Chancing Upon the Meaning of Life -- Puerto Escondido, Mexico

I'm starting this post from the hammock chair swinging from the balcony of the second floor of Casa Kei's guesthouse. Light filters in diagonally through wooden windows and wooden doors. The roof is covered in dried palm branches and looks like an array of overlapping fans. A breeze wafts through the open window behind the newly prepared double bed, filling out the mosquito netting and brushing my (finally) medium-length hair against my cheek. A bamboo shower  is half-displayed behind a half wall, on which rests an impressive piece of driftwood and a shell soap dish. A light blue, friendly "no smoking" sign is propped against the wall and a fringed dish towel hangs above the mini fridge.

I want to live here... I think Pepe might have to put up with me coming back and visiting him whenever I get too cold to be in the states or in Europe... 

You know you've been in Puerto Escondido too long when you --

1) Miss a sunrise. 'Cos you know the one the next day will be just as amazing as the one today. So you lie half-awake in bed, listening to the morning chorus of roosters, dogs and leaves falling onto your tent and you think, "mañana."

Ditto for sunset.

Ditto for everything else you could or should be doing.

"Mañana..."

2) When you've become accustomed to scraping sand out of your scalp, from between your toes, butt,  under the boobs and out of the ears. Sand gets everywhere. It's a good thing I don't spend time shaving in the shower and can dedicate more energy towards washing out the sand. Else I'd never leave the shower.

3) You expect to find limes in everything. Limes, salt, Valentina and tajin. Fruit, vegetables, tacos alike. And you forget how to eat your food if tortillas of some sort are not present.

4) When you know down which alleys the excessively nasty street dogs live and you know when not to walk the streets if you want to avoid being harassed by mangy, growling mutts. Pepe walks with a stone in hand, just to feel safe as we pas packs of prowling dogs. Flea-bitten, malnourished, and ANGRY. During the day, I pass by the dogs and apologize to them when I see the sad state of their skin, their eyes, their nails curling back inward in spirals.

"I'm sorry...."

But at night? When they bark and snarl and chase after you in packs?

"Pinchos perros..."

5) You find yourself craving fresh cocos like no one's business.

NO one's business.

Although cracking open a coconut is not nearly as easy as I'd assumed. Cracking a coconut requires steady hands. Finesse. Aim. And the uncanny ability for the left hand to know what the right hand is doing.

"It's just like sharpening a pencil," Pepe explained as he nonchalantly demonstrated his honed coconut cracking skills.

"First you create a base," Pepe thwacked off the bottom of the coco in a couple fell swoops of machete.

"And then you remove the top like you'd sharpen a pencil," I reiterated. Like the good (but tremendously forgetful) student I am.

Pepe can crack open a coconut in two minutes. Flat. Or sharp. Or however else you'd like to put it.

I know this because I timed him. Because I'm competitive and need to have something tangible against which to win. 

Two minutes... hmmm.... I've got chaturanga arms. Girl can pencil shave a coconut in a minute and a half. Goal for self. 

It took me approximately eleven days to pencil shave that coconut (and all the pieces were about the size of pencil shavings. Girl follows directions). It took me eleven days and seven liters of sweat.

Pepe laughed.

Liz laughed.

The Mexican maestro building another room for Casa Kei laughed.

I sweated and grunted and cursed the coco under my breath.

"Pinchos coco..."

"I'm losing so many Mexican points right now," I mournfully gazed up from my machete at the chortling Pepe.

"It's okay," Pepe encouraged me. "You'll get it."

Pepe also thinks that I'll learn to love swimming in the ocean. I think Pepe is full of optimism and chicatana sauce (that Mexican hot sauce made of ground up bloated ant butt).

6) You discover you've become addicted to tlayuda. And then you discover that your favorite tlayuda place delivers. FOR FREE. You realize that you can spend the evening swimming (or swading. Swading = going just deep enough for the waves to lift you off the sand momentarily and then set you back down before the next wave arrives. I am very fond of swading) in the ocean as the sun sets, then walk five minutes back to your treehouse, spend an epoch washing the sand from your body, order a tlayuda and swing in the hammock under the palm trees as you wait for your dinner to arrive.

As you sway back and forth in the hammock, you find yourself wondering whether or not you've chanced upon the meaning of life.

7) You stop expecting anything to be done at any certain time. Or anyone to arrive at any certain time. You also stop expecting anyone to have anything at any certain time. The tamale lady does not always have tamales (sadly). Sometimes she takes the day off. The shop up the street does not always have yogurt and the shop down the street does not always have avocados (which I'm still struggling to accept. This is Mexico, for the love of chicatanas. There should always be avocados. "Them saying they don't have avocados is like me saying Colorado has just run out of mountains. "Sorry, no mountains for you. Put your skis and mountain bike away and run along home." *sigh* No avocados. It just doesn't make sense.").

8) The internet. You stop expecting anything from the internet. Sometimes it works, sometimes it takes the day off (like the tamale lady). If you get your heart set on a Skype date or on uploading photos or watching that hilarious youtube video, be aware that you've just set your heart in a very precarious position and are bound to be sorely disappointed.

9) You realize that when your skin prickles and itches, it does not mean you're nervous or scared or imagining things. It means there is most definitely something crawling on you -- be it an ant, a spider, a mosquito or a scorpion.  And if you overreact and fling the thing across the checkered kitchen table, you're merely creating attractive real estate for another creepy-crawly. Just be thankful it's not a chigger.

10) The colectivo becomes your normal mode of transportation. And you grow accustomed to locals riding on the outside, holding on to the metal railings for support as the truck bounces and jostles its way to Puerto Escondido.

A few more pictures from my paradise.

Liz is making great progress. 

I want to steal both of these kitties.  

For all bad, mezcal. For all good, mezcal. If you're not cured, a liter and a half. 

This is where I live when Pepe is in the shack. The cat pounces on the tent at night and attacks my feet. This has finally become a normal part of my nightly routine and I no longer jump in a startled panic. 

This is where I live when Pepe has a treehouse room to himself (cos it's not occupied by a guest). I appreciate the bed, but I miss the pouncing cats.  

This is where Pepe lives when the treehouse isn't completely booked

We have fun at Casa Kei. Fun times all the time. 

This is what I do to all of Pepe's guests. 

Or, as many of them who allow it. 

Pepe leaves for Oaxaca tomorrow. So girl's getting ready to put her treehouse management pants on. In preparation, Pepe and I flagged down a taxi for a coffee run to Puerto Escondido. As Casa Kei provides stellar coffee, I needed to know where to purchase the ground coffee, should the treehouse run out in Pepe's absence.

The coffee grinder looks like Thomas the train. 

 It's Sunday morning. I've been at Pepe's for a week now.

And I'm still feeling just as good about being here as I did the first day. I love it so much that I sometimes panic that Pepe will get tired of me being around and ask me to mosey on. He assures me that this won't be the case, but I can't help but worry.

"If the coffee machine disappears, I'll take it as a not so subtle hint from you that I've overstayed my welcome," I joke.

"I'm lucky too, Aimee," Pepe reassures me. "I'm happy to have you here."