Puerto Escondido for only a peso, but costly in the end. My pals from the Instituto planned to visit this haven for young gringo surfers—a snarky crowd and certainly not Sam’s type, but I wanted to hook-up with my friends, especially cute William.
I pushed a tropical salsa mix into the cassette deck as I considered the coin toss. Maybe Sam was right and this wasn’t such a good idea. But he had already nosed the combi out of Pochutla’s centro commercial and turned north onto the highway.
The late afternoon sun angled toward the Pacific, painting our first view of Puerto Escondido a rosy gold that brushed across the buildings, which fanned up the hillside from a strip of sand. Puffs of cumulus clouds congregated over the ocean and reached toward the lighthouse presiding over the point that rose sharply behind the old fishing village and marked the north corner of the mouth of the bay. The cobbled waterfront thoroughfare, shaded by tall coconut palms on the beach side was closed to all but foot traffic, I discovered at the end of the road where we were forced to park. Trees, bushes, and vines, blooming in a Crayola rainbow of colors, cascaded down the slope on the opposite side of the street from every wall, gate and rooftop. Stone steps twisted up between the tourist and surf shops, restaurants, bars and tiendas that brimmed with blushing mangoes, succulent papayas, trays of astringent smelling limes and oranges, and sweet, bee-attracting pineapples. I craned around corners and doors, snapping pictures, and hoping to discover the mystery of each enticing passage as it disappeared around the high, glass-shard topped stone walls.
Sam stopped in front of a bar and sniffed the air.
“Aren’t surfers a bunch of stoners?” he asked.
“Keep your DEA badge in your pocket.”
“I don’t have a DEA badge. What are you getting at?” Sam’s look would have frozen Hell. “Let’s get going. Quit taking pictures. I’m tired and hungry.”
I focused my lens on Sam’s familiar frown. Click. Click.
“Put that damn camera away.”
“Quit nagging me. You’re such a stick-in-the-mud.”
“You’re selfish and irresponsible. I’m going to find somewhere to sleep tonight.” He spun on his heel and stalked off in the direction of the parked camper. A sensation of giddy lightness came over me, and I grinned at the passers-by.
“Are you coming?” He demanded from several feet away.
“I thought you were leaving,” I said, slowing my pace.
“Don’t sound so happy.”
Puerto Escondido boasts two trailer parks right on the beach. Las Palmas Trailer Park nestled in a coconut grove at the north end of the bay. The camping spaces, defined by the trees, had brick barbecues with a metal grates. Although the park was sparsely populated, I felt safe enough because of the tall chain link fence separating me from the beach, but Sam complained that it was too empty.
“Where are all the surfers staying?” He asked.
I ignored him and checked the bathrooms. They worked. They had real toilet paper rather than rolls of brown crepe paper that might be left over from some celebration a decade past like the t.p. at Pepe’s Trailer Park in Zihuatanejo. The shower water even felt warmish—a plus.
“The bathrooms are okay. We’ll stay.”
Business was brisk at the nearby restaurants, and people were heading out to the clubs. Music spilled down the rough paved streets and echoed off the stone walls lining the hillside above us.
“Too noisy. Let’s go.” Sam said.
“Then let’s take a look at the place down the street,” I said, trying to be cooperative.
Although not fenced, the other park was private and pretty, set about with flowering hibiscus and blooming hedges. It was also uninhabited and dark, making me nervous. Sam, ever cautious, turned us back to Las Palmas. For once we agreed.
We staked our claim halfway between the beach and the bathroom. I sat in the wide side door of the combi and gazed toward the mouth of the bay across a fleet of low, open boats drawn up on the beach like colorful beached whales, but I didn’t start to unpack. Instead I thrust a folding chair toward Sam and handed him one of the Pacifico beers I picked up at the tienda. I figured he couldn’t talk if he had a beer bottle to his lips.
Parsley was giving me that “feed me” look. I fixed her bowl. “That place smells good,” I said of a tiny taco joint visible at the edge of the trailer park. “Let’s get dinner.”
“Are you nuts? Looks worse than the roach-coach back home.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Aren’t there any coffee shops here?”
“Sam, we’re in Mexico, not Marin.”
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
Parsley finished eating and we strolled onto the esplanade.
“What about that one?” I pointed to a place tucked under a thatched roof and blaring salsa music.
He looked at a menu posted by the entrance. “I want a hamburger,” and walked on.
