Thursday, May 5, 2011

Semana Santa Part 1

We left for the beach Friday night. We asked two separate door men about our bus, and each told us that the bus hadn’t arrived yet. Only when they called “last call seats 5 & 6” did we bolt from waiting space, diving over families and luggage to almost get on the wrong bus that also said Puerto Escondido to get directed to the write bus with a very exasperated looking driver. How to make a scene: #18. Fifteen hours later we rolled into the beach town.

Climbing hundreds of stairs down the cliff face, we entered a small and quiet beach where you can rent an adirondack chair for the price of a coconut drink and a few quesadillas. The tide was strong and tepid and the sand burned our toes. After a few hours of sun and vendors circling their foreign pray had beaten our energy level back a bit, we packed up and went to the market in search of ice cream. Instead, we found fruit that looked like something Dr. Seuss would have pulled up from a scuba excursion. We also got some hibiscus juice and eventually decided to grab some grub. Cecilia had fish tacos and I ordered a michelada: a Corona rimmed with salt and lime wedges and infused with a mildly picante salsa. Sounds like a case of the shits for 30 pesos right? Just save yourself the tongue twister and go straight for the PBR? But no – it’s actually delicious. I would end up ordering some fish tacos as well so I didn’t have to stagger out of there.

I’m always struggling with the idea of spending my money and trying so hard to let go and allow myself the opportunity to spend just a fraction of what I’ve saved. Then I think about the Australians in our hostel who are backpacking for 4-8 months at a time, going out every night, and I think – OK I can learn to splurge for one week. Cecilia has promised to help me with this, and I can hear my dad’s rational, calming voice in my head as well. One purchase at a time…So this morning I am enjoying a FABULOUS breakfast at the Buena Vida Sports Bar where Ceci and I each ordered a “Michael Phelps” – fried tortilla with a thin layer of refried beans under two sunnyside up eggs with a garnish of fried plantains and glazed with an unspicy salsa that’s the color of a sunset.  Holy cow. We read, wrote, took pictures and looked pensively off in the direction of the neon flowers and the occasional taxi going by.  And Mr. Marley serenaded us while I sipped on one of the best lattes I’ve ever had.

The Sound of the ocean never gets old. I think I’ll read…I think I’ll write…maybe I should go out. But then the waves crash back into my awareness and I decide to let them play another set before getting proactive about nothing of major consequence. Cecilia left for Mizunte today with a group of friendly and good natured kids we met on yesterday’s little squatter beach (Ezacahuite?). (We’d wind up spending a good portion of our vacation with them, and we’re going to visit them in Mexico City in May.) But I, for the third time since my arrival in Mexico, was on my back with my hands in a triangle over my core willing my navel to  ease the cramps out of my digestive tract. Either the magic or the pill that Lalo and Iiana bought me when they came to retrieve Cecilia released the tension enough for me to take a nap for 3 hours. Only then, moving quite slowly, did I feel well enough to head down to the beach of Puerto Ángel.

Puerto Ángel is the small fisher town that my dear friend Joyce recommended – it’s far less crowded and touristy than Puerto Escondido (about an hour away – we stayed in each place for 2 days).  I walked across the street and out onto the sand where rows of fishing boats named Lupita and Kelly were parked on the shore. I watched some of the fishermen return to port: they would rip through the crowds playing in the surf and not consider slowing down until halfway across the moist sand. I took a a small rock path that hugs the cliff-face to bridge the fishing beach and the tourist beach. The beach was lined with thatch huts and plastic tables with aderondack chairs that occasionally had to be chased down by the patrons when they got caught in the surf. Little babies wore diapers of sand on their bare butts. Teams of boys kicked the soccer ball onto a terracotta roof of an alcove where drummers and old men perched. Kids stayed in the water for hours and hours – the water was a perfect welcoming cool.

 A girl in a red swuimsuit’s eyes widened behind me as she pulled her brother out of the water. She knew before I did that another remolino was coming. I turned to see the waves explode against the rocks on the opposite side of the bay. Then it reached us and the earth pulled at my heels while the water pushed at my back. Most of the kids would ride it out (literally) but I preferred to let it suck me back and then spit me onto the shore to take a breather on the sand.
The salvavidas wandered by with his little floatie and whistle. “ What’s your name, beautiful? And what? Married? Divorced? Boyfriend? Single? From the moment I saw you I wanted to talk to you.” I have many Mexican boyfriends, I told him. 47 to be exact. “Ah, then surely you have room for one more. Do they each have a special space? Can I have this corner of your ear, so that every morning I can wake up and whisper, ‘Good morning, Raquel. I’m here, ready to serve.” Damn. Salvavida was smooth. Yet, so very old and hairy. I told him that I’d have to check with all of my boyfriends…

The trumpet of the mariachis and the drums of the hippies lulled me into a Jimmy Buffet stupor. I was only to be jolted by the occasional wafting of animal shit or the threat of a dog fight. Once a rooster strutted out from behind a fishing boat, but decided that even he didn’t have the huevos to take on all the ruckus that awaited him on the beach. My lollipop purchase from a short woman with very unfortunate dental care seemed to be the highlight of her day. She stopped me 2 or 3 more times: Hey guera, you reading? Umm. Yeah. Yeah I am; to ask me about my work, repeat the details of each beach and their safety levels and finally to speculate on the moral nature of the tourist culture. Sigh. 

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