This is a really quick thing, just to say that I’m not dead. I’ve been back in the real world for the passed year or so, since my travelling adventures.
My travelling ambitions are by no means dead though, and I will be getting back to the wanderlust things soon – I have an adventure in mind for later thi year. Until then, though, this blog will be a little quiet.
Guns are bad, mmmkay?
Stop the presses – I’ve had a revelation. I realised I should make the most of my time away. And whilst holed up in Stamford, not getting very far with actually figuring out anything to do with that time away – length, future plans, places to go and all that kind of malarkey – I found I really wasn’t making the most of anything. Apart from the well stocked off-license right across the street. Ahem.
So rather than sit on my tush the whole time, I got out of the house for a day and took a jaunt up to Bear Mountain in Northwestern Connecticut. I found out about the “mountain” by doing a search for “things to do in Connecticut” and goshdarnit if the very first hit didn’t prescribe to tell me everything there was to do in this wonderful state. Well, after a solid two to three minutes extra research, it turns out that perhaps there wasn’t a great deal to do in this wonderful state*, but the powers that be did seem very proud of their Bear Mountain, boasting the highest peak** in the whole state. So it seemed like a worthy cause, in spite of the 160 mile round trip to get there.
Once there, it was about a 7 mile circular hike with sections along the Appalachian Trail. It was hardly K2 (at 2300ft / 700m it wasn’t even Scafell Pike) but it was a pleasant enough escapade out in to the fresh air, even if I had ever so slightly underestimated how thick the snow was still going to be and foolishly dismissed the idea that clambering up steep slopes, across icy rocks, in the thick snow, whilst holding on to a leash with a psychotic dog at the other end wasn’t sensible.
The interesting thing about the day was the reminder that you don’t necessarily have to travel thousands of miles to see some spectacular sights. Indeed, amazing, beautiful, inspiring and challenging things sit right on our doorstep. For example, the views from parts of the Michoacan State in Mexico were arguably more beautiful than those from the top of Bear Mountain. But I often wonder if people instinctively look to further afield for the inspiration or getaway that they hanker after, convinced that it can’t possibly be right where they already are. I’m guilty of it – I know I am – and I’m pleasantly surprised to find myself appreciating beauty in so many more, different things and places, every day.
I will always encourage anyone and everyone to get out there and see the world. The revelation is that you can see it thousands of miles away in the middle of Africa or a couple of miles up the road.
Both are equally valid, in my book.
* For a 27 year old male. And a dog.
** But NOT the highest land OH NO! Intrigued? The highest land in Connecticut is on the slopes of Mt. Frissell which has its peak in neighbouring Massachusetts. So now you know.
*** The wind did a good job of drowning out my commentary. I believe I say: “This is Matt, at the top of Bear Mountain. 2300 ft… or thereabouts. It’s a little bit chilly.”
Crossroads. The title of one of Eric Clapton’s (well, Cream*) greatest tracks and an awful chick-flick starring Britney “bury me in a Y-shaped coffin**” Spears. But both (presumably***) discuss the same topic – being at a juncture in life with various paths ahead of you.
A little perspective: I have left Mexico and returned to the US for a brief repose from the whole travelling thing. It was reasonably easy to leave Mexico, 7 weeks in moreorless the same place (Puerto Escondido) was enough. The surf had dropped off and I had had my fill of beautiful beaches, perfect weather and an endless supply of cocktails. It was about 10 minutes in to the flight out, that I began to wonder if any of that was actually true. How, exactly, had I had my fill of the beautiful beaches, perfect weather and endless supply of cocktails? Why was I trading it all for cold weather, city life and American people?
Well I don’t have an answer for that. But for now I remain in Connecticut, considering my options. And making silly videos.
And onwards. Where should I go next? Answers in the comments please.
-MT
P.S. Apologies for taking so long to update
P.P.S. Double apologies for using a Phil Collins video in the previous post
* Well, Robert Johnson actually
** Definition, made popular by Blackadder
*** I wouldn’t know, I spent most of the film asleep (or wondering if Britney was likely to get her kit off)
I’ve extricated myself from Puerto Escondido for a few days, for a quick jaunt down the coast to Barra de la Cruz. This place knocks the socks off Puerto. There are really no words to describe just exactly how amazing it is here. So I’m going to let Phil do it for me:
´Nuff said.
-MT
(I know this a copout from a real post. I will be doing that shortly when I’m not sat in an expensive Internet cafe.)
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.