Northward We Go

Me and my usual inability to smile during photographs

            Five of us packed into the van and headed out of Puerto Escondido an hour before the sun rose. Jon and Allie, a friendly Australian couple, asked if they could come along as we headed back to Zihuatanejo. It’s quite a feat cramming five people’s surfboards and belongings into the van in a way that will still leave some room to sit. I must say that although driving in Mexico can be hazardous, exhausting and stressful, I would still rather drive than cram into the back of a windowless cargo can for a 450 mile drive through winding, pothole laden roads.

            We stayed in Zihuatanejo for Dia de los Muertos, which proved to be a pretty cool experience. I decided not to take photographs of people honoring their departed family members at the cemetery out of respect. Entire families come out to adorn the graves of their deceased family members with flowers, wreaths and candles. It was interesting to see how a different culture deals with death. I expected the whole thing to be rather somber and depressing but in all actuality it was quite the opposite with family members conversing, telling stories and enjoying themselves. I got to thinking that it’s probably better that way. When I’m six feet under I don’t want a bunch of people coming around moping and feeling sorry, I’d rather they through a big fat party on my grave and piss off all my subterranean neighbors.

Half a road, at best

            The next day we headed to Saladita, one of the longest left-hand points in Mexico. The waves were pretty small and more suited for a longboard. We stayed at my Neighbor Steve’s place, which was totally a treat. His neighbor is Corky Carroll who was a world champion surfer back in the 70’s. Corky was really helpful and gave us the low down on how to get to an isolated break known as “The Ranch.” We went that afternoon and checked it out after driving for about half an hour on a one-lane dirt road. We got there to find the break totally empty, with long lefts breaking along a cobblestone reef that seems to go on forever.

            We left Saladita to return to Pasquales and surf there for a few days. Edgar, the owner of the surf camp greeted us immediately and even managed to remember my name after six weeks, he’s a real hospitable gent. I guess I remembered his name too, although it helps that it’s written on the sign when you enter. The waves were good, as is the usual at Pasquales. Edgar let us know that there was a surf contest over the weekend which generally means no fun for non competitors so I decided to continue on my journey northward to Sayulita.

Edgar, hard at work as usual

The Church in Tecoman

            Before I left I stopped in the small city of Tecoman. This little gem is situated right in the middle of one of the largest produce centers of Mexico. Much of the economy relies on the apparently thriving lime and coconut business. The city is clean both physically and in its design too with easily navigable streets and a defined town center. The people here are some of the most friendly I’ve met so far in Mexico. They seem to always be happy and smiling, which is understandable considering how prosperous the town seems to be. In the town center there is a beautifully constructed open-air church. A kind older woman saw me taking photos and gave me a little tour of the place just out of the kindness of her heart. I didn’t understand everything she told me but it was obvious she felt proud of her town and the beautiful church that unifies this little slice of paradise. If you get the chance please do go explore this rich little town and mingle with its thriving and welcoming people, you wont be disappointed.

Adventures In The Swamp

Chacahua is a very isolated in many ways, and quite autonomous as well. Although Chacahua is only an hour north of Puerto Escondido, it’s as though time has stood still in this quaint village situated on a point inaccessible by car and engulfed by a crocodile infested, mangrove entwined brackish lagoon. Internet existence in non-existent, and there’s only one phone for the whole town located at the convenient store. When someone has an incoming call the clerk gets on the megaphone and announces to the village “Jose, your uncle Pablo wants to talk to you”, or something to that effect.

Eva Tommy and I on our way to Chacahua

            We left the car on the mainland and boarded a small fiberglass boat that appeared only marginally seaworthy with visible structural cracks in the hull. The half hour boat ride takes you through the lagoon, rich with exotic birds, snakes, turtles and other interesting fauna that thrive in this hostile environment. The captain seemed to navigate through the mangroves effortlessly, guiding the boat as if he had done it a million times; he probably has.

            Once we got there, we found a reeling right-hander that made Barra look like a kiddy pool. It’s a full-on barreling wave that, on the right swell, will take you on the quarter mile ride of your life. I counted one guy get five solid barrels on one wave, I managed to get barreled three times on one wave which is definitely a landmark in my surfing career. Unfortunately the swell only held for the first two days and then dropped off dramatically. Chacahua needs solid swell to really work, so after three days we decided to head back to Puerto Escondido which always seems to produce regardless of swell conditions.

Kay and Zac, I know one of you can identify these beautiful birds, I sure can't

The boat ride back from Chacahua was even more questionable than the one there. This smaller boat had a bigger crack through the length of the hull than the one that took us out there. My nerves weren’t settled by the fact that this craft was grossly over packed with 11 people. Half way back to shore two local people flagged the boat down from one of the small islands to hop aboard as well. When we pulled up to the dock there was a local man with a huge, hog-tied iguana that he wanted to take to town, most likely to sell. One of the salty old gringos on our boat began to argue with him telling the local man that he was disrespecting the environment and disobeying the laws pertinent to this lagoon, which is apparently part of a National Park. The argument got heated as the indignant gringo took it upon himself to exercise his apparent mastery of the Spanish language and belittle the local for capturing the Iguana. The gringo forcibly blocked the guy from boarding the over packed boat while heated words were exchanged about each of their mothers. I was a little on edge. There we were in the middle of a swamp on a overcrowded, nearly sinking boat and this guy wanted to go on some diatribe about a damn Iguana, give me a break. Obviously no one had ever told this guy to pick his battles.

