Regular readers (or in fact, anyone who can deduce the time between two different dates) might be wondering why I haven’t updated the blog in a while. I would love to say that it’s because, in the last couple of weeks, I have been so busy doing varied and wonderful things that I simply haven’t had the time. Sadly, well it’s actually not sad at all, but it’s not the case. Puerto Escondido is an almost magical place that posseses an inate ability to simply suck away time. My principal reason for coming here was for the surf – and surfing I have been doing – but it’s impossible to escape, not that you’d especially want to, the chilled out beach atmosphere of the small town, and simply hang around, doing little other than sleeping, swimming, surfing, sitting on the beach, all mixed together with the odd cerveza or 17. The temperature is regularly in the 30’s, the sun is always shining, people are happy, and spending hours mulling over suitable words to describe the experience here is often far too much effort. Well, that’s my excuse anyway.
Surfing Puerto Escondido
The main surf break here, Zicatelo, is world famous. Colloquially known as Mexpipe, it’s Mexico’s answer to the Banzai Pipeline in Hawaii, or Mundaka in Northern Spain. It’s a fast, hollow wave, that breaks big on shallow sand. The beach itself is 3-4km long, with several good peaks along its breadth. I’ve yet to seen it at its absolute best, but even on a small swell, the break is gnarly. The paddle out is a workout in itself – you have to time your run perfectly – or risk getting pummeled by the ever-breaking waves. I say risk, but actually it’s a foregone conclusion – at some point you are going to get eaten by a big wave, moreorless get trapped inside, and then más o menos spend the next few minutes struggling for air and endeavouring to free yourself from the trappings of the strong current and the ferocious power. When it’s big, it’s nothing short of a veritable maelstrom of angry water, as the sea attempts to assert its power and banish the invaders from its watery bosom. I have surfed it on a couple of occasions, usually when it is smaller, but so far it has been a fairly ugly experience – having a 6ft piece of fibreglass, whose sole purpose in life is to float, attached to your ankle by a cord of rubber, not to mention three sharp fins, when you’re being pinned to the seabed by a barrage of water, often has gruesome consequences. In fact, bodysurfing the wave is often more fun than trying to surf it. Recently there was a big swell, which has moved and destroyed many of the main sandbanks, which makes it unpredictable at best, and at worst, quite frankly dangerous. It has also invited an enormous colony of jellyfish in to the shore, which, although not dangerous to touch, are disgusting to walk and paddle through. It is not a beginner wave and you often see lifeguards frantically patrolling the beach trying to stop the novice from even entering the water. And quite right too – I’ve already assisted one person from the water with what appeared to be a dislocated shoulder – and many more are the horror stories from people who have had a thorough beating from the place.
A small day at Zicatelo, Puerto Escondido
Fortunately, however, Puerto boasts at least two other excellent breaks. A sweet lefthander at La Punta, a big peeling wave that works at almost any tide and on most swells. Other than the solid 45 minute walk along the beach to get there, the main problem is that it is by far the busiest wave in the area and you can be assured of crowds of longboarders, bodyboarders, snorkellers and myriad other water hazards which can make surfing it frustrating. Only on a dawn mission are you likely to find it with only a handful of others there. Often the easiest approach is to sit inside and pick off the smaller waves, and just pray that you spot any big sets far enough in advance to escape out the back. Elsewhere is Carrazilillo (try saying that after a couple of shandies), a beautiful small bay, 15 minutes out of the town. Set at the bottom of several million steps, it is popular with sun worshippers and surfers alike, but fortunately escapes the crowds. There are two breaks, one each on the left and the right. The left is popular with the beginners, where the mellow rolling waves are good for practicing the art, whereas the righthand side breaks big and shallow but on a good swell will give you a fun 20 second ride. The major drawback, especially at low tide, is that it breaks on to some large and erratic rocks, covered in shell and coral like paraphernalia. I’ve spent many days since plucking spiky bits from, and tending to, injured feet. Surfing isn’t supposed to be easy, but if you’re mad enough, then there will always be a wave here for the committed enthusiast.
Another spectacular sight is that of the flocks of herons in the area, that glide gracefully across the surface of the water. They’re constantly fishing, where they will circle in the sky for a few moments, eyeing their prey and all of a sudden will descend from the skies and plummet in to the sea to make their catch. It can be a little surprising if you’re sat in the surf minding your own business when one of them does it next to you.