“You won’t find a Lyons.”
We walked to the end of the esplanade, reading menus and quibbling over which to choose. Each was too dirty, cost too much, or served the wrong food. All I wanted was some dinner—a quesadilla, tacos, whatever.
“Isn’t that where you’re supposed to meet William and Kathleen?” He nodded to a dumpy looking cinderblock building with faded paint and peeling trim, squatting at the edge of the street. An old sign said “Sports Bar” and the familiar flicker of television lit the interior. Sam trudged up the several steps to the door. “They have hamburgers.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I said when we stepped inside. A sports bar, indeed. Two huge TV’s showed games and the patrons crowding the small, smoky room shouted and cheered in English.
Sam marched toward a table, but stopped and threw himself into reverse like a cartoon character—I could almost see him back-pedaling— when he realized the smoke was coming from numerous joints passing through the crowd.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. I looked forward to coming back for the World Series—Sam was sure to stay away!
We settled on a fish restaurant that was on the other side of the esplanade from Las Palmas and up a few steps. The roof was palm thatched and the walls were open air. Diners perched on stools at tall tables, which surrounded a central kitchen open to view. Our waiter was very obliging and brought a dish of scraps along with the bowl of water we ordered for Parsley. My Huachinango Mojo de Ajo (Pacific Red Snapper drenched in garlic) was fresh and grilled perfectly. Palm fronds clacked in the gentle sea breeze and the balmy night smelled fresh and salty. The fish was so delicious, I forgot to notice if mole was on the menu.
After dinner with our bellies full, and our attitudes toward one another more kindly, Sam and I cruised arm-in-arm with the flow of tourists, lovers, drunk surfers, and locals, noting places to explore in the coming days. We located the bank, the post office, and we found the only grocery store that was open where we bought purified water and a few provisions before going back to the combi to set-up camp. Sam and I both felt optimistic when he said good night.
Sam snored to wake the dead inside my no-see-um-netted bus when an orange combi pulled into our trailer park close to midnight. I lounged in my sling chair under the Coleman lantern, reading Gabriel Garcia Marques’ Love in the Time of Cholera. Parsley, alert at the edge of my tiny circle of light, kept watch on the two attractive men who emerged from the VW, set-up camp and disappeared back into it, pulling the door closed behind them.
The laughter of fishermen woke me at 7:00 A.M. The camper already baked in the heat. I stretched and pulled myself out of the sheets that covered the pull-out bunk that doubled as a back seat and took a look through the gauze of the no-see-um netting Velcroed into the door opening. The edge of the bay was about seventy five feet away from my front door. Tiny waves moved in, foaming onto the shore. The fishermen sat in clusters mending their nets, cleaning their catches, or preparing to launch the green, yellow and red pangas. There was much jollity and cat-calling back and forth between the boats. Gulls squabbling over bits of discarded fish guts, punctuated the fishermen’s conversations with their calls. Too bad my limited Spanish wouldn’t allow me to eavesdrop.
Presently, stout women in shiny dresses appeared, hefting gigantic blue enamel pots and baskets laden with steaming hot tortillas wrapped in bright napkins. They began to dish up breakfast for their men. The rich smell of tortillas and roasted chilies got my stomach to rumbling. Sam, already up, sat in the shade in one of the folding oak “archaeologist” chairs I carried and watched the scene.
“It’s about time you woke up.”
“It’s only seven.”
“I’m ready for breakfast. C’mon. Hurry up.”
“Did you make coffee?” I asked, needling him as I hauled myself out of the camper and into the warm, dappled sunlight of Las Palmas. Clearly Sam hadn’t bothered to set-up the stove and drip a pot.
I grabbed my towel from the locker and ambled off to Las Palmas’ shower house. Luxuriating in the warm stream, I complimented myself on my ability to pick a park., and remembered the trailer park in Puerto Vallarta.
I had limped into town after another harrowing trek down a drenched and treacherous mountain road and losing a shock absorber in the process. I didn’t take the time to check out the facilities before paying the tariff, triple what I paid elsewhere. It turned out the park was located just south of a pig farm and the breeze off the ocean blew right through the sty into my windows. To make matters worse, there was not another soul camping there. If I hadn’t been so tired from the arduous drive from Mazatlán, I might have noticed the lack of company and the barnyard smell, but as it was, I paid the twelve dollars and went to bed.
