Yesterday was Three Kings Day in Mexico. The traditional day for gift-giving.
But it also gave these three wanderers a theme for the day. Our recent zigzags give the impression we are avoiding the deadly drones of Herod in his White House.
After initially abandoning Oaxaca as our target, yesterday morning we decided it was back on the menu, After all, where better to celebrate Three Kings Day than in a city where the country's Spanish tradition lies lightly on a mainly Indian culture?
At least that is what I thought. But before we would arrive at Oaxaca, we drove for five hours on one of the most scenic, but winding, roads I have ever experienced.
Every few minutes, the entire ecological system would change around us. From lakes to desert to majestic mountains. Perhaps my favorite were the cactus-strewn hills. Where everything conspired to create the impression of a landscape rising into the air. As if a Magritte painting had escaped its frame.
One of the joys of driving Mexico's two-lane highways is the ability to fully immerse oneself in the landscape. The downside is that trucks can slow progress almost to a standstill on some rather steep grades.
But, I guess, it affords another opportunity to slow down and enjoy the surroundings.
When we pulled into Oaxaca, we once again prove our spontaneity skills by nabbing reasonably-priced rooms. We were then off to the city square to help Oaxaca celebrate Three Kings Day. I did it with a hot dog (that tasted uneasily like a Vienna sausage) wrapped in bacon and served with jalapeños and onions. Actually, two hot dogs.
Others were not so easily pleased. They preferred being photographed with the three kings, and, in true Mexican style, Marilyn Monroe and what looked to be a partially-melted Frosty.
For others, it was a quick mass at the cathedral before digging into a large slice of three king cake and a paper cup of Oxxo coffee.
When we entered the square, we could hear what sounded like a rather exotic xylophone playing a tune that could have been the soundtrack for a Fellini film. It turned out to be an all-wood folk marimba.
And the two guys playing it could really play. They were good enough for the three of us to stand there listening through a couple of songs. After my experiences in Melaque, I am usually surprised that there are some very talented musicians who attempt to make their living on the street.
Oaxaca was on my long list of cities that interested me for retirement. I struck it after an incident in 2006. A teacher strike led to violence by the police and an ultimate take-over of the city by people claiming to represent the interests of "the people." The occupation of the town was nasty enough that I did not want to set up house there.
The square is once again occupied. This time by tent-dwellers in support of the 43 "missing students" from the Rural Teachers' College of Ayotzinapa.
Because it was late, I did not talk to any of the occupiers. I will try to do that during the two days we are here.
After a week at the beach, our arrival in the highlands is refreshing. Most people are wrapped up in sweaters and coats as if we were about to be blessed with a Bing Crosby dream come true. For me, it has been absolutely invigorating to sleep somewhere without a fan.
Maybe that is the gift the three kings brought me yesterday. An interesting town. And a comfortable evening.
As you can see, my word is as good as my bond.
I promised you that we were on our way to Oaxaca, and here we are. Well, not really. And despite the photograph, we are not in Huatulco, either. But, as you might imagine, there is a story embedded here somewhere.
All three of us were reluctant to leave Puerto Escondido. The place was fun on a stick. By Monday, the town's offerings were all there, but most of the Mexican tourists had headed home to get the children back in classes, leaving the town with the eerie feeling of a functioning amusement park where the crowds mysteriously disappear. Rod Serling would have smiled.
On Sunday, Dan was up early to walk the beach. He discovered the local fishermen bring their catch onto the downtown beach to sell to restaurants and individuals. From his photographs, I knew where I waned to be yesterday morning.
Even though the crowd was smaller on Monday, there was no doubt where business was being conducted. Fishermen were pulling gills from nets and sorting by type and size of fish. And buyers were pushing as if they were commodity traders to get their hands on the perfect fish that would put a smile on customers’ faces.
Dan was correct. The whole process was fascinating. A friend of mine once told me he enjoyed watching people who are experts in their craft -- even if he did not understand the subtlety of what he was watching.
That is exactly how I felt. These men knew how to catch fish and which fish would be preferred by their customer base. I am certain I missed little details in the transactions between craftsmen and customers. However, I just enjoyed watching the panoply unfold.
But our affair with Puerto Escondido had to come to an end. By 11 AM we were on Highway 200 again heading east.
We had discussed the possibility of stopping at Puerto Angel --if only to stand witness to its heritage as a surf center. But we had been dissuaded from spending the time to drive the road descending to the beach.
