Untested Tacos

From Pacific Longboarder
The anticipation of third world delights like untested tacos, vacant waves and banditos awaited Colin Delaney. Like Jack Keroauc “We had no idea what Mexico would really be like…”

I’m starting to understand why my parents brag about back in the day; “when you could buy a coke for 25 cents and still have change for sweets,” when crowds were only for the weekends, and if we’re talking my parents’ age, when world trade saw silk and spice swapped for gun powder. Traveling through a country which forces the past upon you makes you feel alive, natural.
Mexico is a step back in time, the Mariachi music, untested tacos, tales of bandits and the pinnacle sign of times past, coke in glass bottles. The majority of its savage beauty will never be manufactured or manicured. The crossroads are dusted and not signposted so you can lose your way whenever you like.

The Surfer is the new great explorer, on target for getting off the beaten track, searching for the perfect wave, hidden amongst rocky outcrops and exotic, primitive valleys. We’ll travel to the other side of the globe for its treasures, spicy hot waves with silk faces, spreading the word amongst the underground community, trying to keep it on the down low from the rest of the world to preserve its secluded majesty.

My friends and I had driven from Canada, through the states with the aim to get to Puerto Escondido, Mexico and every stop in between. In the U.S, on the other side of the heavy security and high fences was a country we had been looking forward to for months now and those of us that hadn’t been there before held myths for this place that could’ve easily been wrong. It was just as Jack Karoauc described in On the Road.

“Just beyond you could feel the enormous presence of whole great Mexico and almost smell the billion tortillas frying and smoking in the night. We had no idea what Mexico would really be like.” P249 On the Road, Jack Keroauc.

You can feel the heat rising over the fence that separates the two very different countries. It’s a muggy, dirty heat but trapped in the smog is the air of a relaxed lifestyle, not lazy but laissez-faire. We entered through the tramp of a town, Tijuana in an old yellow school bus that we had converted into the ultimate surf mobile, topped with an inflatable boat and motorbike and hopped down Baja from surf break to surf break following maps produced by surfers for surfers to destinations like Todos Santos, Scorpion Bay and Shipwrecks. We even named our own break after the auto part that broke along the access road to get there, and so “Mufflers” was born.

Every few hundred kilometres we’d find ourselves at a road block by the Federales`, the Army. This band of troops were made up of eight or so 16 to 25 year olds, bearing guns the size of them and head to toe fatigues in the middle of the desert. We had heard stories about needing to fear them as much as the legendary bandits, so our first meeting was heart pounding. By the end we knew to smile, lead with our Spanish speaking beauty and leave them a magazine with scantily dressed Gringas (Western women). The Army in recent years is easing up on tourists as fear of traveling by road will drive away a large chunk of Mexico’s tourism.

The Banditos however are a group worth fearing because they thrive on the tourist. Though fewer in numbers in recent years, with the Federales focused on stamping out the outlaws to again promote tourism, they are still out there.

Like a scene from Apocalypse Now, all nine of us were in the water in the middle of a tropical nowhere; the sky was blood red on dusk. Our guard was down and our troop carrier wide open, when a hummer and nine gun toting figurine silhouettes pulled up with a skid and entered the empty bus, our valuables everywhere. Fear and indecisiveness flooded my wetsuit. Do I paddle in and try and stop them or do I let them pillage with their big guns and stay in the safety of the water. A bunch of us caught a wave in together to get in as quick as possible. They watched us all on the one wave. I saw them lift their guns high. They lifted them above their heads…and then they started to cheer. As we got closer we realized that they were Federales` just come to check on us. The fear trickled out the leg of my wetsuit and we threw the Spanish speaking beauty, Tanish yet again in front of the soldiers. They told us it was a bad place for Banditos but they patrol frequently because of it so we shouldn’t worry. Gracias.

We, gringos have over run the southern tip of Baja. Cabo San Lucas, nicknamed Little LA, has become littered with condos and hotels.

The waters still remain the tranquil turquoise, but on land finding a place in the sun can be hard. The hotels jostle for position for the best views, in effect blocking and overcrowding each other, just like in the surf. It’s a real estate hot spot getting too much exposure; it’s a beauty mark that’s turning into a cancerous mole like Acapulco before it.

The locals know that the large amounts of money that fly in from the states are generally flown out again. They see only a small amount filter into their daily lives yet have to deal with the change in lifestyle and environment. It has changed dramatically in the past three decades. Our parents that surfed there in the old days are saying nowadays, “In my day it was a dirt track to the beach; it was crowded if your mate joined you in the water; there was a mango tree over there, we lived off it alone for three months.” There are other secluded breaks a small drive away, down the dirt track and near a mango tree but Mansions seem to spot the coastline all the way along. Breaks like Shipwrecks are a welcome relief from the busyness and stress of surfing the locals only “Zippers”. At Zippers we were run out of the surf, not by banditos or federales but by fed up locals for doing nothing other than being in the water. The stone that was cast hit bus member, Nic in the temple, covering the left side of his face in blood. Though normally this kind of thing makes me question why the world’s greatest past-time and mode for stress relief has become a sad paradigm in the ever increasing “rages” – surf rage with “locals vs tourists” or a misunderstanding of surf etiquette, I can sympathise in this case. It’s not a matter of simply ‘locals only’ but the fact that outsiders have come in and not only crowded the waves but flipped their entire way of living upside down.