In the morning, when I went to the bathhouse for a shower, I found, as the night attendant claimed that ‘the water in the shower was hot and would last as long as I would’, but he neglected to mention the reptiles, insects, and mad dogs who would be bathing with me. That bathroom was filthy. It was the first hot shower I encountered since Tucson, and I couldn’t touch anything—including the water. I moved to a hotel and learned my lesson—check first.
“The showers are great, Sam. This park was a good choice.”
“I’d be more comfortable in a hotel in Huatulco. Can’t you hurry up?”
Once I was dressed in the embroidered drop-waist “ropa típica” sundress I bought in Oaxaca City after my suitcases were stolen, we left Las Palmas to rustle up some breakfast. Our trailer park neighbors had not stirred.
Typically, Sam chose the most gringo-style restaurant on the walking mall.
Runny eggs and argument comprised breakfast. I envied the fishermen their happy banter and delectable smelling tidbits served from the giant blue pots. It didn’t matter what triggered our discord, it was always about the same thing: Sam took a contract job with the DEA chasing cocaine dealers through the jungle in Belize two years before and straining our relationship to breaking. I threw him out one night in the midst of a lamp-smashing, shouting match on our houseboat in Sausalito and we had been split-up until I arrived in Oaxaca to study Spanish. After almost a decade together, I’d come to enjoy my single status and I was not rushing to make up. He followed me down to my school with a suitcase of clothes after I was robbed in hopes that I might change my mind, but I resented it. He couldn’t understand that I didn’t want him there. Hadn’t we always enjoyed traveling together in the past? Australia, Belize, Mexico—camping or sailing or touring—it was an adventure. Then, on my first night in town, when the combi was broken into and all my suitcases were stolen, leaving me with the jeans and t-shirt I was wearing at the time, and in a panic, I called Sam.
Reluctantly, I agreed that I would put up with him if he brought me some new clothes and a printer for my portable Toshiba computer. I was ecstatic that the ladrones—thieves—hadn’t found the secret compartment built in between the front seats that held the computer, my Nikon camera and lenses, and the pullout Clarion tape deck I installed before leaving. They weren’t very worldly robbers because they left behind my 350 hp Honda gas generator that plugged into the electrical system and ran the computer, printer, and lamp anywhere I chose to stop and write, but they did take all my clothes and shoes.
Breakfast over and our provisioning accomplished at the under stocked and over priced tourist grocery store, we returned to camp to put on bathing suits and get ready for the beach. Three months in Mexico and I had lost an entire dress size.
“Must be the salsa!” I told Parsley as I slid out of my dress and into a new bikini and sarong for my day on the shore.
“Why don’t you trot over there and meet the guys from California. I bet they want to go to the beach with you,” Hal said using his most snide tone and gesturing his shining, hairless pate toward the orange combi. I glanced over, but there was no sign of life. The license plate read Mexico D.F., Distrito Federal, or Mexico City.
“It’s from Mexico City.”
“Whatever. Take them to the beach.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?” I hoped Sam didn’t hear the glee in my voice and walked off toward the gate, Parsley at my side.
We hit the beach at about 9:30, trudging through the sand with towels, lotion, water, book, hat and all the accoutrement needed for a heavy day of leisure by the seaside. I found a likely spot under a thatched umbrella shading an unoccupied weather-beaten wooden chair. stationed in front of a funky beachside restaurant that was playing some good old rock and roll. a The surf was higher on this side of the bay and the deep sandy beach sloped gently to the water’s edge. On Sunday morning, both tourists and locals were staking claims to the beachfront real estate. Kids ran in and out of the water splashing and laughing; girls basted themselves with coconut oil and stretched out to roast in the sun; surfers, stalking the perfect wave passed by carrying their boards; young men milled around the restaurants eyeing the girls while making plans and deals in low voices, or greeted each other in loud voices, “Que onda, guay?” Lots of palm slapping. Mothers, aunts and grandmothers sat in the shade of the palapas and fussed over picnics, children, and each other. A wiry, dark-skinned ten-year-old came up and asked what I would like to order and returned with my first Negra Modelo of the day.
