A little about Playa Zipolite, The Beach of the Dead . . .

Playa Zipolite, Oaxaca, Southern Mexico, on the Pacific Ocean. A little bit about my favorite little get-away on this small world of ours.

Zipolite, a sweaty 30-minute walk west from Puerto Angel, brings you to Playa Zipolite and another world. The feeling here is 1970's - Led Zep, Marley, and scruffy gringos.

A long, long time ago, Zipolite beach was usually visited by the Zapotecans...who made it a magical place. They came to visit Zipolite to meditate, or just to rest.

Recently, this beach has begun to receive day-trippers from Puerto Angel and Puerto Escondido, giving it a more TOURISTY feel than before.

Most people come here for the novelty of the nude beach, yoga, turtles, seafood, surf, meditation, vegetarians, discos, party, to get burnt by the sun, or to see how long they can stretch their skinny budget.

I post WWW Oaxaca, Mexico, Zipolite and areas nearby information. Also general budget, backpacker, surfer, off the beaten path, Mexico and beyond, information.

REMEMBER: Everyone is welcome at Zipolite.

ivan

Thursday, May 29, 2014

ALEZANDRO VS PSYKRON HI-TECH SET!!! DESTRUCTION GARDEN A.L.E RECS By Alezandro Avila

ALEZANDRO VS PSYKRON HI-TECH SET!!! DESTRUCTION GARDEN A.L.E RECS by Alezandro Avila on Mixcloud

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

César Mimesis - 10 Years Shining (Tribute to the Suntrip Records 10th Anniversary)

An Homage to Gloria

1 Reply

An Homage to Gloria Esperanza

Pinky, Fred and I recently had the pleasure of spending a lovely afternoon with Gloria Esperanza, a fascinating lady with some very interesting stories to tell. Gloria had been a legend to me ever since my first visit to Zipolite a few years ago. I mentioned Shambhala, her rambling, rustic resort that sits on the hills at the north end of the beach, in another one of my blog posts. She was, quite truly, the original Flower Child of Zipolite.
I have found her story—how she came to Zipolite in 1969 and ended up staying, and building this rather remarkable place called Shambhala—to be an amazing testimony to the power wielded by a determined female.
I had met Angelica, the woman who runs Gloria’s beachside restaurant, Lo Bohemio, and asked her if she could arrange for me to meet Gloria, and to see some of the jewelry she’s created over the years. I thought that there was a possibility that Gloria might be somewhat intimidating, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. She’s one of those people you meet and feel like you’ve known for a while. Her little dog, Dharma, and Pinky got along just fine. As we visited I heard stories of her first trip to this area, in the late ’60′s. They got off the bus in what was then the small village of Puerto Angel–and they got off in the wrong town. They were trying to go to Puerto Escondido, a larger town further up the coast. They decided to walk the coast a bit, following a dirt path that is now the highway. They ended up in Zipolite, not yet on the map. There was one fish shack, one small tienda, a few local families. There was no drinking water to be had for these gringas from Los Angeles. There were also no toilets, no electricity, and no hotels. The ladies had to camp on the beach and carry big bottles of drinking water along that dirt path from Puerto Angel.
As soon as she saw the cliffs at the end of Zipolite beach, Gloria was hooked. She stayed. Long story short: she married a local fisherman and settled in to life south of the border. One can only imagine what a liberated woman she was in the early ’70′s and because she experienced the macho side of the culture as a wife, the marriage ended 3 years later. But Gloria managed to eventually own the rocky north end of the beach in Zipolite. Paths had to be cut. Jungle had to be cleared. A well had to be dug. Gloria managed to pay a couple of local guys to help her. She also cut, cleared, and dug. But the well water still had to be boiled. Gloria did yoga. She chanted. She had a vision of Shambhala that started as a vegetarian restaurant and became a spiritual retreat. The seekers and the wanna-be hippies started to come. Drinking, drugs, and nudity were not allowed. Gloria continued to build. Shambhala grew. In 1994, Hurricane Pauline happened, and wrecked havoc with Shambhala. Much had to be re-built. Her personal home was damaged, and her jeweler’s tools were destroyed. At that point she started to just work with beads, and those are the pieces I saw. I liked what she had done—in fact, I came away with two necklaces.
At this point, Gloria has had some health setbacks. She finds it almost impossible to get down the hill from Shambhala, so she seems like a permanent part of it, in a house full of her artwork and stories and memories. The gleam is still in her eyes, and she still chants. She chanted while I looked at her jewelry.
Things never stay the same, and I hope that as Gloria is ready to hand It off to the next person (she now is offering part of it as lease to buy) that person will be able to find a way to carry on Gloria’s Shambhala. There is a sign right outside the restaurant that says, “Shambhala, where the 60′s never end. A continuation of the original situation. Welcoming the Return of the Flower Child.” I think Gloria could definitely bring out someone’s Inner Flower Child.

