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.