Life's a Beach
After disembarking from the La Paz to Mazatlan boat, we waited for a couple of hours at the ferry terminal exit, with Pascal, for one of the trucks to give us a lift to our next destination,Las Varras, a small town, about ten hours South of Mazatlan, where we would stay for the night, before heading to the lovely Chacala beach nearby.
We waited and waited and waited....... in vain. Some of the truckers wanted to give us a lift but had no room in their cabs and others simply waved 'hello' or 'goodbye'.
Eventually, a Mexican trucker gave the three of us a lift to a place he said would be easier to hitch a ride from. He took us to a Pemex gas station, an hour or so from Mazatlan. We thanked him and walked along the dusty highway to a place along the road, where we were more visible to the oncoming traffic.
The thing about hitchhiking, is you never know when someone's gonna come along and pick you up, so you wait and wait and wait some more and just when you think you're out of luck, some kind stranger pulls over and invites you into their world for a while and gives you a lift to boot. That day though, we realized that hitchiking in mainland Mexico was to be a different story from hitchiking in Baja. After hours and hours, standing by the roadside, with our handmade destination signs in our hands and our dusty little thumbs pointed to the sky, watching truck after truck zoom by, we decided to walk back into town and take the bus as far as we could that day.
The bus travel in mainland Mexico is cheap compared to Baja. The Mexican people rely on the buses as their main mode of transport and so the services are pretty reliable and comfortable. We managed to get a bus to Tepic and then on to Las Varras. Mexican buses can get very full, so finding a seat with your companion is sometimes impossible and we would occasionally find ourselves sitting next to strangers on our many bus rides through Mexico. A polite 'buenos dias' (Hello in Spanish) would usually break the ice and give way to pleasant and interesting conversation, except on the one occasion, when I sat next to some drunk guy who insisted on trying to give me warm beer and blowing kisses at me the whole seven hours of the bus ride!
On the bus journey to Las Varras, I again found myself seated next to a stranger. As Metso, Pascal and I, boarded the overcrowded bus, a young Mexican man, named Arturo stood up and offered me the seat next to him. He apologized in English to Metso and said that he would only give up the seat next to him, to me, so Metso politely smiled and sat behind us, whilst Arturo proceeded to talk to me at bionic speed, about his life and what was bringing him back to the town of Las Varras after ten long years. At first, the thought of enduring Arturo's whirlwind conversational skills for the whole five hour journey, filled me with dread and within the first twenty minutes of
our conversation, he had asked me three times if Metso was my boyfriend, three times I had replied 'Yes' and three times he had given me a very sad puppy dog look and said that he would like to be my boyfriend if I changed my mind about Metso!
As time rolled by with the wheels of the bus though, Arturo, I realized was a very intense and lovely kid. He told me all about his life in Fresco, U.S.A. where he had moved with his brothers over ten years before. He worked as a chef, as did Arturo's two brothers, one of whom had managed to buy his own restaurant. That was Arturo's dream also, to one day have his own restaurant. He told me he could cook all kinds of cuisine, Mexican (of course) Italian, Japanese. He also has a little girl whom he loves with all his heart and he told me heart warming stories of his efforts to teach her culinary skills from when she was four years old.
In the ten years that Arturo had been living and working in Fresco, he had not been back to Las Varras, his home town and had not seen his mother. He would have been about thirteen when he left Mexico and now he was a young, handsome father, on his way home to his mother's arms.
As we came closer to Las Varras, Arturo became more and more excited and I was moved and grateful that he had invited me to sit beside him to share this special journey. He had no idea if anyone would be waiting for him at the bus terminal and his mobile phone had just died, so he had no contact numbers for his friends or family but as the bus rolled into the dark and docile town of Las Varras, Arturo saw the face of his mother through the dark, reflective glass of the window. He smiled at me nervously and said 'mi madre' (my mother). As I looked out at the tiny figure of Arturo's mother, standing all alone at the bus station, in her traditional Mexican shawl,
her grey hair swept up into a neat chignon, my heart began to race at the thought of this wonderful reunion and I wondered what it would be like to experience such a meeting, after ten long years with the one who brought me into this world.