Despite the regular contingent of backpackers and surfies alike, Puerto Escondido manages to retain a sleepy fishing port lifestyle. The main strip has its fair share of street vendors, touting the usual pap, and the beach is lined it with local fisherman offering to take you out snorkelling, fishing or dolphin spotting. Or indeed sell you weed or coke, and probably any other substance or product you may require. I’m almost aghast that I’ve spent over two weeks here with very little to show for it. The time simply flies by. Sure, we’ve had a fair few morning eliminating nights out, and although limited, the nightlife here is vibrant. The same goes for the Mayflower Hostel*, which frequently boasts a mix of foreign visitors. The Scandinavians are here in force, but I regularly meet Australians, Americans, South Americans and even the odd Brit.
I feel slightly remiss not having mentioned the price of things around here, which, compared to US standards, at least, are great. The weak dollar makes it even cheaper for a Brit to stay here. Hostel accomodation is around 5 pounds a night, and fresh food and beer is extremely reasonable, at around 1.25 for a 3 pint bottle of Corona. I am reliably informed, however, that it gets steadily cheaper as you venture further in to Central America, with the odd exception such as Belize or Costa Rica. Whether my travels will get me to such destinations is, as yet, undecided, as most people will attest to the difficulty that is leaving Puerto Escondido.
-MT
* The hostel has a hideous website. But it does have an interesting video about Puerto Escondido, which features yours truly, around the 1 minute 10 mark.
A brief interpose to the usual witty and genial banterings for a video update. The first, one of the coolest things I have ever seen: a TV on a lightswitch. Every house should have one. Found in a hotel in Morelia, Mexico.
The second, some random Mexican singing. Found in a bar in Mexico City, one is a (drunk) Mexican, the second (doing his best Che Guevara impression) is a (drunk) American. I have no idea what they were singing about, but it was entertaining nevertheless.
As we left Morelia, it quickly became evident that we were heading in just one direction – up. Destination: Zitacuaro at an altitude of around 2000m. The bus takes about 1.5 hours, but that’s largely due to it being a bus in the more traditional sense of the term, that is, it stopped at moreorless every lamppost on the way to pick up all and sundry. But at 100 pesos (about 4.5 quid), we weren’t complaining. Zitacuaro turned out to be a much condensed version of Mexico City – vibrant and active during the day with a seemingly neverending market – but at night there was little to do. Indeed, when we asked the owner of our hotel where we could get some good Mexican grub and maybe a few beers, we felt sure it was our dodgy Spanish that was indicating there were neither bars nor restaurants. As it turned out, there were no restaurants and only one bar, which, touted as a video bar, which was little more than a room with a TV in. Nevertheless, a few Coronas and a great deal of complimentary popcorn later, we were reasonably fulfilled.
The absence of tourism in some of the places I have visited can make for some unusual reactions. In many places you feel like the tourist attraction as a couple of gringos walking around a town, you inevitably attract the eyes and interest of the locals. Naturally, most see you as a walking wallet, but some are fascinated by the style of dress or hair, a handful enjoy the chance to practice their English or tell you about the region and the kids just tend to smile and laugh at you. But I haven’t yet felt unsafe or insecure which is testament to the friendliness and hospitality of the Mexican people.
Monarch butterflies
From Zitacuaro we bid a hasty exit, continuing our ascent of the region to Angangueo. I say hasty since earlier in the day we had been forced to abandon our breakfast order after it took nearly an hour to just bring the coffee. We weren’t prepared to find out how long enchiladas and a club sndwich were going to take. Angangueo (altitude: 2500m) is a sleepy village on the side of the mountain and serves as one of the more popular destinations from which to visit the butterflies.
The region is the holiday destination (i.e. wintering ground) of choice for the Monarch butterfly (see Flickr photo.) As many as 100 million per colony make the trip from Canada and the northern US to enjoy the warm climate and quiet valleys for their reproductive wonts. It is still unknown why they choose this specific area to migrate to but nevertheless it forms an integral part of their lifecycle. We visited two sanctuaries – Sierra Cinchua and El Rosario, both at an occasionally dizzying altitude of 3400m – where at first you would be forgiven for wondering why you’ve many many miles to witness a few thousand butterflies floating about in the air. It’s only when you look more closely at the trees and specifically what you thought were branches covered in dead leaves, that you realise said leaves are in fact hordes of butterflies huddled together inall manners of embrace. Better still, however, is when the sun comes out as masses take to the sky. Despite the overactive beeping and clicking of tourist cameras, the sound of 20,000,000 butterfly wings is beautiful and mesmerising. It’s an awesome thing to experience. Interesting fact: after the male Monarch butterfly mates, he dies. Fingers crossed it was worth it.