What we did do is stop on Highway 200 at the Puerto Angel junction to participate in a bit of geographic trivia. At the point we stopped, we were actually south of the entire country of Belize, and essentially sitting on the same latitude as the northern coast of Honduras. And the temperature felt like it.
Instead of driving to Puerto Angel, we decided to drive on to Huatulco. Huatulco is one of several resort towns developed by FONATUR – Mexico’s tourism office. Think Cancun or Ixtapa, but on a far more human scale.
There are nine bays in the area. FONATUR wisely let the scenery be the centerpiece of each bay. The resorts blend into the scenery without looking like a breeding ground for concrete.
While I caught up on my reading, Dan and Patty enjoyed the sand and water in the first bay (Bahía Santa Cruz) -- the same bay that hosts a cruise ship pier that undermines the otherwise-successful attempt to preserve the beauty of the bays.
I was not prepared to like the place. Huatulco bears the burden of FONATUR’s irrational exuberance in its other Mexican venues. But I did like it. Because the beach access is open, all sorts of families cavorted on the beach.
There was a very obvious class division, though, when it came to who was sitting where. We had staked out a table with an umbrella at a restaurant on the beach. When the menu arrived, I could see why the comfortable middle class Mexican families were sitting at the restaurant while their less fortunate fellow citizens were sitting on the beach.
You may not be able to read the prices on the menu I am holding. But my seafood spaghetti (a rather small portion) cost me $240 (Mx) or about $17 (US). Some of the other prices were a bit more staggering.
We left $730 (Mx) (about $50 in greenbacks) behind for the three of us. But we had had an extremely good day at the beach. And where else could you buy views like this for less? The blue of the Pacific was worth it.
We considered spending the night at Huatulco -- until something very unusual happened. In the middle of our meal, the wind gusts picked up. “Gusts” do not do it justice. The wind was strong enough to blow over chairs and drinks, and to turn my plate of spaghetti into an alien landing craft.
We retreated to the restaurant -- and then to the truck -- to avoid the sand blasting. By then, we knew we could not get to Oaxaca before nightfall. That left only Salina Cruz.
Off we went. Once again with no reservations and no specific area of town in mind. And, as each time before, we found pleasant rooms near the square, and had a filling meal of street food. From what we have seen, Salina Cruz may be a very utilitarian port, but it does not justify a long stay.
As for where we will head tomorrow, we have no idea. Chiapas sounds like a good target. If you stop by tomorrow, you will know almost as soon as the three of us where we managed to land for the next day of this bit of Marco Poloing through Mexico.
If only a few circumstances had played out differently in 2007, I would now be writing you from my house in Puerto Escondido.
I read a small library of books on retiring in Mexico when I was looking for a place where our whole family could live. One of the authors (I cannot remember which) had rated Puerto Escondido as one of his favorite places in Mexico,
He was persuasive enough that I started looking at real estate on the internet. I even found a house that was within my price range and met whatever needs I felt eight years ago.
Well, I finally made it here, and the place is everything I thought it would be. Of course, we have seen it in full tourist bloom these last two days.
Last night at dinner, I was thinking just how fortunate I am. Even though I get a bit jaded about the beauty that surrounds me in Barra de Navidad, it is has been nothing but pleasurable to share all of this trip with Dan and Patty. You really get to know people on trips like this.
Now, let's be honest here. I am no walk in the park when it comes to personal relationships. It is no accident that I am still single. I tend to be a bit of a know-it-all when it comes to any topic that interests me. And I know that can be grating.
Yesterday morning, I suggested that Dan and Patty might like to have a day to themselves. They love spending the day at the beach. So, I arranged to meet with the Calypso couple of blog fame. You, of course, know them through Viva Veracruz & Viva Puerto Escondido. They are now in the latter.
I wasn't going to give up this opportunity to meet them. I have been following the tales of their adventures in Mexico before I moved down. Several of John's suggestions were incorporated into my move.
There was a time when I faced the prospect of meeting fellow bloggers with some trepidation. After all, just because a person writes an interesting journal does not mean that they are as fascinating in person. After meeting several bloggers, I have abandoned the sense of caution. Most bloggers are exactly what they seem to be on line.
John and Anita picked me up at my hotel and took me to breakfast at one of their favorite spots. We were then off to their very comfortable home here. You undoubtedly recognize this view -- one that John often discusses.
I was going to summarize our conversation, but you really had to be there to appreciate the breadth of John's knowledge. We ranged from the debate about analog vs. digital sound to the travails of home ownership in Mexico to the vagaries of internet speeds. And we talked about our experiences with blogging.