Sam never showed up and I passed a relaxed beach day drinking beer, meeting people, eating fresh fried fish, swimming when I felt hot, and learning all the local gossip. In the afternoon, a band set-up and played reggae. A handsome kid asked me to dance. He was probably no more than twenty, but he was charming and claimed to have some “killer mota”. It wasn’t hard to convince me to hook up with him later that evening at a popular salsa club on the hill. Hanibal promised that we would get “muy prendida,”and he would teach us more Spanish. Alright! William, who had joined me during the afternoon, said he’d love to check-out the club after he was finished watching the World Series game at the local video bar. I bet myself that Sam would refuse to go. Where was Sam, anyway?
The shadows stretched behind me as the sun sank toward the sea. I gathered my things, paid my bar tab and Parsley and I trudged back to Las Palmas through the sand. Sam, it turned out, lay in bed, miserable with a debilitating case of Turista and encouraged me to go out and leave him alone. I took another shower and tossed on a melon-colored flounced sundress, added a bit of green eye pencil and some lipstick and voila! I was ready to knock ‘em dead at the salsa club.
“Hola. Hallo! Do you want a drink?” a tall, pale, somewhat soft-looking man with black hair greeted me in heavily accented English. One of the orange combi neighbors hailing me from his barbeque pit.
I smiled, “Hi,” and walked over to introduce myself. “Yo soy Ana,” I said as I extended my hand.
“My name is Gerardo from the north of Mexico Ceety,” he replied pumping my hand a bit longer than necessary and breathing what I took to be the exhaust of a tequila distillery.
It seemed that everyone here in Pto. Escondido spoke English. Gerardo appeared to be thirty five, or slightly older. It was hard to tell because, up close, he had that worn look of an alcoholic. After a minute or two of polite small talk in a combination of my broken Spanish and his slurred English I declined his offer of a cocktail and made an excuse to leave. As I turned to go, the door of the orange combi slid open and time slowed. A slender, medium-build man with light brown hair curling into ringlets onto his forehead and neck stepped out. He was wearing an ancient pair of flowered Hawaiian Baggies with dress tassel loafers and no socks, no shirt. He was brilliant, golden. Dazzled, I rooted into the sand, melting into a pool of jelly knees and rubber elbows with a wildly beating heart. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as he approached across the sandy path from the orange combi. He looked young, sleepy eyed and innocent, but something in his manner said he was older. He sauntered over to me and took my hand.
“Fernando Leon, a sus ordenes,” he introduced himself, his smile lighting up his sea blue eyes. Warmth flowed through him.
Fernando. Fernando Leon. Fernando from the orange combi, from the north of Mexico City. My mind repeated his name over like a mantra. I was still holding his and hand gazing into the vast Pacific of his eyes when I heard myself inviting him out for the evening, drawing him toward the esplanade, “Voy a encontrar unos amigos en el club de salsa anoche. No quires venir? Te gusto bailar?
“Oh! Wait!” I remembered Sam, sick in my bus. “I have to go say goodbye to my traveling companion. I’ll be right there—esperame, esperame!”
I ran to my VW bus and leaned in to tell Sam I was off to the video bar to meet with William and Katherine.
“Sam, you’re welcome to join us if you feel better,” I fibbed crossing my fingers to negate the lie. While I informed him of the plan, I surreptitiously slipped a condom into my tiny black suede shoulder bag along with a fistful of pesos and my lipstick. With a final, guilty goodbye, I skipped off across Las Palmas, my excitement a cloud of sparkling particulate whirling around me.
Fernando, Parsley, and I set off to the video bar with Geraldo lurching behind us. Fernando took my elbow to guide me into a faster pace, obviously uncomfortable because of his drunken friend. We found the video bar and went in. The last game of the World Series blared from four screens placed around the small bar. The Minnesota Twins were crushing the Atlanta Braves in their second World Series win in five years at the Metrodome. William, glued to the screen, clutched a sweating Corona and four empties littered the bar in front of him. Katherine hadn’t arrived yet. I wondered if she’s made it to Puerto Escondido at all.
“So, William,” I sidled up to him, “are you hungry?”
“Not yet. It’s only the 5th inning. I’ll grab a bite here.” His eyes never left the game.
“How’s the food?”