To move further south you must catch the ferry from La Paz to Mazatlan. What is normally a twelve hour journey dragged out to a two day affair, with one sick friend and three vehicles that looked to be stolen. Make sure you have ownership papers for all automobiles as crossing to the mainland means you must import your vehicles into Mexico. The Baja peninsula is much more of a tourist friendly environment then the mainland with regards to automobiles and tourist visas. Baja want to invite the American dollar down as painlessly as possible for the travelers. Our trail bike and motorboat weren’t registered and we were required yet had no ownership papers for them. To top that all off our VIN number on the bus didn’t match that on our registration papers. Basically it looked like we had stolen the lot. James, too boot was suffering from a relapse of glandular fever and the heat drained him to a ghost in the back of the bus.

Our spirits were pretty much deflated as it was and the desert heat had made us feel like wrinkled cacti so the 20 hour drive back to San Diego, to so called normalcy, six lane highways and coke in plastic bottles would’ve broken us.

We forged some ownership papers for the bike and boat and with regards to the bus’ legitimacy, the official took pity on our VIN issue and turned a blind eye while we squeezed our monstrosity through the ferry gates. Muchas gracias Senor`.

The mainland is literally a breath of fresh air. The coast is mainly rainforest, succulent scents of flora and frying food helped to clear our dusted lungs from the past three weeks. The green was a welcome overwhelming to the browns of rock and sand we had grown sick of. The people were friendly and the food was an experience in itself, lots of coriander and other mixed, hot spices that make the lemon spliced Corona we washed it down with even more refreshing. A little tip, when it comes to Mexican beer, the Caguma is a bottle the size of a small chica, cheap as tortilla chips, but drink it fast as it’ll warm quickly.

Seeking shade along the balmy coast, amongst palmed valleys are little fishing villages. They have gained underground popularity by the world surfing community for their consistent surf, be them continual long left point breaks, pealing for 500 metres or more like Rio Nexpa, La Ticla and La Punta – Puerto Escondido, or the heavier beach breaks like Pascuales or Zecatela beach, Puerto Escondido.

At some of these breaks locals have set up restaurants and built palapas (palmed shelters like authentic cabanas). You can stay in the palapas by the playas (beach) but it’s a given that you eat at their restaurant. It’s a sweet deal because the meals range between 20 to 50 pesos and saves you building a campfire every night with wet wood in the rainy season. By the time you’ve come this far you should have iron guts. Don’t drink the water but contrary to belief you can wean yourself onto any of the food from restaurants and roadside stalls.

Essentially Acapulco is a useless stop on the surfer’s beaten guide to breaks. It’s merely a re-toxification station if one so desires. It’s the birthplace of Mexican tourism, gaining popularity after WWII as an alternative to Europe for North Americans. By 1964 Acapulco had 200 hotels and was a playground for America’s rich and famous. It sizzled by day and dazzled by night.

These days, depending on your wallet’s longevity, the day may simmer. We had spent weeks on the road, in a vast seclusion of secret sands and salt water. We were desperate for both a hot cleansing shower and some nightlife. Though the majority of Mexico is cheap, it’s these international holiday destinations like Acapulco, Cancun and Puerto Vallarta, popular with American spring breakers and package dealt European retirees alike, that are priced to match said target markets. Being neither we struggled to find a hotel room, one that could valet the bus.

Some of the larger clubs host a cover charge of around 250 pesos, and then all you can drink once you get in. The other smaller bars have prices that can be haggled at if you are in a large group. They are bars though, nothing particularly special.

The most entertaining part of the city is its privatised transportation. All the taxis are VW beetles dressed to the nines with halogen headlights and hallucinogenic trimmings. The buses are moving discos, spray painted with their own theme, Star Wars, Pokimon or flames. The driver/DJ is at the controls of both steering wheel and stereo while Shotgun leans out the open door at the bottom of the stairs like a bouncer at a dirty strip club, trying to encourage you to come in.

It leaves you with that fear that all those villages and towns you saw before Acapulco; Rio Nexpa, Pascuales, quiet cast-aways and rustic nooks, that are surfers outposts may grow over the palms and into sight of the highway high above the coves and river mouths with too much exposure. You especially get this feeling when you get to Puerto Escondido. Situated eight hours, one thousand speed bumps and a million photographs south of Acapulco, Puerto Escondido is in the southern state of Oaxaca (pronounced Wahaca) on the west coast of Mexico. Its name in Spanish is “The Hidden Port”. Not any more.