            I got to thinking, and then concluded, what leg does this gringo have to stand on? He doesn’t live there, he just takes a jet-fuel guzzling plane down to this spot, acts like he owns it, and then probably goes back to the states to drive his SUV around L.A. or something. I wanted to tell him to back off, but you can’t change people’s minds, and trying to usually just ends in another pointless altercation. And really who cares? It’s an Iguana, I saw the guy eating a fish for dinner the night before, both animals part of a food chain with us at, or near, the top.

            Maybe he was just a jerk, or maybe he really felt like he was going to change this guys mind and help the environment. My conviction is…well I don’t know what my conviction is, I just felt like this overzealous gringo should chill out and let the guy kill the Iguana if he wants, it’s not like it was a Silverback Gorilla or something. You see Iguanas everywhere, there like reptilian rats as far as I’m concerned; heck I already ran one over with my own gas guzzling tourist chariot. Just something to think about when your traveling, there’s so many different ways to live, and as long it ain’t bothering me I figure leave well enough alone, especially when your on someone else’s turf.

The sunset from Dan and Carmen's

            We got back to Puerto Escondido with no problems. We’ve been staying at this great hotel called Dan and Carmen’s. It’s more like a compound, taking up a whole sloping hillside block dotted with banana a palm trees. For $40 a night we’ve got a room with three beds, a kitchen and an ocean view. Dan is Canadian expat who has spent the last twenty years building and expanding this truly unique compound that I would suggest to anyone who wants kick back, relax and not worry about a thing, except for issues like what combination of fruit you want in your morning smoothie from the onsite café that serves some of the best food in town.

            Tomorrow were driving to Saladita in the state of Guerrero to stay at a house my neighbor Steve from Santa Cruz owns and has so generously allowed us to use while surfing one of the longest left hand points in Mexico. Thanks for reading!

Off to Chacahua

Another day at Barra

       Well, it came, the massive late-season south swell that I had been hoping for. The forecasts were calling for sets to ten feet and it delivered. I showed up at Barra on Thursday to find meager sized forerunners, but by Saturday morning the sets were stacked to the horizon snapping boards left and right. The winds stayed calm for the entire weekend too, it really couldn’t have been any better.

The swell of the trip

Night out with the Aussies

        Everyone was completely surfed out by Sunday night, which is always a nice feeling; contentment, fulfillment and exhaustion all rolled into one. To make things even better I’ve met a couple of German professional surfers who are going to accompany me northward for the next few weeks. You may ask, German pro surfer? Just like the Jamaican bobsled team eh? Well not quite, as it turns out there are quite a few prominent German surfers in the world who have managed to master their sport abroad while still retaining their national ties, pretty interesting. Anyway, Tom and Eva are quite the hilarious couple. They are kind, generous and easygoing too, really the ideal travel partners. I’m looking forward to the next two weeks with them as we start to retrace the Pacific coast of Mexico northwards.

Tom, and yes, he is wearing pants

       We are headed to Chacahua tomorrow, which is an isolated village only accessible by boat. Word on the street is the right-hand river mouth break is better than Barra at the moment thanks to record setting rains which have deposited generous amounts of hollow wave producing sand at this otherwise fickle break. I will report back in the next few days. Chacahua is also home to an interesting isolated ethnic culture of some of the very few Africans in Mexico thanks to a slave ship that ran aground here nearly 200 years ago, just a little tidbit for all you history buffs out there.

Eva

       Other than that I regret to inform everyone that things have been quite relaxed and hassle free lately, so I have no stories of corrupt officials, machete wielding farmers, drug-sniffing Rottweiler’s or allergic reaction inducing insects to report. The photos of the last swell can take the place of my incessant ramblings for a change. Please enjoy.

Rumors

After surfing Barra for a few days I began to hear rumors about other point breaks in the region. Finding these elusive points is easier said than done as the coastal road runs along the coast, but often out of view of the ocean itself, making surf exploration difficult.

 Surfing, by nature, is individualistic and selfish sport that has very little need for teamwork. Many seasoned surfers become “salty”, no pun intended, about the secrecy and exclusivity of their surf spots. In the surfing world most would agree that the regions most affected by severe xenophobia and localism are the north shore of Hawaii and Santa Cruz. Mexico, by and large, is pretty mellow with the localism, although people don’t just readily give away their secret spots.

I had heard that there was a good wave to the north of Barra, but its name remained elusive, and those who I had asked basically said “go surf it if you can find it, it’s good.” So I went to the Internet café to access good ol’ Google Earth to determine from a birds eye view which of the many points in this region could be the mystery point -break I heard about. Using elementary cartographic techniques (which, in reality, was holding my pinkie finger up next to the scale on the screen and then next to the road) I determined it was about…. wait I can’t tell you how far north it was, you have to go find it for yourself!

I figured I’d go search for it alone, knowing that if I found this hidden gem I could surf it by myself… I know, totally selfish right? I drove to about where my pinkie had indicated the small dirt road to the beach might be. The road was about ¾ of a lane wide and completely washed out, but the mighty Econoline handled it with no problem like the precision piece of American machinery she is. Just as I could see the ocean, a fork in the road presented itself with both roads looking like feasible options. I picked the one to the left, and pretty soon I was on someone’s farm and not a thoroughfare.

seek and ye shall find

Just as I went to do a k-turn to head back I saw a man approaching my car, on foot, with a rather large machete. My stomach turned for a second, but then I though, wait, I’m in the boonies in Mexico and people here carry machetes like San Franciscans carry Iphones’s, no big deal. “Hola senor” I said with a smile “ Buscando para el lugar de surf.” He laughed and then went on to tell me that I had taken the wrong road, I needed to turn back to the main road and go about another three kilometers. Next time I think I’ll use a ruler instead of my pinkie when searching for absconded locales. Turns out he was in need of a ride to the main road anyway so he asked if he could come along. I hesitated in my mind, but tried not to show my fear as he climbed in sitting shotgun, wielding his half-meter machete, I just kept thinking Iphone… it’s just the cultural equivalent of an Iphone.