Dressing for the Beach. Or Not.

1 Reply

I have no idea who these guys are, or what they were up to. They are not appropriately dressed for the beach, that’s for sure. Now let’s consider a whole different direction for beach attire.
Did I mention that nudity on the beach in Zipolite is okay? In fact, as is pointed out on some websites, nudity is one of the things that this beach is known for. No shirt, no shoes, no pants; no problem. (But you can leave your hat on.). So everyday, sunrise to sunset, there are a fair share of beach-goers who are just letting it all hang out. Nudity is certainly not required, nor do the majority of the people doff their duds, but it is pretty constant. As in, at any given moment there is probably someone in your field of vision who is naked as a plucked jay bird.
I have always prided myself in being very open-minded, pretty liberated (especially when it comes to other people’s behaviors), and non-judgmental. Yet I find myself pondering this situation, and trying to figure out how I feel about it. And how I feel, in a word is — conflicted.
It bothers me that I tend to think I would like for most of these free spirits to wear a sarong, or at least a thong. Perhaps some “private parts” need to stay private. Somehow full-frontal nudity walking in my direction feels just a bit confrontational.
Since I am fairly self-centered, the first thought I have is, “Would I do that?” The answer is definitely, “No”. But I’m not sure if it is because of modesty or vanity. I’m sure part of the “no” is motivated by a desire not to be checked out. The reason I think l would be checked out is because I check other people out. I look at the nude ones with a much more critical eye than I use on the ones in attire. And, in the course of analyzing how I feel about the situation, a lot of what I’m analyzing is my own thoughts. I am, in fact, viewing others through critical and judgmental eyes. I don’t think that’s very nice. I would much rather look at beautiful bodies that out-of-shape, sloppy ones. That, too, makes me feel kind of hard-hearted.
However, one of the first things you realize is that most of the people who take part in the nudity do not look fabulous without their Speedos. They are male and female (although probably 70% are male), all types and all ages, but only a small minority could dance for tips. I think that the ones who could really pull off pulling it all off usually don’t and the ones who might want to rethink the whole thing are the ones who do. I certainly wouldn’t want to rain on their parade or cramp their style, and I appreciate their lack of self-consciousness. I really do. But then, I ask myself how anyone could possibly not be self-conscious while walking up and down the beach naked. Keep in mind I am not talking about just discreet sunbathing ( which I wouldn’t give a thought to). I’m talking about walking up and down the beach, or finding a very prominent spot to do your morning yoga, or your afternoon tai chi. Some days I think I have landed in the middle of an exhibitionist convention. Of course, all this is very dependent on the weather, and it is hot here. And, nudity only happens here on the beach. No one is trucking around on the main street without at least a bikini. In fact, on the website of the place where we are staying they respectfully request that residents don’t go nude on the pathways. No worries about the Ellis bunch messing up on that one.
It doesn’t really bother me, it simply puzzles me on a number of levels. In questioning how I feel about it, I have to question how I feel about the freedoms of others and where lines should be drawn. The real truth is, I find it a little bit entertaining, and that kind of bothers me, too.

Blue Barrels Angles | LNF : Inside Out

Photo Gallery: Laser light show at Grand Coulee Dam

How to Make a Tuna Can Camp Travel Stove Send to Kindle By Wade Shepard @vagabondjourney

http://www.vagabondjourney.com/how-to-make-a-tuna-can-camp-travel-stove/

How to Make a Tuna Can Camp Travel Stove

Send to Kindle

By Wade Shepard @vagabondjourney

How to convert a tuna fish can into a fully functional, efficient, and cheap cooking device.

There’s a whole array of camp and travel stoves out on the market — from butane to kerosene, white gas to solid fuel — and so many varieties of portable camping stoves available for sale that the once primitive act of creating fire to cook some beans in the bush has been turned into adventure in consumerism.

I have some simple advice here on what travel stove to purchase: none of them. Instead, make one yourself!

For only US$0.80 and ten minutes of work you can have a fully operational alcohol burning stove that rivals all the $100+ commercial models in terms of functionality, efficiency, and weight.

Materials needed

1 Standard size tuna fish can
1 Paper hole punch
1 Can opener

How to make it

Open the tuna fish can, and discard (eat) the contents.
Wash the can out, remove the label, and
throw away the lid.
As this is going to be a side burner stove, it needs ventilation holes for the fire to breathe and also to rise up through to meet the surface of the pot. To make these, use the paper hole punch to put holes just under the lid around the complete circumference of the can. Try to keep the holes roughly an eighth of an inch apart, making two staggered rows (like in the photos).