As we stood and waited for the driver of the bus, to unload our bags, we watched as Arturo and his mother embraced each other and cried. Love for these two strangers rose from somewhere inside and it was a mighty good feeling to see their reunion, we witnessed something very beautiful that night at the bus terminal in Las Varras.
Arturo and his mother invited the three of us to go and stay with them but we gratefully declined their very kind offer. Arturo's mother wrote down her address so we could go visit her if we wanted and we bid farewell to our new friends and found a room in a little hotel, to share for the night. We were all exhausted but managed to find a cute little taco stand for supper, before hitting the sack in our ramshackle little room.
Pascal left us in the early hours of the morning, to continue with his journey. He left behind a sweet note inviting us to stay with him anytime in Montreal and bidding us a safe journey.
Later that day, we bought some cake from a little street stall, to take to Arturo's mother. It took us a while to find her house, as it was off the beaten track and most of the locals seemed so amused to see us wandering around the area that they forgot to be helpful. We came across a group of pretty Mexican school girls in their uniforms, standing on a corner and amidst their good natured giggles and questions about my tattoos and England, we managed to find the house we were looking for.
We knocked on the door and peered through the open windows of the large house but their was no sign of anyone home. We were about to give up, when the lady who lives across the street from Arturo's mother, came out of her house and insisted that there was someone home. She called out and sure enough, Arturo's mother came running to the door. We were happy to see her and she was happy to see us. No English was spoken but we presented our hostess with the cake and gathered from her excited banter that although Arturo had left for the beach already with his friends, we would be more than welcome to stay and eat with her and her husband.
The house was very big by usual Mexican standards and was very well kept and homely. Many pictures of Jesus and Mary stared down from the walls at us and Arturo's mother was very interested in our religion, I didn't have the heart to tell her that we were about the furthest thing from Christians that she was ever likely to meet and after one more hug and a warm goodbye, we headed off back into town where we took a communal taxi to the beautiful beach town of Chacala.
The journey from Las Varras to Chacala, takes about 30 mins by road. The idea is, to squeeze as many bodies as possible into the little van and off we go, bumping along through the pretty hills and palm trees in the afternoon sun with a great big smile on our faces because life is mighty good right now.....
We spent the next few days and nights in absolute bliss and harmony in Chacala. The beach is a long white expanse of sand, surrounded with jungle on one side.
There are a few big bar/restaurants where you can eat the most gorgeous fresh fish and prawns and the ocean is absolutely clear and beautiful.
This was our first time camping in mainland Mexico, so we stayed at the campground on the beach, where we met some lovely folk, such as Lymon, a sweet American guy, a real old timer with a long white beard and a community spirit. We pitched our tent between Lymon's semi permanent residence and a cool little brown camper van, which we later discovered, belonged to a friendly young couple from Canada, Richard and Omana.
Richard and Omana, are teachers, they had made a couple of records of educational songs for children, about history and culture and they were very generous with their tea, well we were neighbors after all. We hit it off immediately and shortly after pitching our tent, not long after arriving at Chacala, Omana and I took our guitars on to the beach and enjoyed a nice chilled out day.
At one point we were surprised to see a young Mexican man running towards us with a huge smile on his face, shouting and waving. As he bounded closer and closer, kicking up sand, droplets of sea water jumping from his skin, I realized that it was Arturo! After virtually crashing into the sand where we were sitting and giving me a bear hug, Arturo introduced himself to Omana.
I told Arturo that Metso and I had been to visit his mother that morning, he was so touched and it was evident that he was very glad to be home if only for a brief spell. He was with some of his old buddies and they wanted to take him out on the town so he was having a last splash in the sea for the day. He asked Omana if she had a boyfriend and told her he was looking for a girl for the week if she was interested. I wondered if the stunned look of disbelief on my Canadian girlfriend's face was in any way similar to mine the night before, when I had first met Arturo on the bus to Las Varras and he had asked me over and over if i would not reconsider my love for Metso and choose him instead (just for a week)..... I assured Omana that Arturo meant no harm and as he wrote down his phone number for Metso and I to call him if we were ever in Fresco, water dripping everywhere, wearing nothing but his black, skinny little speedos, I thought, what a sweet kid. Good luck to you Arturo, wherever you are, hope you find your girl some day!