We made small talk and then I dropped him off, he seemed grateful that some dumb gringo had trespassed onto his land, as it ultimately saved him quite a long walk in the hot midday sun. The correct road was exactly where he said it would be, and it was in considerably better shape. After meandering through the jungle for about 10 minutes there it was, an empty point break in southern Mexico with nobody around for miles.

Me enjoying an empty point-break

Poster boy for zinc oxide

Ham, my Aussie buddy carving into a clean one

The place was too much fun to keep a secret and I asked some of my buddies at the surf camp if they wanted to come along the next day. When we got there we ran into a gringo couple that I had met at the supermarket a few days earlier. As it turns out the guy was a professional surf photographer and came out for a little while to take some photos of myself and the other Aussies… pretty sweet.

 The thrill of finding your own surf break is inexplicable, even though in reality many people before me have surfed it, I’m sure. I was born a few hundred years too late to categorize myself as a surf conquistador but the thrill of seeing an empty, nearly perfect break is still pretty amazing. The hard work of aligning my pinkie next to the computer screen had paid off; I can only imagine what other uncharted breaks there must be along the endless miles of coastlines that make up planet earth.

Barra de la Cruz

    (Sorry for the delay in posting, there is no high bandwidth internet where I have been for the past week)
        The wave forecast had been calling for a more significant swell in the coming days. Seeing the ferocity of Puerto Escondido when the waves were “small” I decided to make the three-hour trip south to Barra de la Cruz, where the large swell would line up along the famed point in a more manageable fashion. Puerto is great, but when there’s a long period swell in the water you’re better off heading for a point break unless you’re a complete kamikaze big wave nutcase, which I’m not.

Barra living up to the legend

            I hit the road early after stocking up at the local supermercado with enough rations to last me through the coming swell. Planning ahead becomes increasingly important the more south you go as the towns become smaller and more isolated.

 You’ll find Southern Mexico is littered with palm trees bursting with coconuts just about everywhere you go. Subsequently, you’ll also find enterprising young men and women selling these delicious bulbous natural creations at roadside stands. I’ve become completely addicted. The novelty of watching someone hack the top off the coconut with a machete with such surgical precision continually amazes me. As a child I was always fascinated with coconuts, perhaps because of their elusive nature and the challenge presented to obtain one as they hang up there out of reach. My grandparents lived in the Florida Keys for a period during my childhood and harvesting coconuts was always on the agenda during our visits. In all actuality the experience is rather anti-climactic. After you capture one and spend a massive amount of effort to break into the heavily armored shell you’ll find a meager serving of “milk” which is more like watered down non-fat milk. Nevertheless I still take every opportunity to grab a refreshing coco frio every time one of the roadside stands presents itself. Driving while sipping on a coconut is perhaps not the wisest decision, as even my big honking American cup holders are no match for natures version of a Super Gulp.

On you’re way to Barra de la Cruz you’ll pass through the Bahias de Huatulco, a serious of absconded small hillside bays scattered with high end resorts and a wealth of cheesy tourist shops. The place is beautiful, but if you’re traveling on shoestring budget its best to take a look and then get out before you’re convinced into buying an overpriced hammock or the like.

Just when you think you’re completely lost in the jungle along Mex 200 after being disoriented by the endlessly winding road you’ll see a tiny sign for Barra de la Cruz.  The townspeople seem to love the diverse array surfers from all over the world who come to surf the holy grail of Mexican point-breaks. I found Pepe’s Cabanas to be the optimal place to call home for the coming swell. His modest Cabanas are about 12’ x 12’ with palm-thatched roofs, a fan, and a bed or two depending on your needs. The bathrooms are the cleanest I’ve found at any surf camp so far and even have toilet seats, which, believe it or not, are a luxury in many parts of Mexico.

My home in Barra

Pepe is the man. When you get there he gives you the rundown and shows you where everything is that you’ll need. Additionally, every guest gets a page in “the  notebook” where it is your responsibility to keep track of what you ate from his restaurant and how many beers you’ve had so you can pay your tab at the end of your stay. How much better could it get? A utopian experiment in surf communism based on the honor system with a world-class point-break as the backdrop. Heaven. Well, almost, I forgot to mention that Pepe’s Cabanas is kinda-sorta situated right next to a swamp making for some of the worst mosquitoes I’ve seen so far in Mexico. I guess nothing is ever totally perfect, but for a surfer looking for rock bottom accommodations and an unreal point-break this place is paradise; just make sure you have plenty of bug repellant.

Plenty of waves for everyone!

Unreal point break perfection

For fear of loosing the interest of the non-surfing blog readers out there I will refrain from writing a whole page about how unbelievably perfect this wave is. For the surfers out there, just trust me, this place is the most epic right-hander I’ve ever surfed. It barrels right of the take-off and then softens out into a Trestles-like bowly peeling right where you can execute half a dozen cutbacks before it walls up and barrels again all the way to the beach at which point you get out and walk back to the point to do it all over again. Enough said.