Several times I thought how lucky I would have been to have the two of them as neighbors in Puerto Escondido -- if that scenario had played out.
They then dropped me off at my hotel. But before we leave Puerto Escondido, I need to tell you about my funky little hotel room. The hotel was almost totally booked when we arrived on Saturday. But there was a special room -- if I wanted it. A small casita at the entry of the hotel.
Patty called it a "cave." But it struck me more as a Hobbit hole. Just look at that door. Doesn't it scream Tolkien?
Well, maybe a Moorish-Spanish Tolkien. If you look closely at the door, you will notice that it is about an inch narrower than the opening. This is not a room for a private Hobbit.
I am guessing that the casita was once occupied by the hotel manager. There is a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a large bedroom. In its current configuration, the living room is a bedroom -- my bedroom.
The room has turned out to be one of the more exotic experiences of the trip so far. But I am certain it will slip down the list as we head inland later today -- with Oaxaca as our next goal.
Grackles are like Venice. You either love them or hate them.
I am in the fan category. Their ability to mimic almost any bird song or whistle is fascinating enough to make them part of my top bird list. But it is their intelligence that first attracted me to them.
During some of my darker days in Laredo during flight school, watching the grackles outside of my BOQ (bachelor officers quarter) room would always add a bit of mirth back into my life. They were constantly working on problems that would have left their bird-brained cousins scratching their top notches.
We are in Puerto Escondido tonight -- and probably tomorrow night. Our hotel appears to be an old country estate that has been devoured by the town. Fortunately, the town did not devour the trees where a gang of grackles have taken up residence to sing the evening away. What better way to spend a day of driving than to relax on a verandah with the ocean in the distance and birdsong in the trees?
Our drive from Pinotepa Nacional to Puerto Escondido took us the better part of the day yesterday. We stopped only once. But it was quite a stop.
John Calypso recommended the beach at Roca Blanca -- about 25 miles west of Puerto Escondido. With a specific nod for the fresh oysters.
He was correct. The beach was scenic with fine sand and calm waves. Plenty of Mexican families were making a day of it. Dan and Patty declared it to be their favorite Mexican Pacific beach -- so far.
We passed on the fresh oysters. They seemed to be unusually expensive. Because Dan and I come from the land of oysters, we were not willing to pay Oregon prices.
Instead, we had a lunch of fish. Dan and Patty ordered red snapper again. Perfect, they said. I ordered a fish fillet that does not require any further description. Let's just say my experiment with fish is probably over.
Ray Atkeson, the famed photographer, shot a series of photographs of the sandstone cliffs at Cape Kiwanda in Oregon. Both his work and the sandstone cliffs have always fascinated me.
Roca Blanca has several nodules of sandstone that are almost as interesting -- on a smaller scale. The wind and tides have sculpted them into some quirky shapes.
Trolls. Witches. Orcs. Or perhaps a rogue head from Easter Island. They are all there.
I could probably spend several days shooting those rocks. I am no Ray Atkeson. But I suspect I could come up with some acceptable shots.
For now, though, I am going to sit back and allow the birds to carry me away to Laredo. When I learned to enjoy the simpler things in life. At least, a grackle life.
"Wow, you are traveling fast." So said Barbara in yesterday's comments.
She is correct. But we are not traveling as fast as we had intended when we left Acapulco yesterday.
Our goal was Puerto Escondido. But there were far too many interesting sights along the way for us to keep to that tentative schedule.
And that was just as well. When Dan and Patty first discussed this trip with me, the idea was to be as spontaneous as possible. We knew the general direction we wanted to travel, but getting tied up with meeting schedules was exactly what we wanted to avoid. After all, we are driving an adventure, not a bus.
We decided to abandon the worldly pleasures of Acupulco with its traffic and KFC franchises for the bucolic offerings of Oaxaca.
Once we were outside of of the big city, we slowly made our way to the countryside. As with most of the Pacific coast, once you live a big city, you are in farm and pasture land -- with a few villages scattered along the way. It is not hard to forget that Highway 200 is the sole north-south artery on the west coast of Mexico.
Instead of being a major commercial route, it appears to be a lazy lane winding its way through the hills. That is, until you notice a convoy of trucks heading your way.
Mexico's villages almost always offer up local food at road-side stands. At one village, our snack mode kicked in. And we stopped to see what was on offer.
Even though I have seen these cauldrons before in several countries, they always remind me of stir-fried goldfish.