We had a lot of fun at Chacala, playing music and watching the sunset, we spent most evenings with Richard and Omana and a young Mexican belly dancer named Fleur, with dark intense eyes . A camp fire, guitar, a few beers and the laughter of new friends, fellow travelers with your true love by your side is pretty much one of the best times there is.
As the biggest National Mexican holiday of Esta Semana (similar to Easter holiday) approached, the camp site started to fill up almost over night. We awoke one morning to the familiar sound of a mexican truck close by and realized in a sleepy daze, that we were in our tent, in a camp site so how come...... we jumped up, afraid that the truck would simply drive over the tent with us inside but luckily, the driver had stopped just short of us and was now roping off the area around us to mark out the ground, where he and his family would camp and enjoy the holidays.
Our new neighbor wasn't the only one claiming his ground either, a whole convoy of Mexican families had travelled over night to get to Chacala by morning and they were all busy surveying the campsite for the best spot and once they found it, they were going to keep it!
It was quite something to see the transformation of the sleepy laid back Chacala of the day before into the bustling mayhem of a Mexican beach town preparing for Esta Semana. A sight that had once been alien to us and became very familiar over the next couple of weeks.
The trucker who had parked so close behind us, asked us if we would move and we decided to go and camp on the beach that night, it would be our last night at Chacala. We had a few beers with Richard, Omana and Fleur and a couple of young sweet stoner kids who worked at some hotel nearby, we sang a few songs and then bid farewell to each other. As we passed the overcrowded campsite, on our way to our little tent on the beach, the stray dogs, happily chasing their tails and feasting on the remains of food left by the new campers, no one bothered us and we had a good sleep, closer to the ocean and out by ourselves.
The next morning, we packed up our things in the morning sun and said goodbye to Chacala. We caught the communal taxi back to Las Varras and caught a bus from there to Puerto Vallarta.
Our friend Rojo (see Playa de Oro chapter) had told us to try and visit his favourite place in Mexico, Yelapa. To get there you must take a bus to Puerto Vallarta,a huge tourist resort (not our cup of tea at all) and another bus from there to a lovely little bay and fishing community called Boca Tomatlan. From Boca, we were supposed to take a half hour boat journey over to Yelapa. However, we missed the last boat. All was not doomed though, as Ramone, the very kind owner of the beach front restaurant, where we had eaten dinner, had got chatting with us and invited us to pitch our tent in his restaurant for the night. We gratefully accepted his offer and the next day, woke up nice and early and caught the first boat over to Yelapa.
The boat taxis are a thrilling experience and the other passengers were very helpful in getting us off the boat in one piece with our back packs and other bits and pieces.
The driver of the boat and his assistants managed to fit a very healthy number aboard and amused us no end with their method of shuffling everyone around like pawns, in order to balance the boat as well as possible for the bumpy trip around the corner to Yelapa.
We arrived at around 9.00am and had breakfast at Dominic's, a typical palapa restaurant. We enjoyed fresh squeezed orange juice, the most delicious huevos rancheros (Mexican egg breakfast dish) and Lorenzo, a very sweet American guy who worked as a waiter and had been staying in Yelapa for half the year for many years. He told us that Bob Dylan used to have a place in Yelapa and it was fun hearing Lorenzo weave in and out of his various facts and information about Yelapa.