October 12^th marked the 46^th or 47^th anniversary of Barra de la Cruz depending on whom you ask as it’s on ongoing dispute amongst the townspeople. To celebrate the town held a grandiose fiesta complete with a band, fireworks and all the tacos you could ever want. The band that played the fiesta was reminiscent of North American country music with songs about broken hearts, unfaithful lovers and broke down pick up trucks, only with more brass instruments, oversized sombreros and the ever-present accordion. The locals partied hard, and danced even harder. It was great to see nearly everyone up and dancing enjoying themselves completely uninhibited, aided by the unrefined Oaxacan version of Tequila, infamously known as Mescal.

Mescal, in short, is to Tequila what used paint-thinner is to Vodka. Apparently the wrong batch can make you blind.  During the fiesta one of the Aussies at our international table of obvious outsiders bought an unmarked bottle of the Mexican moonshine insisting that we all take a swig. It’s only sold in glass bottles, probably because it would melt plastic, and for safety reasons you shouldn’t drink it anywhere near open flames. The next morning the surf break was empty as the whole town recovered with pounding headaches and fuzzy memories of the previous night. I however managed to shake off the hangover and surf by myself for nearly an hour before anyone mustered up enough strength to get out there.

Puerto Photos

         Puerto Escondido is pretty sweet. The waves here are world class. I’m leaving for Barra de la Cruz today but I wanted to post some photos of the waves here. Keep in mind that there isn’t any significant swell in the water right now, most locals would consider this a small or marginal day. To an outsider though these waves are still top quality. Enjoy!

Me Encanta Mexico

       Language is perhaps the most beautiful tool which humans possess. It binds us together in a coagulated mass, allowing us to share our thoughts, feelings and insight in the hopes of achieving progress as one blob of humanity. It allows us to advance and thrive through complex concepts like compassion, humility and compromise, which are only executable through language. Two dogs fighting over a carcass can’t stop and say, “ you know max, since you were here first, and since I already ate, why don’t you have the rest”. As humans we are blessed with a profound ability to use our brains, in unison with language, to rationalize and align our thoughts to achieve what we, as the human race, ultimately want.
       I’m sure this sounds highly utopian to anyone with even the most modest skeptical propensity, and you’re right it is. If only the world functioned in a manner to which people could read the above paragraph and agree without a qualm. This is, unfortunately not the case.
My point is that language is pretty darn cool. I only took a few years of Spanish in middle and high school and to be honest, I didn’t really pay all that much attention. Working in restaurants through college kept me on my toes, but in reality I still wasn’t anywhere near fluent, I just knew when the cooks were talking smack about me or somebody else.

       Now that I’m on my own down here in Mexico I find that the only time I’m doing things in English is when I’m escribiendo…. I mean writing. Point being you start to catch on at a breakneck pace, that’s otherwise unobtainable in the classroom. It’s true; immersion is the best technique for learning a language.
       I went back to Gustavo and Servio’s taco stand last night to chow down on their delicious Southern Mexican style tacos topped with mole, a blend of chocolate and hot-ass peppers that make white boys sweat like pigs. I think they were pleased with my attempts to speak Spanish with them. I know I conjugate verbs in the past tense incorrectly all the time, but the bottom line is they get what I’m saying. This won’t be acceptable if I ever want to claim that I speak fluent Spanish, but for the time being I’m happy with my progress.
       Because the restaurant was so slow they took the opportunity to ask me about phrases they could use with their English speaking clientele. We sat down and drank some beers while conversing back and forth about some useful phrases that ultimately benefitted us both. I wrote down things like “come on in” and “we have the best tacos in town” (which is the truth). They were so pleased with the lesson that they wouldn’t let me pay for my meal. Considering I felt the Spanish for English lesson was mutually beneficial I left them a tip equal to the bill anyway. The bottom line is, if you’re not afraid to be wrong, an not afraid to be corrected, and better yet, welcome corrections as lessons, you will learn a language so much faster.
       I believe that Mexicans welcome foreigners attempts to learn their language; it demonstrates that you actually care and that you don’t think your tourist status exempts you from adhering and integrating into their established language and culture. Plus, language makes you smarter, it’s ultimately what separates us from all the other living animals. Sure, dogs can bark, but can they really settle that dispute over the carcass in a rational manner?
       My interaction last night inspired me to take every opportunity to be that goofy tourist who asks a bunch of silly questions that often times don’t make perfect sense. If they laugh at me then good, I’ll know what I need to work on. And if I don’t know if I’m saying it correctly then I’ll ask. My conviction is you can’t really learn a language unless your willing to speak it with people in an uninhibited fashion where you are ok with being wrong and being corrected. I hope I’m right about this; otherwise I’ll just go one forever sounding like a blabbering gringo idiot.

The Road to Puerto Escondido

In lieu of AJ’s injury he decided it would be best to fly home and recuperate, I wish him the best. I initially intended to do this trip solo, so the adjustment has been easy; the long drives are a bit lonelier however.

           After his departure I retraced my path back north a little to check out Tronconnes and Saladita. Finding no significant surf in Saladita I decided to camp out in Tronconnes for the night. The town was eerily quiet and dotted with for sale signs in front of the relatively swanky looking hotels. I inquired about a few rooms but they were all way overpriced considering there was hardly anyone there. I ended up camping in the parking lot of Jacqueline’s restaurant for a few dollars. The waves were mediocre that afternoon but at least I had it all to myself with not one other soul in the water. I cooked up my last package of American imported mac and cheese and called it a night.

No more than an hour later the night sky began to grumble and gargle, indicating an approaching thunderstorm. The first bolt of lightning was fantastic, traversing the clouds in an erratic fashion while illuminating the darkness with a neon purple glow. I grabbed my camera and started fooling with the shutter speed to hopefully capture some of the action. Some of the most magnificent displays of the vibrant bolts were hard to capture, leaving me with a lot of overexposed shots. I did manage to get a few good ones though.            

