I’m kind of hungry I think I will go get some lunch.” As soon as I said these words, I regretted them.
“Ok, what would you like to eat? I know a great restaurant, blah, blah, blah…” I was not in the mood for this guy, but he hadn’t really given me a reason to tell him to get lost. It was incredibly hot, I was dehydrated, tired and hungry - maybe I was being unfair to him. He was unemployed, lonely and bored; it could be he was just trying to be helpful. Alright, I’ll give him another chance. We ended up back at the hostel, sitting at a plastic table out the front, dogs sniffing at our feet, eating chicken and rice and drinking another beer. So this is the “great restaurant” he was talking about? He finished his beer, ordered another, then asked if I could please pay for his lunch and drinks. Ok, that’s it. What had this guy actually done for me so far? Taken me to this “fantastic” hostel, “top secret” beach and now this “great” restaurant, all of which I could have quite easily found by myself. I could see he just saw me as a cash machine, now how do I get rid of him? That’s when Raul showed up. Overhearing my accent he asked me,
“Mate, are you a Kiwi?”
“Yea bro, where you from?”
“Stralya.”
He joined our table and we drank a beer together, talking and laughing. Eduardo was clearly becoming frustrated at not being able to understand what we were saying, he kept trying to interrupt. Raul looked at me through his one good eye as if to say “Who is this dickhead?” I just shook my head.
“Where ya staying?” he asked me,
“Right here, out the back”
“Oh yea, is it nice?”
“Far from it, man.”
“How much?”
“Hundy.” ($10 NZ)
“Mate, I’m crashing on a hammock at this other place right on the beach for 40, or you can chuck your tent up for the same price.”
I looked sideways at Eduardo; we were talking too fast for him to comprehend “Old mate here told me there was nowhere to camp.”
“Well screw this guy, grab your stuff, I’ll show you where it is.”
That was just the motivation I needed. Eduardo was not happy, neither was the hostel owner, but they had lied to me so I didn’t feel guilty about leaving. I grabbed my stuff, paid for the food and beers and got out of there. I thanked Eduardo for his “help” but didn’t tell him where we were going. He seemed a little offended, but no doubt he would soon find another tourist to leech off.
Arriving at the other place, I thought “Now, this is more like it.” There were other travellers, hammocks, music, a bar, a place for my tent and a nice, relaxed atmosphere. All of this directly on the beach and open to the breeze.
This was where I spent the next three days, waking up early when the heat in my tent became unbearable and moving to a hammock, reading a book or watching the waves, chatting with other travellers or listening to my iPod. Local ladies walking down the beach balancing buckets on their heads would pass by, selling anything from tamales and tacos to fresh fruit and cold beers.I would occasionally take a stroll down to the more popular end of the beach, where the water had less of an undercurrent, for a swim. The good thing about Zipolite is there are no big resorts, night clubs or high end tourism. It is a pretty liberal place with a laid back hippy atmosphere, a place where reggae music and ganja smoke float on the ocean breeze, palm trees sway and stress melts away. It was a good life, but I soon became restless. Other travellers’ stories of the jungle in Chiapas made me hungry for something more adventurous. I wanted to see monkeys and parrots, I wanted to swing from the vines like Tarzan. I also wanted to get away from the oppressive heat. I felt my batteries had been sufficiently recharged, and I was ready for the next chapter. I now had a travelling partner in Raul, we were headed in the same direction so decided to go together. Little did we know we would be travelling together for the next six weeks, all the way down through the length of Belize and to the paradisiacal Bay Islands off Honduras’ Caribbean coast
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Back to the Ocean.