From Angangueo we returned to Mexico City with a one night pitstop in Toluca, Mexico’s highest city (2680m.) Geek note: in Angangueo and Toluca, quite remote places that were unable to provide some basic commodities (marmite, Earl Grey, decent KFC to name a few) all the PCs in the Internet cafes were running Windows Vista, which to me, was a more peculiar phenomenon than the ice rink in Mexico City.)
A further couple of nights in the capital and I’d decided enough was enougg: it was high time to get back the beach and the Pacific coast waters of Puerto Escondido.
-MT
In case you were wondering, one of the hardest parts of writing this blog, is picking a good title for each post. I’m absolutely aware that the title of this post shares the same name as British warbler James Blunt’s first album, which is unfortunate at the very least. However, as I prepared to venture back to Mexico and in to Mexico City, I was equally aware of the reputation of the city – absolutely enormous, jam packed full of people and chaotic beyond imagination. Bedlam seems like a good word to describe my expectation. As it turns out, however, it is not an apt moniker nor is the reputation particularly deserved.
Yes, the city is gigantic and yes, it sprawls endlessly, with some of the thickest traffic I have ever witnessed. But for the mostpart, it’s a well organised chaos that is a cynch to navigate. The metro system is the best I have ever used, far better than New York City or even Barcelona. It’s a flat rate of 2 pesos (around 10 pence / 20 US cents) for any journey and the trains run frequently (to such an extent that “on-time” would be meaningless, as you never have to wait more than a couple of minutes.) The Zócalo is the center of the city and where you would reasonably expect to find the hub of activity. And up until 2000 or so every day, that’s absolutely true – the street market is massive* – with street after street selling every imaginable product. The various types of product cluster together – clothes, food, wedding dresses – such that you can walk an entire block and see 20 different stalls selling, moreorless, the same thing. The only difference, as far as I can tell, is how determined the various vendors are to make a sale by means of to how low you can bargain the price. (In the end, I opted not to buy the wedding dress, despite the bueno precio I was promised.)
The ability to bargain and haggle is a valuable skill that any traveller needs to acquire. With the exception perhaps of a restaurant menu, virtually any price is up for negotiation. The locals here are no mugs and see a couple of gringos coming a mile away. Taxis, accomodation and especially street goods are all valid items for discussion and you can be assured that the first price you hear will be ridiculously inflated, that they will never sell you something for less they can afford, and despite any haggling, you’ll likely still pay over the odds. In this case, it’s important to maintain a sense of value, that is, provided you pay the amount that the item is worth to you, a price that represents good value to you, then you won’t go far wrong. Never feel bad about haggling over the price and never feel like you might offend them with a low offer as it is simply the way things are done. And the strongest weapon in your arsenal is always the “I’m not interested hand wave” combined with the “I ain’t bovvered walkaway” – if they want to sell it to you then they will chase you – at which point you have them over a barrel. If you’re genuinely not interested, then it’s best to avoid engaging them in the first place as a determined street vendor is often hard to shake off.
There is plenty for the tourist to do, the usual selection of beautiful colonial buildings, the Cathedral, governmental buildings and perhaps the most unexpected – an ice rink. Evidence of Mexico sinking is everywhere – pavements are twisted and buckled and formerly horizontal stone work now slope in a variety of directions. It’s a peculiar phenomenon which is sure to only get worse over time.