When I picked my place to camp I failed to consider the neighboring house, which had what seemed like a dozen roosters when 5 a.m. rolled around. I don’t know how people sleep through that stuff, but I guess that’s the point, they’re supposed to be nature’s most obnoxious alarm clock. The waves hadn’t improved by morning so I hit the road to Puerto Escondido.

It seems the further south you go in Mexico the roads just get worse. Additionally, the topes (speed bumps) get larger and more frequent. Although the coastal highway, Mex 200, looks like a legitimate road on any map, it’s really more of a curvy, deteriorated, glorified path full of suspension-rattling potholes that can literally rip your whole wheel off (I’ve seen it). The 11 hour drive from Zihautanejo to Puerto Escondido is probably the single most stressful day of driving I’ve ever experienced in my life. To start things off I had to skid to a stop to avoid hitting a full grown cow who had decided to take a break from grazing and stand in the middle of the road on a blind curve. The best part was the poor beast didn’t even seem phased as my rig screeched to a halt no more than five feet from colliding with her. She just stood there chewing her cud like this was an everyday occurrence; I'm beginning to think it may very well be.

From there I continued on even more alert than before, ready for just about anything. Just when I thought the probability of encountering any other problems had diminished I was flagged down at a military checkpoint and asked to step out of the car. They asked some generic questions and, having nothing to hide, I answered them honestly. Still skeptical they brought over the largest Rottweiler I’ve ever seen and let her make an assessment as well. As she sniffed through the car I stood there, arms crossed, confident that I would be on my way in a minute or two. The Rottweiler started to growl and then barked from inside the back of the van while all the soldiers looked at me and took a more prepared stance with their assault rifles. I nearly soiled myself. My mind was racing, what the hell could be in the car that the dog would alert to? Had these guys planted something in my rig to try to set me up for a hefty bribe? Turns out the dog smelled my half eaten sandwich, which I had dropped on the floor when I almost collided with the cow in the road a few hours back. They all had a good laugh about the situation as I wiped my sweat soaked brow while trying to keep from hyperventilating. I said in Spanish that the dog must have been hungry, they agreed. As they pulled the ham and cheese contraband out from under the seat they asked if I still wanted it. I felt that maybe it would be best to let the Rottweiler have it for lunch. The dog’s giant jaws made short work of it, nearly swallowing it whole, she looked content, I was just happy to get the hell out of there.

About 500 topes later I had made it to Puerto Escondido. I looked for a room and negotiated with a few of the local hotel owners who were overseeing their predominantly vacant properties. It’s important to realize that everything is negotiable in Mexico, especially in the off-season. They’re so eager to lure you to stay at their place that they pretty much do the haggling for you. I’ve learned to get the best deal the optimal negotiating tactic is to stand there with a neutral facial expression for about three to five seconds after they tell you the price. If you stay quiet and don’t show your cards they will keep coming down until you’re satisfied. Buyers markets are great, that is, as long as you’re the buyer. I found a sweet ocean front room with a fan, Wi-Fi, a clean shower and even a pool for $15 USD a night by standing their like a an expressionless mime, you should give it a try sometime it really works!

Carnage in Rio Nexpa

        Rio Nexpa itself is nothing more than a fairly large river that runs through the mountains of Michoacán and empties into the Pacific Ocean. However the favorable orientation of the coastline, coupled with nearly perfect bathymetry, makes Rio Nexpa one of Mexico’s best left hand point breaks. The cobblestones deposited from the river line the ocean floor providing a consistent plane on which South Pacific swells peel in a seemingly endless fashion. One good wave will take you over half a kilometer at which point you hop out of the water and walk back to the point to do it all over again, somehow it never seems to get old.
        The town is quaint. Two small tiendas with cold beers and other secondary necessities, a few small hotels, and a few dozen extremely laid-back locals are about all you’ll find in this surfers paradise. We lucked out and found a place to camp under a vacant palm roofed structure for $4 USD/night. Shade is an invaluable commodity in Mexico at high noon making spots like this desirable. Like most surf spots in Mexico you have to be on it early to really score. Once the wind turns onshore in the afternoon the surface chop makes gliding down the face of the wave a bit more challenging and tooth chattering. Here’s a picture of the empty lineup on an overcast morning before anyone paddled out.

       The next day AJ was out there before anyone. About twenty minutes later he woke me up to tell me that he had some good material for the blog. Rio Nexpa is inarguably a left hand point, but AJ, tempted by the steep right-hander decided to try his luck. As he kicked out of the wave, flying like the elusive Italian Condor, his leash snapped back smashing the side of his board against his head. Needless to say we made an impromptu 3-hour drive to Zihautanejo to seek adequate medical attention.

       Before we left a crusty old expat from Texas came over to inspect the carnage. “Oh you’ll be fine, we got a doc here in town” he said, “ Look here I got cut last week on my leg and the doc in town sewed me right up.” We smiled while trying not to cringe at his would so obviously infected we couldn’t help but mention that maybe he should get some antibiotics. “Oh, I’ll be fine” he continued, “ This ain’t nothing.” Against his recommendation we went to Zihuatanejo to take care of it.