Finally, after 3 months land locked in a barren desert, I have made it to the ocean. After two brief stops - the first in chaotic Mexico City and then beautiful Oaxaca - the call of the ocean became too much and I jumped on a bus and headed to the beach. Now here I am, bobbing happily on a body board off the coast of southern Mexico, the sun on my back and my flippered feet flapping in the clear blue water beneath me. I am inPuerto Escondido, a popular gringo hangout on the Pacific coast. I'm back in the ocean and I couldn't be happier.As to be expected the locals are claiming most of the set waves, leaving the rest of us to fight over the scraps. It’s competitive here, people come from all over the world to surf this wave, and the atmosphere is a little hostile. But I am happy just to be back in the oceans cool embrace, rising and falling with her steady breathe and gazing out to the horizon, patiently waiting my turn. It’s hard enough to get out here anyway; although they don’t look so big from the shore, these waves are known in the surfing world as being heavy, powerful and unforgiving. Even the little ones are strong enough to hold you under for a few seconds.
The main beach of Puerto Escondido - Zicatela - is a long stretch of fine sand lined with restaurants and bars. I guess I came in the off season, or maybe the violence in the north has lowered the number of tourists here. Whatever the case, this place seems a little abandoned, the shops and restaurants are far from busy and all along the beach row upon row of empty deck chairs recline in the sun, waiting like open hands. Nevertheless it is still a popular destination for surfers and backpackers, neither of which I suppose are willing to pay to use a deck chair.
I see a peak rolling in wider than the others; this one’s got my name on it. I paddle hard to get into a good position, keeping my eye on the wave which has reared up to about two metres in height and is still growing. I point my board towards the shore, looking over my shoulder and up at the giant gaping mouth as it starts to suck me in hungrily. The wave lifts me up, it is much bigger than I expected and I’m still a little deep of the take-off, the lip of the wave starts to curl in front of me. But I’m committed, I can hear the voices of my surfing friends back home “paddle, Cookie, paddle!” I kick with all my might and lean forward, teetering on the crest, my heart leaps as I peer over the drop. This wave is a monster, but I urge myself forward. With a last burst of energy I manage to push myself over the edge. I free fall down the face for what seems an eternity, then when finally my board hits the water again I lean hard into the wave and pull up with all my strength. The rail of my board slides, slips and then barely grips the wall of water. I look ahead down the length of the wave, urging myself forwards. But the wave is too fast and I can see it is about to close out on me. I try to carve higher and gain more speed, but it’s too late, the monster overtakes me with a roar like thunder and I’m enveloped in its furious grip. The board is ripped from my grasp, I am thrashed around like a rag doll in a tumble drier, then plunged deep into a silent darkness. Once the madness has passed, it takes me a second to re-orientate myself. I kick and kick towards the light, my lungs bursting, until finally I emerge gasping for air and grasping for my board. I pull at the leash on my wrist, but my board has abandoned me, I can see it, bobbing along happily still on the wave, headed to shore without me. Thanks for nothing buddy.
I manage (after a couple more rinse cycles) to swim to shore and I slump down heavily on the beach. The sun is low on the horizon and soon it will be sinking behind the hills where the main part of town is situated. I have been here for five days now, and haven’t seen any more of this place than my hostel, this beach and the road that runs parallel to it. Apparently there’s some other nice beaches around but I have been having a good enough time at this one - body boarding, swimming, reading and relaxing. It is so good to be beside the ocean again. After three months spent further away from the ocean then I had ever been, I realised how big a part of my life it actually was. I love the mountains, I love the forest, but I think there's no better way to recharge your batteries then a trip to the sea, specifically the Pacific, in a way it's like having a physical connection with New Zealand
My hostel is right across the road from the beach, about 50 metres from where I now sit. When I arrived the owner, a jolly, long-haired, bare-chested mexican, welcomed me and showed me a dormitory. He led me over the suspicious pool of water creeping out from under the bathroom door and into a dark and dingey room smelling of surf wax and body odour. A lazy fan stirred the muggy air reluctantly and a fly droned around the room occasionally banging his head against the mildew stained walls. The metal bunk screeched like a frightened piglet when I sat on it, and the mattress was dirty and lumpy.
