Hot chocolate, coffee, bread and tamales appear to be the breakfasts of choice.
"Chocolate! Chocolate con leche! Tamales!" a street vendor with his wares displayed on his bike shouted to me as I crossed the square towards this bench in the sun.
Of all the cuisines I've experienced, I'd say that this breakfast has the most drastically different components. Hot chocolate AND tamales? I mean, the French have hot chocolate for breakfast and there are all sorts of savory goodies throughout the UK.... but this combination has even me looking bit askance. And I'm the kind of lady who enjoys blood sausage for breakfast.
Hammers pound as vendors set up their stalls for the day. Traditional garments dangle from hooks, smoke and steam waft from carts, dogs (always the dogs) sprawl in corners and resign themselves to another hot day.
It's past nine and the city is still rubbing its eyes and yawning.
In the states, I was taught that the early bird catches the worm. But in Mexico, the worm is still sleeping and underground (or in the empty bottle of yesterday's mezcal) before ten. If the bird wants to eat any kind of worm, he will a) have to fight off a bunch of Mexicans who think worms are delicious and b) wait until after ten.
My last few days in La Punta passed slowly... but not as slowly as the week before.
Orange Cat left Wednesday the eleventh and I pretty much stayed in bed until Sunday the fifteenth (minus the quick excursions down to the beach for a sunset). During that time, my only company was Nick's raspy voice (with astonishingly good projection and the ability to effortlessly penetrate all Diamente's walls), an occasional sighting of Ella and Brendon, conversations with Boy (via Skype, of course) and a Bukowski book.
It was a slow week. I tried to fill all that downtime productively, but being bedridden in a stiflingly hot room day after day didn't do much to motivate me.
I tried to remove my stitches on Saturday, but unhappily discovered that the blade on my one pair of scissors had broken half off.
Well, that's fun. Guess I'm going into town tomorrow. As I'm certainly not asking any favors of Nick.
I needed more antiseptic and had no idea how to communicate that in Spanish... so I just brought my old bottle with me to utilize that beautifully useful method of pointing/nodding.
Other items on the list were:
- Plantains
- Scissors
I knew where to get plantains and felt fairly confident in my ability to distinguish between a plantain and a papaya. And I figured that scissors would be simple enough. I'd either see them hiding behind the glass next to the nail clippers and belligerently point at them until they ended up in my hands. Or I would clumsily say, "necesito... umm... " and then I would just make cutting motions with my peace fingers (that's what we call those guys in yoga).
The plan was flawless. I felt invincible (besides the fact that I still struggling to walk). Nothing could go wrong.
Except that there were no scissors behind the counter at the first five pharmacies I visited (pharmacies in normal sized mexican cities are as prolific as ATMs/change are scarce). Not a single pair.
Okay. Shucks. Engaging plan B.
"Necesito... ummm..."
"Esto?" the woman behind the counter handed me a pair of eyebrow decimators. I caterpillar scowled my formidable eyebrows at her (which is becoming a surprisingly effortless maneuver) and thought, what are you insinuating, you well-groomed petite Mexican, you?
"No. NO necesito... umm..."
Because it had worked so well in San Jose, I just lifted my right pant leg (my right leg is getting so much action these days) and casually displayed my stitches. Then I made a snipping motion across the spider stitches and hopelessly said, "scissors?"
The girl held up the tweezers again.
WHY IS THIS SO DIFFICULT?
After about an hour of searching, I boarded a colectivo and rode the potholed road back to La Punta, scissors, antiseptic and plantain in my daybag.
Win.
I fortified myself with some avocado and mango and then prepared to remove Agnes from my leg.
How do I sterilize the scissors? Well... what we always did for splinters when I was a kid was put the needle in a match flame. So... I'll use my cigarette lighter to sterilize the scissors... and what's the least sandy part of my room? Umm... everything is sandy and gross. Well... I suppose I could just sit on the toilet.
So I removed Agnes on Sunday afternoon. With the help of cosmetic scissors, a cigarette lighter and the toilet. Like the classy lady I am.
It was not fun. There was puss. And blood. And cursing when scissors were applied to wound before they'd cooled completely.
I went to Sam's apartment for a sleepover on Tuesday.
"You're like a real grownup!' I exclaimed upon seeing her kitchen. "You have a place for your spices!"
Sam is also a real grownup in that she has grownup problems. Like rent (that's slightly more expensive than three dollars a day), tidying up a whole apartment (all two rooms of it) and rats.