       At the emergency room we found fifty or so other people already waiting before us. We looked at each other thinking you’ve got to be kidding me. Luckily we found out that we had ended up at a hospital only for Mexican citizens possessing some sort of nationalized health care card; a foreign concept to a couple of US citizens. This isn’t a political blog, however, I will say socialized medicine seems all wavy gravy until it's you in an egalitarian herd of other sick people waiting to be tended to. On that note I guess some care is better than no care at all. That’s all the political insight you’ll get from me.
       We found a nice young doc at a private practice around the block who stitched AJ up in the musky, dimly lit room. I watched his feet curl as he poured a liberal serving of iodine over his ear while the nurse did her best to catch the excess in the trash can overflowing with byproducts of other previous procedures.
          I don’t want to sound condescending or superior as if the United States is a better country, but trust me you don’t want to end up in the hospital in Mexico. For the ripe price of $45 USD, AJ was back in business. Aside from the questionable cleanliness of the joint, the doc did one hell of a job. Now that we've both visited the doctor in Mexico within the course of two weeks I hope that the worst is behind us.

Leaving Pasquales

We really couldn’t get enough of the waves at Pasquales. Our setup was more than ideal: cheap rent, pumping surf, great local seafood and good company. It’s funny though, as a tourist it’s easy to become easily enthralled with a place; only seeing the idyllic setting and alluring aspects while being completely ignorant of what may really be going on, the dark side so to speak.

            A certain local (who will remain nameless) at first meeting seemed to be completely accepting and helpful, ready to cater to your every need. This individual in particular, with a highly developed degree of charisma, frequented the surf camp nearly every waking moment schmoozing with all the tourists. At first he seemed totally amicable, and with his impeccable English we all thought highly of him. Within a few days the schmoozing quickly transformed into mooching and our communal acceptance of him began to dwindle.

            On Friday night we were all partying a little (well maybe a little more than a little) and “our friend” showed up at the camp with his usually high energy and desire to be the center of attention. Someone asked about the legitimacy of a few isolated stories concerning banditos in the notorious state of Michoacán, to the south of Colima where we were staying. What ensued was a nearly hour long monologue of “our friend” reciting the account of how he and three Americans were kidnapped by banditos in Michoacán. Apparently the banditos took two of the Americans to a stronghold while they sent “our friend” and one other American with all of their credit cards into town to buy an excessive amount of luxury items, video game consoles, and withdraw cash.

            With all of us at the camp completely intrigued with the story he went on about how he went to the Navy while trying to meet the deadline and return with goods before the Americans would be executed if the ransom was not satisfied. Allegedly “our friend” convinced the Navy to mobilize hundreds of troops to surround the bandito stronghold and hopefully capture them after they returned with the shopping list of ransom items. We all, in unison, became suspicious of the story when he claimed to have mobilized some 500 Navy soldiers to overcome the banditos, as if he was a heroic general leading his troops into war. The night ended without anyone uttering a word about the growing suspicions about “our friend.”

            The next day some guys in their late thirties showed up from California and introduced themselves to AJ and I. They told us how they had been coming to Pasquales since 97’ and, without our asking, mentioned that we should be cautious of who we share out travel itineraries with. As it turns out the guys from Cali know the three Americans who were abducted in May of this year. According to them they were set up. The cracks in the story “our friend” told us became wider than that Rio Grande as we heard the other side.

            The next morning, when he saw us packing up the van, he asked us where we were off to. I quickly, and hopefully with a degree of believability told him that we were headed north to Barra de Navidad, when in reality we were going south, right into the heart of Michoacán to surf the legendary left-hand point break called Rio Nexpa.

            My desire in telling this story is not to incite an exaggerated degree of sensationalism concerning Mexican surf travel; after all this was only one isolated incident. My intention is to convey that sometimes the places that seem most utopian attract some shady characters who thrive in an environment where unsuspecting tourists assume that local peoples character is comparable to the picturesque destination to which they have traveled.

            Regardless, we made it to Rio Nexpa in the heart of Michoacán no problem and were waived through the multitude of military checkpoints whose aim is to interdict the precious cargo the notorious drug cartel “ la Familia Michoacán” traffics through the rural countryside to ultimately feed the very country I call home.

            For those of you reading I would like to express that aside from this incident I have felt completely safe in Mexico and have found nearly every Mexican to be helpful and friendly. This type of event could occur anywhere in the world so it would be unfair and biased to tell this story without mentioning that this is only one person, and in all fairness, who knows which side is true, it’s really all hearsay. What is most important is to use common sense when traveling and trust your instincts. The photo was taken in the heart of Michoacán; it’s hard to imagine what is really going on in this idyllic setting.

Pumping waves in Pasquales

     We finally gave up on Sayulita and decided to head south to find better waves. The drive to Pasqaules took us through the sparsely populated rolling tropical hillsides of Jalisco. The road through those hills is treacherous, especially after the record setting rains this year has produced. Jalisco is most comparable to Kentucky, or any other part of the deep Appalachian region for that matter, except with more kamikaze iguanas that jet across the road at no predictable interval. Call me inhumane, but when driving at high speeds I don’t swerve for small rodents or other pests who pose no threat to damaging the van. I’ve seen first hand the potentially fatal results of trying to dodge a cute fuzzy little bunny; the result is often times neither cute for fuzzy. With that said, I regret to inform the readers of this blog that there’s an iguana pancake frying on the pavement somewhere in the Jalisco hills, may he rest in peace.
     The mystery rash/hives started to flare up again, engulfing my arms and legs. The situation was only worsened when my blood pressure rose after we found ourselves more than thirty minutes off course driving the wrong way thanks to poorly marked road signs. We finally pulled into Pasquales near the end of the day. For the first time on the trip I was thinking to myself about how nice it would be to be at home, in the air conditioning, where I could ride out the nasty allergic reaction. I took two more of the prescription grade antihistamines and called it a night while trying to think positively about my current state of health. The next morning we were up with the sun and the allergic reaction had subsided.