Done! Your travel stove is now completely fabricated.

How to use a tuna can stove

Using a tuna fish can trave l stove is no more difficult than making one. Just pour in the alcohol, light it up with a match, let the flame warm up for a moment, and then put on whatever you want to cook. Generally, these stoves work best for boiling watery contents in pots, and the pots can be laid down right on top of the stove. In my experience, a tuna can alcohol stove will boil water in a 6” diameter camping pot in roughly five minutes, and use but an ounce or two of fuel.

One point to note is that these tuna can alcohol stoves are very prone to wind impact, so, if using outdoors, making a wind shield is advised. There are many ways to do this, but one method that is recommended is to use aluminum foil. To do this, wrap a sheet of tin foil around the outside circumference of your pot, giving roughly three inches of additional play. Then take this foil and fold it length wise. Now make it into a ring shape and connect its two ends together, and then put it around your pot and stove so that it blocks the wind from blowing the flame.

Keep in mind that these stoves do not have an off switch. So once they are lit, the only ways to put them out is to smother them with dirt, or pour water over them, or just wait for the fuel to expire.

What kind of fuel do I need?

I generally use denatured alcohol or 90% or higher isopropyl (rubbing) alcohol as a cooking fuel. Keep in mind that the lower grades rubbing alcohol — such as 70% or 30% — will not work for cooking purposes, but other types of alcohols can also be utilized.

Many long distance campers recommend denatured alcohol, a.k.a. methylated spirits, which is ethanol mixed with methanol and other additives to make it undrinkable (to avoid excess taxation inherent to selling straight ethanol). This type of alcohol, besides being used as a cooking fuel, is also used as a solvent, and can often be found in hardware stores, camping supply shops, and even gas stations. Denatured alcohol is sometimes dyed bright, toxic looking colors to inhibit the unscrupulous from attempting to drink it. Most commercial alcohol camp stoves need this kind of alcohol to work, but your tuna can stove will also burn 90% rubbing alcohol as well. Pure ethanol can also be used, but it tends to be more expensive to purchase and should be only resorted to if the other two alcohols are not available.

When abroad, being able to find suitable alcohol fuel is a hit or miss endeavor. In Latin America, the fuel that you need is called “Kemar” or cooking alcohol. Or you can look in the pharmacies for bottles of rubbing alcohol that have 90% written somewhere on the bottle. In Europe, denatured alcohol is generally available, but you may have to do some searching for it. Generally speaking, adequate alcohol for cooking can be found in most places in the world.

A tuna can stove in action

The following video shows how to make an alcohol burning stove from a tuna fish can

The video below shows how to make the cheapest and lightest camp or travel stove there is.

Conclusion

This was the type of stove that I used daily to cook with as I traveled by bicycle across Iceland, and I keep one in my pack at all times no matter where I am traveling. Having the means to cook for yourself in travel makes you far more self-sufficient, gives you more dining options, and, in some parts of the world, is absolutely essential. I always travel with cooking gear, and because of this I am able to eat cheaper, healthier, and get sick less often.

These tuna can stoves prove to be very efficient cooking devices, burning just an ounce or two of fuel for each pot of water boiled. At a price of under $2 for 16 ounces of 91% isopropyl alcohol in the USA, these stoves are very economically efficient as well. Although a commercial multi-fuel camping stove may prove to be more versatile than my tuna fish can alcohol stove, it is my impression that the two devices do the same thing: they provide a flame over which a traveler can cook their food.

The major difference here is that a tuna can is just about free. I actually prefer the tuna can as a cooking stove, as it is a one piece device, is very difficult to break, can be repaired easily (if it gets misshapen just bend it back into shape), are easily replaceable, take a readily available fuel source, and a pot can sit steadily on top of the stove itself without needing a grill or any additional supports. These tuna can stoves are not just specimens of travel gear that should be used because they are cheap and easy to make, but they are simple, rugged, efficient, cheap, light weight, and, best of all, do the job.

The 80 cent Travel Stove

Thursday, 15 April 2010 Making friends.

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…

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.

So many different people from all waks of life, each on their own path and this dirty hostel is the only place you will find all of them under the same roof, sharing a meal, a beer, swapping stories and travel experiences, inspirations and philosophies before carrying on their way.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.

ysenger Inagist Beautiful Beach in Puerto Angel, Oaxaca. Mexico. Hi @ATHNICO Kalimera Omorfos File mou! http://t.co/GqSTaoeOMa by ysenger ...

Beautiful Beach in Puerto Angel, Oaxaca. Mexico. Hi @ATHNICO Kalimera Omorfos File mou! pic.twitter.com/GqSTaoeOMa
— Yolanda Senger (@ysenger) May 27, 2014