Mexico Revisited (Lazily)

From Copán Ruinas, we crossed the border from Honduras to Guatemala and then, two days later, from Guatemala into Mexico.

We spent a gleeful first night in Mexico in Puerto Arista camped in a mango/coconut/mariñon farm one block from the ocean.  After the long day's drive and the border crossing, we both agreed that our ocean swim and our cold shower were the best of their categories that we'd ever had.  

The next day, we had a forced one-night stop in Huatulco, a sort of America Disneyland/Mexican resort with a stunning coastline but not much else.  Still, we remained happy to be back in Mexico, and back at the beach.

Snorkle

Then we made our way for the Oaxaca coastline.  We were marveling at the amazing roads, and at how much more like the U.S. Mexico felt, in many ways, than like Central America, when a horrible racket sounded.  It crossed my mind that we were being shot at, or that aliens had landed on the van.  Turned out it was just a blowout - a gnarly one.

We sprang into action.  Chuck started changing the tire  -- unfortunately forced to use a spare that itself appeared unexpectedly worse for wear -- while I dragged some thorny bushes into the road as a warning to other drivers.  A guy walked up and offered to help.  A couple on on a motorcycle stopped and offered to help.  And eventually, we managed to gimp to the pinchazo (a.k.a. volcanizador), which is essentially a guy on the side of the highway who has a few tools and may (or may not) be able to fix your tire.  Our tire, of course, was well beyond repair (as was the turn signal it shattered), so the guy sold us a tiny, used tire on which we crept gingerly toward our destination: Zipolite Beach.

Oaxaca's beaches are ridiculous.  Every one we saw won the "most beautiful so far" prize.  Zipolite, where we stayed for a couple of days, was a sort of paradise of aging nudist U.S./Canadian hippies, Mexican vacationers, and European/U.S. backpackers camping in the sand.  The first night, we mistakenly went to a book-recommended RV park -- whose owners, as we discovered just before leaving, raise fighting roosters -- before realizing everyone really just camps on the beach.  The second day we switched locations and enjoyed the hammock.  All day. 

Since Zipolite and Mazunte, we've covered a lot of ground along the coastline.  A lot of ground covered, of course, means a lot of police and military checkpoints.  This time around, we discovered our secret weapon to bypassing the annoying inspections: Lena.  That's right, our vicious, "muy brava" guard dog. Here's how it works: The police/military dude says he wants to search the car, and just as he opens the back door, he sees Lena.  Chuck is pretending to hold her back (you know, to keep her from mauling the guy), and the cop invariably asks if she's "brava." I always say "just a little bit."  This, with only one exception (impressive considering the number of stops - three within our first hour back in Mexico, for example) has been enough to keep the cop/military guy from proceeding.  Usually the guy will joke around with his colleagues about the dog, and his colleagues will make fun of his fear goodnaturedly, and we'll be waved on our way.  Good dog!

Yesterday (I think), we got stuck in a two hour traffic jam/protest.  Nothing too unusual: We rolled up onto a bunch of cars stopped in the right hand lane (i.e. the lane in which we were traveling).  We stopped behind the last car, thinking perhaps it'd be a short stop.  Twenty minutes later, we craned our necks to see what the problem was (impossible considering the length of the line).  Occasionally, some bus driver tried to travel forward using the empty opposing lane.  This, unfortunately, rarely works, and they kept getting turned back.  As did I when I tried this move after waiting patiently (impatiently) for an hour or so.

In general, people are cooperative in these situations.  Vendors weave between the cars offering water, soda, popsicles, sandwiches, and churros, so no one gets too grumpy.  If someone makes the ill-fated attempt to cut to the front, others help him (ok, me) get back into place.  People get out of their cars and socialize.  At some point, Chuck or I might walk to the front of the line to see women sitting in the road protesting while knitting (or simply refusing passage), considerately shaded by tarps fastened low across the highway -- so low that cars can't pass.  And after some period of time, things always move again.

Or at least we hope that's how it'll continue to go.  

We're currently in our last day of a rather tourist-destination-heavy stretch of trip, trying to make good time and also enjoy our last days on the Pacific coast. 

Next up, perhaps: A Day In The Life or, alternatively, Something By Chuck About Fishing.