      We hit the waves first thing. Pasqaules lived up to the rumors. It is a HEAVY, hollow beach break that produces world class barreling waves. Even with no significant swell in the water this unique beach break was turning out six to ten foot faces. AJ and I both got amazing barrels that morning which helped to alleviate the frustration of having traveled nearly 2000 miles without any solid waves to show for it.
      We’ve been in Pasqaules for five days now staying at Edgar’s Surf Hotel. Its 30 pesos per night (about $2.50 USD) to camp in the van in his secure beachfront parking lot with hammocks, a shower, some tables and plenty of shade. We’re the only Americans here; it’s mostly Australians and some Venezuelans at the moment. The Australians are a funny bunch, they never cease to impress me with their wealth of dirty words and expressions which have kept AJ and I cracking up the entire time.
The daily routine in Pasquales is pretty sweet. You wake up at dawn and surf for three to five hours until the wind turns onshore and then you come in for breakfast. From there most people read or take siestas until the late afternoon when the wind backs off enough to go out for another surf. From there its happy hour followed by dinner. We’ve been cooking for ourselves exclusively to save money, and with the low price of the abundant local seafood it’s been no chore at all. Last night we had some garlic and butter sautéed local whitefish, which was about $2 USD per kilo.
     The photo posted here was taken on one of the smaller days when I conjured up enough will power to get out of the water and take some photos, which is really hard to do when the waves are good. We should be here another few days until we continue our journey southward.

Hard Times In Sayulita

        I visited Sayulita this summer with my good friend Zac and had an excellent time. The waves pumped the whole time we were there, as did the nightlife. Upon returning this time, Andrew and I found a completely different Sayulita. Apparently this year Mexico had some of the worst rains in over two decades. The bridge to this once bustling tourist town was washed out reeking havoc on their fragile coastal economy at a time when things were already slow enough. We parked the car near the bridge once we found it to be impassible and walked to the beach to find an endless sea of plastic, trash and dismembered trees, all of which had been deposited there by the swollen river which was a mere trickle during the summertime when I last visited.
        The melancholy mood of the town was evident by the low hung heads of the inhabitants and local business owners. The Sayulita I had known had lost some of its lustrous glow that was partially the basis for my desire to return to this majestic slice of the Mexican Riviera. Ivan, a local street taco vendor, was still in business on the same corner where we had met this summer. We bonded then over the similarities of our names and, to my surprise, he remembered me as if it was just yesterday I had last indulged on his delicious tacos topped with a slice of pineapple that he so lackadaisically eviscerates and catches while falling through the air from the top of the wood fired spit where the sweet local fruit drips its succulent juices over the slowly turning meat. The combination of the chile-garlic encrusted roast with the sweet slice of pineapple would leave even the best of food critics speechless, so I won’t bother to try either.
           I inquired about his business, aware that it might be a point of contention as he was positioned on the wrong side of the inoperable bridge. He sighed and said it had been bad for business especially because September is one of the slowest months to begin with. I asked how and when the bridge was to be fixed which gave me a little window into the intricacies of municipal politics in Mexico. According to Ivan, the mayor of the town claims that there is not enough money to repair the bridge until the New Year. Typical of small business owners in the area, Ivan complained profusely about where his taxes had ended up, if allegedly, there was no money for the needed repair. This unfortunate fact incited a high degree of animosity from the local business towards the municipal government, as there really is only one bridge into the town. Hopefully, for Ivan’s sake, the reputability of his one of-a kind pineapple tacos will make the perilous foot passage over the remains of the dilapidated bridge worthwhile for the remains of his now dwindling clientele.

           We woke the next morning to find sub-par waves, which was upsetting considering the thirty or so hours we had spent in the car expecting gold at the end of the proverbial rainbow. Fortunately, we met a local surfer, Eddy, who took a liking to the two of us and allowed us to stay at his apartment since he was living at his girlfriends place and couldn’t break his lease. The place was a basic flat with minimal amenities and reeked heavily of mold; a likely product of the incessant rains. Nevertheless it was free, and with the windows open and the fan blowing we were confident that our health wouldn’t be an issue. The people in Eddy’s neighborhood live simply, with little excess. At a glance a middle-class American might call it poverty, but the children seem happy, and in general, so do the adults. We made a point to introduce ourselves to the people in the neighborhood, as it was painfully obvious that we were outsiders. They cordially received our attempts to converse in Spanish and seemed welcoming to us.
           After surfing the next day I felt a bug bite on my right shoulder while driving back to Sayulita. I asked AJ what it looked like and he said something to the effect of “ Oh man, not so good.” We gave it some time and pretty soon I was breaking out in hives all over my side, arms, buttocks and thighs. I didn’t hurt but it looked really bad. AJ, being an EMT thought it would be best to seek out medical attention so we drove to a 24- hour medical clinic in Bucerias. The doctor there asked me a million questions in Spanish and I responded the best I knew how while consulting my pocket dictionary. He concluded that yes, I was having an allergic reaction to something and I needed a antihistamine injection to treat the hives. As he spoke I cringed when he mentioned an "introcular" injection. I asked, “ Es injection en mi culo?” meaning it’s an injection in my butt? He laughed and said “no, es intramuscular, pero si es introcular tambien.” This meant that he initially said it was an intramuscular, not introcular injection, but yes, it was going in my butt. AJ watched as they stuck me with the two-inch needle. I took it like a man, but in all honesty, that stuff stings like none other going in. Regardless, by the morning the hives had subsided considerably and we were on our way south to Boca de Pasquales to hopefully find better surf conditions.