During the day, the police presence in Mexico City is inescapable. Two or three cops are stationed on virtually every corner of every street, with more standing outside the bigger shops and hordes of them in popular areas such as the Cathedral. The police wage bill here must be a Mexico City part of the national economy. All of them are armoured up to the max, ranging from jumpsuits, stab vests and handguns to full body armour and semi-automatic machine guns. Fully laden vans of police roam about the streets endlessly. Come 2000, the center of Mexico City is a totally different place. All the stalls are dismantled and taken away, metal shutters adorning the front of shops are slammed shut and padlocked and the streets become starved of people, save for the ubiquitous police, of course, whom if anything, multiply yet further in number. Bars and restaurants are generally shut by 2100 and apart from the odd 7/11, there is little going on. I haven’t been able to work out why this is the case and nobody I’ve asked knows why either. Even sat in a fantastic Mexican bar (in a plaza out of the Zócalo where thankfully it is possible to get a drink past 2100) where the tequila was flowing and where we were receiving some of the best Mexican hospitality yet, the local men who have lived here all their lives were at a loss to explain it. The obvious suggestion is crime and the inordinate number of police must serve as an almost heavy-handed preventative measure. If that is the case, then the initiative must be working, as I’ve yet to witness anything unbecoming of a large capital city that is eager to entice tourist money in to their coffers. With that said, the police presence is at times overbearing and since there is so little for them to do, they often seem to be used as nothing more than glorified tourist information for directions to nearby attractions. Tourist information, that is, with guns**.
I hooked up with my Cancún and Tulúm travel buddy Steve. Considering his dwindling time left in Mexico, we elected to head out of the city. Our collective guidebooks recommended a visit to the Michoácan province, foremost for the attraction of colonies of migrating Monarch butterflies. The region is around 3 hours to the east of Mexico City and indications were that we should aim for Morelia, where we expected to find a small town as a suitable jumping off point for the various sanctuaries. If you get a chance to travel by coach in Mexico, then the carrier of choice is unquestionably ETN. I’ve never experienced anything like it before – it’s a full-sized coach which has no more than 30 seats (as opposed to 50 or 60 ordinarily.) The seats recline to near enough horizontal which enough leg room to swing a moderately sized feline. Complimentary snacks are provided, the toilets put long distance aircrafts to shame and the air conditioned comfort was augmented by a personal entertainment system, with 3 radio channels and a selection of films. Although it might seem a peculiar thing to get excited about, any amount of time on a coach is never a great deal of fun, yet this single trip did wonders to dispel the myth that backpackers must be forced to endure hours of cramped torture in overcrowded chicken buses.
Morelia itself is a big metropolitan city which seems to have escaped the clutches of tourism. In the day and a half we were there, we encountered no more than half a dozen other Western tourists, yet the place was vibrant and alive, well in to the night. There is one main plaza, with a Cathedral and botanical gardens, lined with bars and restaurants. It’s an expensive place to stay – no hostels – and only mid to upper range hotels are available. But it’s a beautiful city set in the lower ranges of the generally mountainous state, so the backdrops are beautiful, and a massive contrast to Mexico City. Had it not been so expensive***, we might have stayed longer, but we were off in search of the butterflies, which meant yet another change of location, to the small town of Zitácuaro, about 1.5 hours north.
-MT
* I’m running out of superlatives for “big.” Maybe I should invent a new one – if something is gigantic / enormous / huge, then it’s “absolutely Mexico City”
** “Guns, lots of guns. Also, I think knives are a good idea. Big, fuck-off shiny ones.” Name that film… answers in the comments, please.
*** Actually, that’s a bit of a lie. A double hotel room split between two people is only a few more dollars than a room in a hostel. But we had slightly misjudged the location of Morelia in relation to the butterflies, and the timing of the whole shindig meant we needed to get closer to the action.
Well, when I say “one night”, I, of course, mean “about 14 nights or so” in New York, but I’m sure there’s an expression along those lines. Maybe, it was “One Night in San Francisco”, but then I wasn’t in San Francisco so it wouldn’t have made a great deal of sense. In fact, technically speaking, I wasn’t even in New York (it was Stamford, Connecticut) so largely speaking it’s a nonsensical title and a peculiar way to start this latest entry.
Christmas in New York was a chilled out time, both psychologically and literally – the change in temperature from the highs of 6 weeks in tropical climates to snow on the ground in New York was expectedly a bit of a shock to the system. Beach one day, snow the next. I think I have given the perception of being a tad “underwhelmed” by New York in recent posts, bragging that I’ve been so many times now (well, 7 ish) that it has nothing to offer me, but I continue to return there so there must be something about the place that I like. In fact, it was a welcome break from the often stressful time of backpacking (as stressful as waking up with nothing to do, touring the countryside in the baking sun, sitting on the beach and drinking beer can be) but New York, or more specifically my brother’s house, offers an amount of sanity, which the shackles of pre-travelling life desire. And despite my apparent criticism of most things American, there is still a special vibe about the place and I do enjoy being there.
