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.
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.
My first impression of Cancún was simple. “Oh my God, I want to get out of here.” Fortunately, it turned out to be slightly unwarranted, but the majority of what you hear about Cancún is true. It is full of hotels and fast food chains, it is full of fat tourists and it is full of locals trying to get your money. I was instantly ripped off by the taxi driver. Late in the evening without a clue where I was, I had been persuaded to accept the overpriced taxi with the promise that if the hostel I was heading to was full, then they wouldn’t leave me until we found one that was available. Well needless to say, as I exited the taxi, after making the driver promise that he would wait, tyres screeched as he left me stranded. Not a great start to my time in Cancún.
The hostel it self – Hostel Mexico – is actually pretty good. It’s cheap and cheerful – and at $11 a night – is a bit of a contrast to majority of the other accommodation available in Cancún. It was totally different to the delightful casa I had become accustomed to in Cuba – that is, well decorated double rooms with ensuite to 6 bed dormitory rooms and shared bathrooms. But it didn’t take long to settle back in to the way of life.
A jar of marmite brought me in to contact with Steve, a Londoner on a month’s holiday from work to explore Mexico. We instantly hit it off and agreed to travel for a few days. First stop was Chechen Itzá, one of the most famous ruins in Mexico, and now one of the New 7 Wonders of the World. From Cancun, by far the best way to visit is on an organised trip, despite my hatred of being shepherded between places like a scumbag tourist, and if you hunt around you can find a day of it, including travel, admission, guide, swimming in a nearby cenote and buffet lunch for $45. Chechen Itzá itself is quite amazing, although I’m reliably informed it’s by no means the best set of ruins in Mexico. It’s well worth getting a guide because otherwise you might amble around admiring the big pyramids, but when you find out the intricacies of the design, it adds a whole new level to it all. It blows your mind to think the Mayan people were coming up with some incredible architecture some 1200 years ago. There’s meaning in virtually every building and the attraction is dented only by the hordes of snap-hungry tourists infesting the site.
On the way back we stopped at a cenote – a massive underground pool – that are spread throughout Mexico as a result of meteorite shower thousands of years ago. You can swim in them, but only myself and Maria, a fellow coach-goer from Chile, opted to go in from our party. A shame really because they missed out on both some of the clearest and refreshing water I’ve been in (moreso than the cave swimming in Cuba), not to mention a fun 15 or so foot jump to get in. It may come as little surprise, but this was the highlight of the day for me.
Steve and I left Cancún the following day, heading down the coast to Tulúm, missing out the tourist haunt of Playa del Carmen. A break from the insanity of Cancún was welcome as we booked in to the Zazil Kin complex – a small place offering beach cabanas for about $20 a night. If you’re looking for some chill out time, then look no further. Waking up in the morning and, you guessed it, swimming, in the sea barely 100m from your front door is amazing. The place is very serene and tranquil and is wonderful for a little contemplation and relaxation. (Unless you happen to be sharing a cabana with a burly South Londoner who sleeps like a slain Rhino. With bad sinuses.) Travel tip: ear plugs are your friend!
After a couple of days beach time, Steve and I rented a car and drove to nearby Cobá, to inspect the ruins, which boasts one of the last in Mexico that still has parts that tourists can climb. Despite running out of fuel (and trying to persuade a taxi driver that he lend us some of his, which he wasn’t so receptive to) the ruins were indeed impressive, possibly moreso than Chechen Itzá. We failed to find the “really big pyramid” but we did find the “big pyramid” that you can climb. 112 steps up and at 42m you have a spectacular view of the area. We also had a look at the ruins in Tulúm, but time restraints meant it was a fleeting visit.
Steve and I parted company the following day – he was bound for Meridá, whereas I was returning to Cancún to catch a flight back to New York to spend the festive period with my brother. So despite Cancún, I feel like I’ve seen a bit of Mexico, and I’m now excited about the prospect of returning, most likely to Mexico City, sometime in the New Year.
Happy holidays!
-MT