A tropical virus is on the loose.
I somewhat suspect that my inability to spell, remember or pronounce the name of this terrible affliction will not be enough to save me, like a child playing hide and seek who shuts his eyes and declares himself invisible, should it genuinely come my way.
But that’s not the only thing that could be scary: El Chapo the Mexican drug lord and 16th richest man in the world - whose nickname translates somewhat unreverentially as ‘shorty’ or ‘the dwarf’ - has escaped from jail while I’ve been here, and there will always be emperor Montezuma of the Aztecs who still makes travellers want to poo themselves today…
Speaking to my friend Toby through email I ask him to send me his travel blog, reading it and laughing loudly, then worrying if it’s better than mine. My travel writing isn’t enough like normal travel writing, I also worry, to myself, looking over what I’ve done so far with no obvious revelation coming as a result. Have I done things justice when you take into account all the ordinary Mexican people trying to make a living, a living which is helped greatly by tourists coming here? I do not want to sell the country I’m visiting short.
Sitting in the courtyard of the Casa Arnel Hotel, Oaxaca City, filled with the hysterical sounds of parroting birds, I think back over my recent adventures, trying to compile ‘Trip Advisor’ reviews on the areas I have visited themselves, while a cockatiel in one of the cages lies prostrate having fallen from its perch. Shutting out everything I start to write…
Number One: Mazunte
Accompanying me now on the trip is Xavier Kennedy, a distant relative of JFK, supporting host on a Mexican panel game show, and an all round nice guy, who would therefore get a positive rating from me on trip advisor.
Together we go to Mazunte, a quiet paradise where we nestle in the hills above the beach, birds singing in the day and insects croaking at night, huge waves rolling in. On the cliffs above the beach the coves beyond reveal themselves, views beautiful in every direction, and each evening travellers look out at the sunset.
The sun down, the sea invisible in all but the sound of its rise and fall, little crabs come out onto the streets and scuttle beneath the tables in bars as if looking for a seat…
On the second day we hop onto the public transport, a canopied pickup truck. Taking a tour of the mangroves on the long wobbling boat we paddle past territorial crocodiles, seabirds, turtles and fish, while iguanas clamber down from the trees to eat the greens thrown ashore by our hosts.
Five out of five on Trip Advisor.
...I look up briefly from my iPad, distracted by the shrieking of cockatiels in the hotel courtyard remembering my sudden descent to the ocean floor in the sea at Mazunte, the waves pulling me under insistently, crushing and sandblasting me against the beach floor. Alive I emerge dazed and bleeding like a drunken man from a fight against a trained boxer. Xavier is concerned and asks me if I’m ok, to which I reply yes and how about a beer.
Number Two: Puerto Escondido
Puerto Escondido, the hidden port as it translates. The sea dominates all here, a special spot for surfers, a land of utopian dude… Away from this main beach, the stretch of Zicatela, where the waves are so famously large that swimming is forbidden, lies Carrizalillo: a perfect, tiny bay, where the sea rolls in like bedsheets smoothed across a mattress.
Above the beach, climbing the long stone stairs from this spot to a quieter corner of town sits a long row of cafes, shops and bars: a pleasure to walk along from one end to the other. I was laid low here, sick as a sea dog, either Montezuma or the chef at fish tacos had finally got the best of me…
I’d recommend coming here. It might just be bad luck that I got food poisoning here, but I’m still going to give this place 4/5 for Zicatela and 5/5 for Carrizalillo.
...I wish those cockatiels would shut up, I think, looking up again from my iPad. I remembered speaking to someone at this hotel earlier, and all they wanted to talk about was the end of the world because of the Internet, global warming and globalisation by 2300, can you imagine? I listened calmly and told him that when you predict something like that you have to look at the whole picture, something any one human can’t objectively. No one really knows what’s going on. He was well meaning but wrong thinking. I told him he didn’t know what he was talking about and left.
Number Three: Oaxaca
I arrive in Oaxaca and head straight for my hotel in Jalatlaco, a quiet cobbled district, in which it’s easy to become lost, and which I proceed to, knowing I am only a few hundred metres from the hotel, but having no idea how to get there.
This district has a beautiful church, in which a full service with choir is underway when I arrive, I think, looking through the entrances into the golden light, noting there are several entrances to the church but none I can see for my hotel… no wonder people go to church. I spend the next two evenings eating at Mi Maria Bonita a great place for tacos over the road with 160+ likes on Facebook, where the meat is prepared using an old family recipe, now served with the military speed and precision of a soldier assembling their rifle by a mother, daughter and son team.
Oaxaca as a state is well known for food in general and chocolate specifically, as well as mescal, a drink made by doing a lot of crazy things to the agave cactus: it’s a great drink which also makes the drinker go loco. I am bowled over by Oaxaca City to begin with, the Zocalo square at its centre so busy even on a Tuesday evening that my brain almost shuts down through not being able to take in the colours, people, noise and movement of the place.
By day I take in some cultural sights - museum of Oaxacan cultures, the cathedral - while at night I wander the Alcala, a pedestrianised street at the heart of the city, filled with cafes, bars, craft shops and children selling multipack items including cigarettes as singles with a reasonably marked up price. Strong images burn in my mind here from the market on November 20 which seems almost as if it is on fire (because it almost is) as I ate barbecued meat, chillies and onions; not to mention the processions of decorated taxis for their blessing; the mass bike riding at night and the dark clouds pouring over the hills. So far: 5/5.
... I look up again and the squawking birds have quietened down and the cockatiel I had thought was at death’s door (banging its head at the entrance on its way through) is back on its perch. Very much alive.
I’d finished my reviews.
PS. I saw the ‘the end of the world’ guy the next morning too, regretting the vision I had created of him in my mind as he chatted to a family at breakfast about fruit. They all seemed happy, and so was I listening to him talk about how fruit falls from the tree, when it’s ready. It wasn’t long, however, before he was talking about the end of the world again.