Instead, they are one of the tropical world's favorite snacks -- fried plantains. I suppose most of you know what a raw plantain tastes like -- having been the butt of a practical joker's prank. They look like a dessert banana, only much larger and without the sweetness.
These particular plantains -- called machos -- are sliced and fried to an almost potato chip crispness. Drained and spiced with hot sauce, they are the perfect road snack food.
With my snack in hand, I wandered down to the river where several of the village women were washing clothes. That is not a new sight for me. But it is the first time, anywhere in my world travels, the washing women asked me to photograph them.
Somewhere around Acapulco, the feel of Mexico changes. Our rivers in the Melaque area often remind me of other tropical places. But this river had a feel unto itself. Everything surrounding it was from an area of Mexico that was never effectively conquered by the Spanish -- and has never been administratively managed by the passing powers in Mexico City.
We decided to stop for the night in Pinotepa Nacional. I mentioned earlier that we had encountered very few non-Mexican travelers on this trip. There appear to be none here.
What struck me as odd were the number of residents who obviously have some African heritage. I had previously read about the Africans who lived in the area. There origin is still a controversy. But their appearance is striking. Especially amongst the sea of Mixteco Indian faces.
Dan and I commented that towns like this are what we have been looking for on the trip. Places where people simply go about their lives as best they can.
There were only a few shots I could take before the sun went down. Including this neo-classical church. Its symmetrical design seems to be the architectural style of the region. At least, I have seen several similar churches in villages driving into town.
The façade is not attached to the church. Instead, it is a detached gateway.
When I entered, I started laughing. If first impressions matter, I would conclude that I had stumbled upon the prop room of a community theater. But I cannot imagine which play would have called for these pieces.
We will not need any of those props for the next act of this trip. In the morning, we are off to Puerto Escondido -- where I will finally meet a yet-to-be-revealed blogger. (And that may be the least mysterious sentence I have ever written.)
When I take my examination for Mexican citizenship, I will call today to the attention of the examiner. It was the day I was a full Mexican.
That is a bit of exaggeration. But the day ended about as Mexican as a day can be.
We are in Acapulco. On New Year's Day. Without a hotel reservation.
To some those elements will sound like a fool's recipe for a disaster. For us, it has been the entry into a day of adventure.
But that is just the ending of the day. To end up in Acapulco, we started the day yesterday morning by heading south from Lázaro Cárdenas.
I was surprised at how much of Highway 200 affords sea views. I am more accustomed to the segment of the road between Puerto Vallarta and Melaque -- where the ocean is merely the whisper of a promise.
That is not true of the highway to Acapulco. There is plenty of rural scenery to please the traveler. But it is the dramatic Pacific views that make the trip the delight that it is.
I was warned that the road is twisty. It is. That it takes a long time to drive it. It does. That it is dangerous for the unwary journeyer. That is simply not true. At least, not for us. Other than the topes, we did not encounter a single unpleasant surprise.
None of us had previously visited Troncones -- a little village that smacks of southern California. When I was searching for a place to begin my retirement in Mexico, it was on my short list. Its lack of infrastructure struck it from the list.
Our short visit did not change my mind. It has a great beach with some interesting rock formations. But my initial impression was correct. It looks like a great place to get away from it all. But that is about it.
The village is filled with places of mediation and frivolity. I am not certain where "Casa Kitty" falls in the list. We didn't stick around to find out.
But the atmosphere in Troncones was far preferable to what we found in Ixtapa.
Ixtapa is one of Mexico's government-planned resort cities. It feels a bit like Laughlin, Nevada. Like it has been misplaced.
Tall buildings in the middle of -- tall buildings. These planned resorts always feel a bit creepy to me -- like Cancun or Cabo San Lucas. We passed through and fled.
To Zihuatanejo. Both Dan and I had been there on cruise ships. My last visit was around 2004. I believe his was in the 1980s.
It is a pleasant place that has grown in quick spurts. The tourist area has a new homogenized look to it. Rustic porticoes with uniform signs announcing shop names. The feel is far more Aspen than Morelia. But it is designed to play to tourists. And play it does.
What caught my eye was the rather ragged Christmas tree on the town's malecon. It was almost as if the town fathers wanted to contribute an entry in Mexpatriate's Tragedy of Christmas series. Complete with a beer bottle. There is enough symbolism there to write a good-sized novel.
On the way, we stopped at a small fish restaurant atop a cliff overlooking the sea. My general rule is that great views and great food do not go together. Unfortunately, I did not get to fully test my theorem because I am in the midst of trying to expand my palate to include fish.