There was just one other occupant in the room, their sleeping outline barely visible through the sagging mosquito net. A pair of board shorts hung on the bunk bed, a towel on the floor and two surf boards leant against the wall.
I was then taken to the “kitchen” - a wobbly water-logged bench with a crooked sink, a dribbling garden hose for a tap, and a rusty gas burner - and the "bathroom" - a closet with a door that didn't shut properly and a drain which just didn't, hence the puddle spreading out the door.
“How much?” I enquired dubiously.
“7,000 pesos.” At just over $5 NZ it was cheap and nasty, but I didn’t plan on spending much time in the hostel. I was here to get reacquainted with my old friend the Pacific Ocean.
“I’ll take it.”
The owner Simon speaks perfect English, in fact he used to be a sports reporter for a television news channel in the US. It’s hard to imagine this now with his long unkempt hair, unshaven chubby face, large belly and raggedy shorts, but this guy used to be somewhat of a celebrity. After a few years in front of the camera he got tired of the stressful life in the north and moved back down to Mexico to open this hostel. He isn’t pulling in much money, but he’s his own boss, he lives across the road from the beach and he meets travellers from all over the world. He is a very sociable person, laid back, well-travelled and with many a story to tell. The perfect hostel owner, now all he needs is the perfect hostel cleaner…There was just one other occupant in the room, their sleeping outline barely visible through the sagging mosquito net. A pair of board shorts hung on the bunk bed, a towel on the floor and two surf boards leant against the wall.
I was then taken to the “kitchen” - a wobbly water-logged bench with a crooked sink, a dribbling garden hose for a tap, and a rusty gas burner - and the "bathroom" - a closet with a door that didn't shut properly and a drain which just didn't, hence the puddle spreading out the door.
“How much?” I enquired dubiously.
“7,000 pesos.” At just over $5 NZ it was cheap and nasty, but I didn’t plan on spending much time in the hostel. I was here to get reacquainted with my old friend the Pacific Ocean.
“I’ll take it.”
One thing I’ve found while backpacking is if you can put up with the smells and dripping taps, often the dirt cheap places are where you will find the most interesting people. And this place is no exception. My roomie, Matsuo a surf board repair man from Japan, has worked hard for the past few years and now has enough money saved to travel round the planet surfing the best waves in the world. He speaks very little English and no Spanish, but he has a good, very calm energy, and we can quite happily sit in silence and watch the waves for hours. There’s Marcus the long, blonde haired surfer from Germany, stuck in Mexico because of the volcanic ash cloud floating over Europe from Iceand, he has travelled all the way up from Chile on chicken buses with his two surf boards - a feat I respect greatly knowing how hard it was for me backpacking with just a guitar. He has been to New Zealand, and likes drinking beer so, needless to say, we get along just fine. Then there’s Roberto the artesanista from Chile, who works with wire, shells, stones and beads, crafting bracelets, necklaces, and rings to sell on the street, this is how he funds his travels, and Eduardo from Guadalajara, Mexico with his bag full of random trinkets, sculptures and souvenirs he brought with him from the city to sell here, the first thing he did when he met me was place a small donkey carved from stone in my hand, “Un regalo” (a gift) he said with a smile. These two are true wheelers and dealers, great company, and there’s never a dull moment with them, they’re full of life and great ideas - but let’s just say they’re not the type of people I would lend my car to.
As I watch the sun disappear behind the hills the waves lap gently at my feet, inviting me for one last ride. But I’m tired and hungry, and headed to Zipolite in the morning - a smaller beach further along the coast. According to my guide book it is a laid back hippy hang out. Sounds like a good place to swing in a hammock for a couple of days and take a little time to bathe in the energy which flows from the Pacific Ocean before going Indiana Jones and heading deep into the jungle ofChiapas the doorway to Central America and home to Palenque, an ancient city left all but abandoned by the mysterious Mayans. What lies in store for me down there I can only imagine, but I guess there’s just one way to find out.