"I have to get a cat," she told me whilst sipping coffee at a bookstore near her apartment.
"Pepe would probably give you Wipe Out. He was always half-joking about getting rid of those guys."
"But I wouldn't want to separate them..."
"Well... umm... what are your other options?"
"I'd need to get a kitten, " Sam sighed. "An adult cat would just run off."
"But would it be big enough to catch rats?" I looked at her skeptically over my cappuccino foam.
When I went to Sam's for a girl-time/dream-sesson/cheap gin sleepover, I met her kitty.
He was slightly larger than a mouse. And meows incessantly. And tries to sleep on my feet. And timidly tip-toes on the far side of the room if there's an intimidating looking bug waving its bug legs in the air.
I don't mean to throw this kitty under the bus, but if there was a battle between kitty and rat, my money might be on the latter.
We walked five minutes down the road to watch the sunset. As my departure continued to creep closer and closer, I became more and more adamant about never missing a sunset.
I stayed up late (for an old man), drank two gin and tonics (respectable) and water color painted dreams with Sam. She stayed up until two in the morning and drank more than two gin and tonics.
'Cos Sam is hardcore in areas wherein I most certainly am not.
We woke up early the next morning for a swim and a sunrise.
The emphasis I've come to place on enjoying sunrises and sunsets is one of my favorite things that's come out of my stay in Puerto Escondido.
This is a place where people feel their surroundings. Any town or city with a huge outdoors community is going to be in touch with weather, nature, seasons... but especially when it's an ocean community. I mean, mountains are unpredictable... but I think the ocean takes the cake for being one of the most violent, unpredictable forces in nature. People here wait for the waves. Their life is synchronized with the tide.
I walked to Zicatela the next morning.
I walked back.
My leg whined a little, but the exuberance I felt to be walking again (sans limp) overpowered the whine.
I've been feeling so guilty about my foul mood... like, Girl, you're on the beach in Mexico. You're eating delicious food all the time, you have no commitments, loads of space to just relax and read and write... so enough with the negativity and no more sending Nick death lasers through the walls.
But I think I've forgotten how much I love walking. And how healing movement is for me. And no matter how good the book is, spending four days bedridden, alone in a sweltering room is, um, NOT a good time.
My legs are back.
Finally.
My last sunset in La Punta was one to remember.
After the sunset, Shea, Brendon, Ella and I caught a taxi to Sam's grownup apartment in Puerto Escondido.
I made bananas foster.
It was received rather well.
We drank rum with pineapple juice and had ourselves a dinner of dessert, popcorn and crisps.
Like the classy vagabonds we are.
We took a moment to appreciate the community we'd been able to create in such a short period of time.
I left Friday.
Shea leaves Sunday.
Brendon and Ella will leave in a few weeks.
Sam stays a few months.
I'll meet Sam in Bend, Oregon this fall.
I'll meet Brendon and Ella in Bristol, England next spring (surprise, Boy!).
I'll probably meet Shea in Morocco, or something. Riding a motorcycle with two surfboards tied to the back and white splotches all over his face from his unique method of applying sunscreen.
My bus for Oaxaca left every hour on the half hour, so I packed Ellie, Skyped Boy, and was on the curb, waiting for the bus at 9:15. I felt super proud of myself and oh-so-efficient. I'd planned on taking the bus to Pochutla and then boarding a bus for Oaxaca City from there -- but Shea had told me of a cheaper bus that took just about six hours and avoided the inconvenient transfer at Pochutla. So I decided to save the extra fifty pesos for a tlayuda and go with Shea's suggestion.
Win! I thought as I found my seat. There was only one other person on the bus, I had a fabulous window seat, the legroom was ample and the ventilation was good.
This is going to be so much easier than the bus to San Jose. Goodness, I'm SO glad I listened to Shea.
The first two hours were easy and went by quickly. The turns weren't quite as sharp and the road had a significantly less dense speed bump population.
And then we stopped. Suddenly.
I pressed my face against the glass to see what I could see.
Why are there people with machetes standing in the middle of the road? And what's with all the stern looking men carrying sticks?
There was a police truck on the lefthand side of the road, behind a blockade of decrepit wooden horses and fat stumps.
I like machetes better when they're used against coconuts. Not when they're used to keep vehicles from crossing the road.