We managed one day of skiing and snowboarding. Personally, I ignored my self-imposed suggestion of taking snowboarding lessons and instead decided to wing it. I spent most of the first hour skidding down the hill on my hind quarters, but my surf skills soon kicked in and I was up and carving with the best of them in no time. Well that might be (yet) another exaggeration, but nevertheless I was doing it and loving every second of it. Previously, I’d wondered if there was any relationship between surfing and snowboarding, figuring on the basis of information from friends who do both, that there actually wasn’t. I’d also felt that I wouldn’t like to take up snowboarding for the simple reason that I would get really annoyed if I couldn’t do it regularly (one bonus of living in Guernsey is the opportunity to surf most days.) But I’ve changed my mind about both, and snowboarding holidays will definitely be in my plans for the future.
Christmas itself was a quiet affair – dinner with family on Christmas Eve and Day – good food, good drink and not a great deal else. New Year’s Eve was also chilled out – again a good dinner followed by a trip to The Thirsty Turtle in Stamford, a bizarre bar-cum-pub-cum-nightclub banging out the old school hip-hop, house and cheesy pop music. Save for a few extra decorations and a few extra clientele, it was pretty much identical to the previous time I was there, with the exception of the customary midnight countdown from Times Square. It was a good evening, extended marginally by a few more drinks at my brother’s house, until pass out, or other nocturnal activities, ensued.
The highlight of this trip to New York was had shortly in to the New Year. Firstly I was treated to a show on Broadway by Leo and Lina. I always find it a peculiar experience, especially when you go to a matinée showing. That is, you leave the insanity of the streets of New York, entering a glamorous theater with lots of well dressed people (and me) and then are engulfed by the atmosphere and glitz of the singing and dancing. And to do this all at two o’clock in the afternoon, when it’s still light outside and most other people are getting on with their daily lives just seems bizarre. But you only have to be in the theater for 10 minutes before you forget all that and lose yourself in the power of the show. We were watching Young Frankenstein, an adaptation of Mel Brooks’ 1970’s film. It was indeed spectacular, and very, very funny and certainly the best show I have seen in a theater. Admittedly, that accounts for about 5 total, but nevertheless it was a great time. In fact, it put the tacky cabaret show in Varadero in to perspective. That felt cheap and seedy, with poor choreography and just a great deal of arse. On Broadway, however, it’s a totally different fish. The set design is second to none, the music is fantastic, and the whole kit’n'caboodle just exudes class. Perhaps it’s not fair to compare cheap cabaret with a Broadway musical, but it was the feeling with which I was left. After the show, we made our way to New York’s oldest bar – McSorley’s – where they serve only two drinks. Light beer or dark beer. Ask for one, and you get two. And don’t expect to get a pint, or even a half – it’s literally a mugful – with a substantial amount of head** to boot. But the beer is excellent, and the pub has a charm and character unheard of in other bars. In there, the dust and cobwebs are actually a feature, adorning the numerous pictures and memorials of past presidents and famous folk.
The following day was Leo’s birthday and needed no better excuse for a pub crawl in Williamsburg, which, if my geography serves me well enough, is a suburb / division / region* of Brooklyn / Queens*. Either way, it’s full of bars and pubs and despite the dodgy weather and the first pub being “one in one out” (honest gov) the substitution for a Hookah bar made a great start to the proceedings. From there on in, we hit a few small bars, most of them playing a refreshingly old-skool mix of hip-hop and after a one or two many Irish carbombs (well, for certain members of our group, anyway) we were suitably pissed and in need of tacos. Three o’clock in the morning, pissed up in a taco shop somewhere in the New York area, surrounded by friends and having a great time, doesn’t get much better in my book. In fact, a fantastic lazy following day, where there was quite literally nothing on the agenda (in fact, looking for the agenda, which might only have had one entry on it – “look for the agenda”, would have been far too much effort), rounded off an extremely memorable weekend. So One Night in New York might not actually be such a ridiculous description for perhaps my most enjoyable visit to New York yet.
Needless to say, I will be back, endeavouring to explain the continuing enamourment I have with the place. But for now, my travels take me back to Mexico and Mexico City.
-MT
* Delete as appropriate.
** Snigger