It’s beginning to show itself, rising from the caffeine haze and mescal daze of its history as a port for shipping coffee and cactus based liquor. When the highway plowed in connecting it to other coastal towns in the sixties ‘Puerto’ started gaining underground popularity with exploring surfers and Mexican holiday makers alike.

Like wild fire, the word spread, hot on the sunburnt lips of surfers about a world class break. Secret spots with the perfect wave, be it a heavy shorebreak like Puerto’s Playa Zicatela or the long consistency of La Punta, the point break, predictable yet still challenging have been sought after by surfers since beaches; Malibu and Bondi went loco.

Now tunnel vision-ed travelers, focused solely on the light at the end of the tube come to tame these breaks all year round. Zicatela is nicknamed MexPipe for its obvious likeness to the Hawaiian Pipeline; fast, heavy and hallow. It’s unsafe for swimmers and novice surfers alike. The amount of water that whirl pools in the break zone causes heavy rips and undertows, especially in the big swell season from May until October.

At the end of playa Zicatela is ‘La Punta’, the point. We parked the bus up there amongst a couple of cabana/restaurants on the sand and nestled in for the three weeks of our stay. It’s about a half an hour walk into town along the beach. La Punta is a left hander that starts fifty metres past the point and offers rides up to two hundred metres when its big, walling up perfectly all the way along. When its smaller and breaking closer to the headland there is a rock that traps sand and creates a sucky session midway through your ride that you can crouch into, race and sometimes make it out of.

It’s this part of nature that evokes the explorer in the surfer. The ability to use the weather, the sea and the land to provoke new sensations and find new experiences, searching for the unexpected and conquering what is further down the line. I was reading Tom Robbins’ “Jitterbug Perfume” while I was in Puerto Escondido and this quote struck me as summing up our whole adventure.

“Upon those travelers who make their way without maps or guides there breaks a wave of exhilaration with each unexpected change of plans. This exhilaration is not a whore who can be bought with money, nor a neighbourhood beauty who may be whooed. She (to persist in personifying the sensation as female) is a wild and sea eyed undine, the darling daughter of adventure, the sister of risk and it is for her rare and always ephemeral embrace, the temporary pressure she exerts on the membrane of ecstasy, that many men leave home.” P 34 Jitterbug Perfume – Tom Robbins

Puerto Escondido the town, like the waves that tackle its shoreline, retains that wildness that coerces men to leave home, some temporarily, while others have stayed, seduced by it exotic nature. This was also the first town on the mainland that we came to where backpackers, not just surfers, from all over the world were hanging out.

In the late seventies and early eighties the Mexican government began plans for development to the village, which would have made it over developed and commercialized, exorcising its natural soul. It was doomed for a gaudy grave with high rise headstones akin to Acapulco. They changed their vision though when they realised it was the small town charm that was drawing the crowds in the first place.

Behind Playa Merinero, the lagoon, there is the older part of town that closes off in the evening with street performers, markets and an assortment of food carts. This is where you can find the Bars like Barfly and Wipeout that are packed at night.

Along Zicatela Beach there are quaint hotels, with all the creature comforts yet are subtle in their appearances. Not fake like Acapulco but seemingly at one with their surroundings.

The restaurants are fresh and cater for all tastes, but are neither shabby take aways or hokey westernised Mexican restaurants. Buildings blend into bougainvilleas and mansions masked by mango trees seem constructed by The Swiss Family Robinsons keeping their rustic charm, like Santa Fe, the oversized cabana restaurant.

Likewise, There’s Casa Babylon bar and café, naturally alternative in its Mexican pride, rather than out to impress. It’s where Che Guevara’s image flies high next to the Mexican Flag, like a pirate’s skull and cross bones, proud of his Latin revolution, while the melodic modern day guerrilla, Mano Chao revolves on the cd player speaking his one mind yet many twisted tongues on Liberación. And from his newspaper clipping shrine on the holiest of beer fridges, the Oaxacan guitar god, Carlos Santana watches with admiring omnipresence.

Don’t turn around to head north again until you’ve hit Puerto Escondido. Our travel plans were right on time until we got there and stayed for an extra three relaxed and culturally enlightened weeks before we turned around and headed back to the US rather than four days like we first intended.

I would love to have seen Mexico back in the day. For now though, I hope it keeps as much of its pride and personality without being influenced by the big brothers around it because there are still places to explore, delicious yet dubious tacos to devour and potholes the size of your campervan to swallow you. As I grow older I hope too, the kids don’t have to rely on stories that start, “when I was your age it looked a lot different.”

“Death has his concrete allies, we must enlist ours. Never underestimate how much assistance, how much satisfaction, how much comfort, how much soul and transcendence there might be in a well made taco and a cold bottle of beer.” P373, Jitterbug Perfume. By Tom Robbins.