I sat in the bus, doing my best to not panic and loathing the fact that I had no peanuts. The bus driver parked the bus and left me and the two other passengers in the bus on the side of the road. About 20 meters from the men with the machetes.
What is going on???
I considered my options.
Well... I could either get out of the bus and try to figure out what's going on.. but... machetes. And I don't feel comfortable leaving my bags here. Option number two... I could stay awake and panic. But I already have a headache from mixing rum and wine during last night's community festivities, and panic doesn't go well with preexisting headache. So. Option number three... I could take a nap. To ward off the panic.
So the goddess of naps sprawled out on the middle seat of the mostly empty bus and did what she does best. Until someone hissed at her (that's what they do to wake you up in Mexico, I suppose) nearly two hours later.
The woman in the seat in front of me motioned that I grab my bags and get out of the bus. Still in nap daze, I struggled into Ellie and clutched my daybag to my chest.
We walked past the blockade.
I'm sure this is some kind of political protest and that I don't need to worry... but Jesus, walking through a crowd of people wielding machetes and sticks is not something I want to do every day.
When we set our bags down, the bus driver was nowhere to be seen.
"Donde?" I said stupidly to the woman who'd hissed me out of my panic nap.
She shrugged her shoulders.
I looked around at the town.
What if I have to spend the night here? I'm sure the blockade will be finished... at some point. However, this place looks like a grand total of zero tourists stay here. So I wonder if there are even hostels or guesthouses available. I have a sheet, but no sleeping bag... I don't speak Spanish, but I'm good at looking pathetic (apparently).
The young man who'd been sitting in the seat in front of me went off to find our bus driver.
Did he just abandon us here so he could take the bus home and not have to deal with cranky passengers?
Disclaimer: I'm not proud of these thoughts. I've finally gotten myself to a place wherein I don't panic outwardly. But that doesn't mean freak-out sessions have been completely eliminated in my brain. Peanut butter helps. As do naps.
And at least my panicking stopped short of, "JESUS, I'M GOING TO DIE HERE ALONE IN THE MOUNTAINS AND I STILL HAVEN'T BEEN TO GREECE!"
Which hasn't always been the case.
The young man returned and motioned us to follow him back up the street. Our bus driver had met with another driver who had a bus on the other side of the roadblock. They had reached the brilliant conclusion to just switch their passengers and carry on.
As the roadblock had been in place for nearly two and a half hours at this point, traffic had really begun to line up. We walked for ages, huffing and puffing past trucks, vans, colectivos, luxury buses, bicycle taxis. Some had blankets draped over the windows to help with the heat. Some were picnicking by the tires of their grounded vehicle. All seemed annoyed but not surprised. Residents were taking full advantage of the roadblock by going up and down the line of parked cars, selling local specialties like sliced fruit in a bag and fried crickets.
The sun beat down harshly and sweat dripped down my back. And chest. And forehead. And anywhere else sweat can drip.
This is, eh, NOT how I expected the bus ride to go. Let's see now... I was on a bus that broke down in Ireland. A bus that got into an accident near the borders of Bulgaria and Macedonia... and now in a bus that was stopped by a roadblock in the mountains of Mexico.
I think I have better luck hitchhiking.
We finally boarded the minibus on the other side. Thanks to my time in Istanbul, I have become absolutely heartless -- downright savage, in fact -- when it comes to public transportation. I handed over Ellie for proper storage and then immediately lunged for a window seat.
Several other annoyed (but not surprised) Mexicans were picked up on our way past the line of traffic. Each seat was filled and children were sitting on top of laps.
The ventilation was not good.
The child on the lap of the grandmother to my right vomited. Loudly. Several times.
The man sitting next to me (who had a machete. But it was probably just for coconuts) kept squeezing his water bottle between his knees with an eardrum shattering "POP" with every turn the bus made.
The young man in front kept trying out ringtones on his phone. Loudly. Several times.
What HAPPENED?
By the time we got down the mountain, I was a total disaster (but I kept disaster on the inside, so I was a serene disaster). When we stopped at a gas station to fuel up and have our baño break, I bought myself a bag of salted peanuts. And ate them all. Immediately.
The rest of the trip was blissfully uneventful. I found my hostel right away and sent Boy a Skype message telling him I was alive and mostly well.
And today has been spent walking.
Simply walking.
I might spend tomorrow simply walking, too.
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| I WILL BE THIS LADY |
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| See? no worms before ten. Nada. |
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