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.