The Border

After a 600-mile day driving from Santa Barbara to the quaint town of Ajo Arizona, Andrew and I were shot to say the least. The trip was mostly seamless until we were delayed on a small rural highway in southern Arizona after two trucks had flipped over due to a hailstorm. This picture was taken as we prepared a roadside dinner of Spaghetti and red sauce waiting for the highway to reopen. As night settled in we were able to continue on into the desolate cactus laden landscape of southern Arizona.

            With The Doors blasting on the stereo we continued through the night with the windows down as the radiant glow of the approaching full moon highlighted the tumbleweeds violently racing across the highway in the high wind. The experience was surreal, at times generating that inexplicable whole body tingling sensation you get when you know that what you are experiencing will likely never occur again; a once in a lifetime experience so to speak.

             As we pulled into Ajo around midnight we were greeted by the local sheriff who pulled us over to tell us our license plate light was out. He suspiciously gave or windowless cargo van the once over, and rightfully so as this area is notorious for human and drug trafficking for which our vehicle would be a prime candidate. He asked us about our intentions and our destination, and when we told him his eyes briefly lit up as if he was internally thinking “ man that sounds like fun.” Being no more than a few years older than us it was understandable considering we were embarking on an epic journey searching for uncharted Mexican surf breaks while he was stuck in Ajo looking for undocumented Mexicans. Before we left I asked him if he thought the Mexican authorities would use the license plate light as fodder for exacting a bribe. He said, “ No, they’re probably more concerned about having their heads cut off by the cartels.” And with that he wished us luck and sent us on our way without a ticket for the minor infraction.

            We woke before the sun rose and drove the remaining few miles to Lukeville Arizona, home of the Sonoita border crossing station and not much else. The U.S. customs officials asked us about our intentions and then decided to search us as we departed from our country, probably because they were bored and there was no one else at the borer that morning. He asked us “ Why does your van look like a transport vehicle.” I had to work hard to suppress the myriad of smart-ass responses stirring in my head to the blatantly oxymoronic question I had just been asked by a guy who looked like he still would pick on nerdy kids if given the chance. “ A transport vehicle, sir, I’m not sure what you mean?” I replied. Sensing my cool and collected demeanor which was an obvious front for the smug responses I felt like giving he quickly replied, “ You know, the metal partition, the window cages and external door locks.” I replied, “ Oh, those are all just extra measures to ensure our security en Mexico sir, we just don’t want to get ripped off.” Given that his job was fundamentally based on security of sorts he backed off with the questions and sent us on our way.

            The officials on the Mexican side of the border weren’t interested in our intentions at all and sent us through after informing us that we would need to stop in 25 kilometers at the next stop to get our Visas and register the vehicle. Before we made it there we were flagged down by a group of men who had constructed a roadblock. Their lack of official markings or badges made them look more like a local vigilante group than anything else. As they approached the car we looked at each other and simultaneously wondered what the heck we were doing in this godforsaken Mexican desert. The man who approached asked some questions while the others looked on. Then an old man with impeccably white dentures approached and began to ask us in English some generic questions as though he had just been listening to the exact phrases on English lesson tapes. “ How old are you,” he said. We replied in Spanish as to prove our legitimacy in their county. He continued, “ My boss doesn’t believe that I speak English, tell him that I do speak English.”  We smiled and nodded and did as we were told quickly telling the boss that the old man who was a member of whatever agency all these possible banditos worked for spoke perfect English. They all laughed and set us on our way without a bribe or any other type of consideration.

            We made it to the second border stop just as the desert air was starting to swell with unbearable heat, the type of mirage generating heat that you can see radiating up from the poorly paved black highway. As we entered the Visa office we found the middle aged Immigration official sitting at his desk in the air conditioning along with half a dozen or so other fellows who we concluded must have been his buddies. It took them all a second or two to acknowledge our presence and divert their eyes from the Mexican game show they were glued to. He greeted us quite informally with a “ que paso guerros?” which translated literally means “what’s up white boys.” We responded and began to fill out the necessary paper work. While doing so we chatted about our trip as he inquired. He told us, in Spanish, to be careful of the homosexuals and transvestites in some cities. In all actuality he was quite a bit more graphic and found our dumbfounded blank stares to be a source of hysterical amusement, as did all his buddies hanging out in the office. As they laughed like hyenas he stamped our visas without checking to verify the information on our passports. I stupidly asked if we needed anything else to be on our way, he replied “ Si,un propina por cervesas” We left him a five spot and got on with our long day of driving.

            We drove another 600 miles that day and found a reasonable hotel in the town of Los Mochis just as the sun set. Our first day on the road in Mexico had proven to be eventful to say the least. Passing through a landscape that begins as a parched barren desert in the north and gradually warms with hints of the tropical interior to come made us content on our decision to brave this violence ridden country in search of warm, uncrowned waves further to the south. Hopefully the events come will still justify the trip, only time will tell.

           

The Van- Part II

        After making the 300 mile trek last night from Santa Cruz to Santa Barbara I'm reasonably convinced that the Econoline is cut out for the journey. It pulls eighty m.p.h on the freeway with no problems and has enough stereo wattage to drown out the incessent humming charecterstic of a cargo van without adeqaute sound deadening insulation.

        I hadn't seen AJ, my travel partner, in a few months since he's been working in Idaho all Summer. It's great to see him and his girlfriend Annick, they're both very close friends who seem to always make me laugh with their unsolicited antics. We're going to do some more prep work to today and finish packing the van so we can hit the road first thing tomorrow morning.