I looked around to see who was there and what the food looked like. The patrons were mostly American surfer types with long sun bleached hair and fabulous tans. There were a couple of the type of men you see in crummy bars around the world, casual, a little seedy, like soldiers of fortune in between wars or dealers waiting to score. The few women seemed mostly to go with the surfer crowd, bleach blonds, mini skirts or short shorts and bra tops with maximum tans and fresh faces. Even the bartender was a middle aged gringo, graying at the temples, but fit and healthy looking in a light blue guayabera-style shirt and white jeans. An escaped nine to fiver down for a surfing holiday who never went home? The bar was decorated in surfer regalia: a couple of boards floated under the thatch, plastic Hawaiian leis draped surfing photos, a few colorful croton plants in the windows, and even a ceramic sculpture of a woody with boards on top sitting on the juke box, which, by the way, played every surfing hit from the 1960’s: “lets go surfing now, everyone’s learning how, come on a safari with me,” and competed with the televisions.
People munched piles of fries with ketchup, meat sandwiches that resembled hamburgers, and one guy even had a ballpark frank. The plates were served with frijoles and rice instead of potato salad and pickles, but this was Mexico.
English cheers and boos erupted around us and Fernando looked uncomfortable. Geraldo managed to find us and sucked up his third tequila slammer. He was having trouble sitting on his bar stool. I didn’t think he’d make it to dinner.
“What do you want to eat?’ I asked Fernando.
“Tacos,” he responded immediately.
“I love tacos,” I lied, “Where shall we go?”
I was one of the lucky tourists—I could eat just about anything I wanted without getting diarrhea, but I’d never eaten a taco. Fernando glanced at Geraldo, his head sagging almost to the bar top, and grabbed my arm, spun me toward the door and ran me out into the fading sunlight. Parsley, determined that she loved this new guy, bounded at his thigh, happily. Bars bored her. Fernando escorted me up one side of the mall and down the other in search of tacos and talking the entire time in a slow, simple manner that I could almost understand.
We found a spotlessly clean taquería he approved of. It was a platform of concrete raised up perhaps three feet above the pedestrian mall with thatched umbrellas shading a collection of very tall, very tiny round tables.
Fernando showed me how to eat the tiny rounds of tortillas stuffed with sessos, cabeza, and al pastor (brains, cow cheeks and marinated pork,) slathered in picante salsa and introduced me to Mexico’s popular icy, sweetened tamarind drinks. He regaled me with the story of his three years in Germany with a German girlfriend he met in Cancun while he was working at a resort. She spoke a smattering of Spanish, but he knew no German at first.
“I completely understand your frustration,” I said. I felt the same way—here I was with a young God, and all I could do was gaze at him and hope that he didn’t think I was too stupid. Gazing wasn’t that bad, actually.
Fernando, it turned out, was a great talker. He talked to me continually for countless hours as we drove 15,000 miles of Mexico and Guatemala over the next year. To my very great surprise, I was able to understand him. His theories about politics, the World Order, Mexico, the indigenous, education, dog training, love. And everything he had to say about his life, his family, his errors, his accomplishments. I had never gotten to know anyone so well so fast. And in a foreign language. Fernando did not speak English but I picked up Fernando's Spanish in no time.
I ate my tacos al pastor, pork sliced very thin and layered over a giant skewer that revolves in a heating element and cooks continuously until the skewer is empty, and my favorite kind. The meat is reddish in color and has a vaguely honey-baked ham flavor. The best al pastor, I came to find, was cooked on busy city streets and dusted with exhaust carbon and automotive lead by every passing bus and car, but Taqueria La Concha in Puerto Escondido turned out a pretty good al pastor, too. We drank our tamarindos and gazed in each others eyes. I ordered a Tres Equis and as I sipped it, he said he didn’t drink, wooing me with his clean living.
Meanwhile, Gerardo had lumbered past us, drunker than before, slurring epithets under his breath and swearing at the people he ran into. On his third pass, he happened to look up and see Fernando. He staggered up the steps and poured himself into the empty chair at our table and began an obnoxious diatribe against Americans in Spanglish. We paid our bill and hurried out into the evening, leaving Gerardo behind, muttering indignantly.
It was too early to go to the club but we searched out the stairs that led up to it and the village beyond. From the stairs, we saw that Puerto Escondido was built around a pretty, open-ended bay, stretching south from the point where the lighthouse stands, around to a natural outcropping of rock that juts up through the sand and into the water. Most of the town is built on the mountain, but the tourist section is drawn along the littoral, right in the sand. The main street was converted to a walking mall with a few hotels, restaurants, and many shops. We stood side-by-side on a bougainvillea-covered wall and watched the sunset while lightning arced between us.
