Stranded

Cock-up on the flight front. A month ago when we booked our flights, we were disappointed to learn that all the flights from Puerto Escondido back to DF were full, meaning we had to book one from Huatulco, 100 miles further down the coast. So, after an hour-and-a-half taxi ride this afternoon, we checked in at the new airport only to discover that the flight we'd booked... wasn't. We had a reservation receipt, but payment hadn't gone through. Oh. Could we buy four tickets now? Nope, completely full. Any other flights tonight? No. Nothing till tomorrow evening.

So, tails between our legs, we ventured into Huatulco, found a basic hotel in the port area and went in search of something to eat. Strange place. Felt very new - lots of civic pesos spent on public squares, promenades and arcades with the hope that private investment and people would follow. But it was empty - of people and soul. 

Twilight Zone

After releasing baby turtles into the sea, we had our last evening out on the tiles in P.E. Extraordinary full moon with clouds, a nightscape straight out of Close Encounters. If the mother ship landed then it must have been quietly and a few blocks away. 

Surf's Up

Not us

Never too late to learn how to surf... Or is it?  We had lessons this morning, and whilst A&N took to it like the 'dudettes' they are fast becoming, yours truly just couldn't get the hang of it. I could get into the crouch position, but just couldn't stand up. Too big/heavy/old. Great to see the girls master it though. Puerto Escondido is a surfing Mecca, famous for its Mexican Pipeline which is at its peak in August and September when it hosts international competitions. I don't think we're quite up to that standard yet.

Liz, sensibly, opted for a cookery lesson making tacos dorados and empañadas, which we ate later and were delicious.

The surfing theme continued over drinks and desserts in our local restaurant while watching a documentary about... German fresh water surfers. Extraordinary footage of Deutschesadrenalinjunkies launching themselves into weirs and fast-flowing rivers. 

Truth is Stranger than Fiction

I've been reading two books: Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory and Catriona Rainsford's The Urban Circus: Travels with Mexico's Malabaristas. The former is fiction, the latter fact. You'd think that would make them very different, but not really. They both have a central character, each of which is more or less constantly on the move, living hand to mouth and surviving off the kindness of strangers; one being hunted, the other seeking something. And they're both set in Mexico over a specific period of time - the former in the 1930s, the latter very recent. 

Greene's book is set during a strange time when, post-Revolution, the Mexican authorities turned against the Church. Being the good Catholic, he felt a conviction to report on it and got some funding from Longman's to spend a couple of months in Mexico in 1938, ending up writing both a work of non-fiction, The Lawless Roads (which I haven't read) and the novel in question. The latter is a cloying, claustrophobic affair and you can detect Greene's distaste for the country on every other page. It's often cited as his masterpiece but, although of course wonderfully written, I found it slight and depressing.

Five years ago, a young writer Catriona Rainsford won £200 in the Daily Telegraph's weekly travel writing competition about a thrifty trip in Bangladesh. She followed that with her first book, The Urban Circus. The Malabaristas are jugglers, fire-eaters and acrobats who perform in Mexico's plazas, crossroads and anywhere they can make a few pesos. A chance encounter led Catriona to spend two years on the road with a small band of them. It really is like a novel, truth being stranger than fiction. I found it enlightening, positive and mature beyond her years. Looking forward to her next. 

Spanish Lessons

Part of the deal in coming here has been to combine lolling around on the beach with Spanish classes. The latter didn't much appeal to A&N but actually an hour and a half splits up the day nicely and they seemed to enjoy it. The school is tiny and basic, overlooking Zicatella Beach, which we walked the length of to get us back to the hotel. On the way, 20 or so paragliders descended from a pure blue sky, each making a perfect landing on the white sand. 

We had dinner at a nice restaurant cringingly called One Love where we attempted to play cards while awaiting our food. I say attempted because one pack had 60 cards but curiously no 4s and the other had symbols which none of us could work out, so we ended up playing Jenga instead. At one point Liz got into hysterics and all but wet herself (which I'm sure she won't thank me for mentioning). 

The Hidden Port

Off to Puerto Escondido, a small town on the pacific coast an hour's flight away. The flight was beautiful, past the two 5,000m+ volcanoes, Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl, their snow-covered summits peaking up through the clouds, then 250 miles of rugged hills, before descending to the coast, almost skimming the ocean before landing on PE's tiny airstrip.

The town's name means Hidden Port and it is. Or rather, it's still a sleepy beach resort which hasn't (yet) turned into the ghastly Acapulco, 100 miles up the coast. Our hotel is on a quiet, unmade road just off the Zicatella Beach. A couple of blocks away is a hangout for young beach bums, a couple of wizened Vietnam Vets and some soi dogs. It's hot, dusty and reminds us of Thailand - so we eat Thai and pinch ourselves that this isn't Ko Samui.