Again, it was red snapper. This time with garlic. And how did I like it? Let's just say, I am getting there bit by bit.
But we did not have time to dwell on postmodern holidays and fish dishes. We were in the midst of Mexico's first big holiday of the year -- and we needed to get to Acapulco.
When we started this trip, we opted to not set up reservations. We wanted to have the flexibility of heading off to where we wanted to go -- when we wanted to go.
And that brings me back to where we began. We showed up in Acapulco on 1 January without a hotel reservation in the midst of a traffic jam on the malecon that would have done Manhattan proud.
Nothing could be more Mexican. Acapulco, once the crown jewel of Mexican holiday spots, has become a bit ragged. It is certainly out of style for the jet setters. But Mexicans love the place. And that is who we saw there. (Including what was apparently a headless horse pulling an LED-lit Cinderella coach.)
Of course, lots of people anywhere usually means a dearth of open hotel rooms. But within a half hour, we had discovered two vacant rooms a few blocks off of the beach.
I am writing you now around midnight at the hotel pool, surrounded by young Mexican and their families. All willing to share their table, music, beer and cigarette smoke with me. I only accepted two in the list.
No resort could offer an experience like this. It must be worth several points on that forthcoming examination.
"Other than in the Melaque area, you are the only gringo I have seen since we entered Mexico."
It was my cousin Dan. I had commented on the number of vacationing Mexicans we have seen during our trip south. He trumped that with the same observation for his full trip.
I worked back through the our trips. Colima. Comala. Agua Fria. Lázaro Cárdenas. Playa Azul.
He was correct. And since Patty has beautifully browned skin and she has repeatedly pointed out that Dan's features are as dark as many Mexicans, my blond head is the odd man out.
Rather than driving further down the Michoacán and Guerrero coast, we decided to stay in Lázaro Cárdenas for another night -- and to celebrate New Year's Eve. A quick internet search revealed that most coastal hotels are still booked. After all, New Year's Eve is a big deal in Mexico. Filled with enough traditions and customs to put the court etiquette of Louis XIV to shame.
Our stop for the day was obvious: Playa Azul. All of the guide books praise it. Even people who do not frequent this area of Mexico know its name -- though it is often confused with other beaches around the world.
We were positive we were going to encounter Coney Island-sized crowds. Especially after the Christmas crowds we saw in La Manzanilla.
We were wrong. The beach, along with its sand-floored restaurants, was almost empty. A knot of tourists here and there. Even the beach vendors were sitting in the shade.
I had forgotten which country I was in, I guess. Most Mexicans, when on vacation, do not start their days early. And that proved to be the case yesterday. In the afternoon, families started drifting in -- most to stake out territory that will remain that particular family's turf. Probably well past midnight.
Patty bought grapes to eat at the stroke of midnight. But no one in our group has pulled out a suit case or bought red or yellow underwear. We are undoubtedly risking our futures by not following in the steps of some long-dead practical joker who started all of this stuff.
While we were at the beach, Patty discovered something I have never seen -- a sand dollar. A living sand dollar. I have seen plenty skeletons of sand dollars -- after some enterprising soul has boiled the living matter off and then peddled the sad remains for the entertainment of tourists.
But the specimen she found was alive and kicking, with its primitive mouth and feet. When alive, it is easier to understand their kinship with sea urchins. The biggest difference is that the sand dollars are subject the ebb and flow of the tide. We must have seen several score of them in our small portion of the beach.
Speaking of fishy items, I may be altering my view of fish as a dinner item. Dan and Patty each had red snapper for lunch -- grilled and served whole, as fish should be.
I gave it a try. The consistency was meaty and smooth. My biggest problem with fish is that it does not taste like anything to me. It is always dependent on its sauces -- much like chicken wings and ribs, which I have never quite understood.
Since we will be eating in fish restaurants regularly on this trip, I had best get with the program.
What did not quite seem to be with the program was the Christmas village standing in front of the Lázaro Cárdenas city hall. I am certain some wag can construct an essay on the shallow nature of Christmas commercialism -- based on this view.
Can there be anything lonelier than Santa's seat several days after Christmas? Rumor has it that he will be one of the three kings on 6 January.
There you have it. Our New Year's Eve day. Perhaps, one of the best I have sent for some years. Because I spent it with family. My people.
As for all of you, I hope you have a blessed new year -- even if you failed to consume your grapes while walking around the block in your red or yellow underwear while carrying a suitcase.