Rojo had told us to seek out his very good friend, Freddy, once we got to Yelapa, he said he'd take care of us. Lorenzo pointed Freddy out to us and we asked if we could camp in his place. Freddy is native Yelapan and his mom owns the local night club. He lives on the beach with his wife Olivia and their beautiful little girl. He has a palapa hut on the beach with hammocks, a couple of beds and plenty of space for a couple of tents. We pitched the tent inside the palapa shelter and adopted a very good guard dog who watched over us every night as we slept. Our un-appointed guardian would come and lie down next to our tent, shortly after we would go to bed. We would hear him stagger to his feet to chase off various people who wandered a little close to our tent. Barking like a mad dog and growling a ferocious warning to anyone around to hear him, our brave dog soldier would saunter back to position and take up his post once more until morning, when he would vanish. We only saw him once or twice and we thanked him sincerely for his kind attention. He was a no nonsense kind of dog and simply bowed his head in acknowledgment and that was that.
We fell in love with Yelapa. Our days were spent swimming, playing the guitar and walking into town to dine in the evenings. We were told about the local restaurant, Pollo Bollo by Jose, one of the guys who worked on the beach, selling stuff. He said we should check it out. It was brilliant! We waited for about half an hour for a table. The restaurant was jam packed full of Mexican families and couples, enjoying the lovely outdoor candlelit atmosphere and probably the tastiest chicken in Yelapa!
The tiny little town of Yelapa sprawls and meanders in every direction with steep walks to a waterfall and lovely little cantinas tucked in every corner. In the evenings, the town becomes a sleepy, lamplight beauty. There is a large tree at the town's entrance, where the chickens perch and sleep. Jose told us that each chicken returns every evening to the same branch of the tree and we watched with smiles, as they rustled and bustled into their night positions, much like a group of old ladies, proud and wise at the end of a long day.
The horses which are rented out to take people to the waterfall, rest on their heels and others carry their owners through the little streets of Yelapa. There are no cars and only the main street is covered with cobble stones.
Unfortunately, crack cocaine had hit Yelapa some time ago, making some of the local kids crazy and causing a whole lot of trouble, so the Mexican police force were ever present, mainly on the beach where I guess they'd had a few problems with drug dealing in the past. We didn't see any ugly stuff going on but our friends told us that crack had got a pretty good grip on Yelapa. It would be a big shame to see such a cool place ripped apart by crack, hope they snub it out.
Every day, boat taxis ferry crowds of tourists from Puerto Vallarta to Yelapa for about four hours, to drink cocktails and lie on the sun beds provided by the bigger restaurants along the beach. In these hours, Yelapa would become a different creature, bristling with the brilliance and sheen of the tourist collective. We usually headed into town or chilled out in our palapa huts when they descended upon us.
At night, the beach was altogether different. Almost hushed, except for the few people who lived on and around the beach and a handful of travelers. Only a couple of bars would stay open at night. One bar had flame torches outside and allowed people to build a camp fire outside. It was very dark at night, so the flames were comforting and warm, though we hit the sack early most nights, preferring to wake with the sun.
One day, a cool German guy with long blond hair and viking characteristics, called Nico, turned up with his wife and her sister, who were from Mexico City and their lovely little girl. Nico has a club in Berlin called Sage. They were a sweet family and when we finally packed up our tent and decided to continue with our journey, they moved their tent into our spot.
We made our way back to Puerto Vallarta, where we embarked on the 8 hour bus journey to Tenacatita. The bus dropped us off at the highway turn off for Tenacatita. In the middle of nowhere and we wondered if we would be able to walk the 10 km to the beach. Luckily, the closer you are to a beach in Mexico, the more likely your chances are of getting a lift in one direction or another.
We hitched to Melaque on the back of a pick up truck with a pleasant group of young Mexican boys on vacation. A breezy, bumpy hour later, we arrived in Tenacatita. Esta Semana (the Mexican Easter holiday) had brought many Mexican families to the huge beach and raucous, Mexican Mariachi pop music blared, full blast from the multitude of bars and restaurants that lined the beach. When finally resigned to pitching our tent in a tight, noisy spot between a cluster of other tents, the weather had become considerably cooler and we spent a restless night, regretting that we had left Yelapa so soon. The music took on a rave vibe at around 3.00 am and continued to disturb us until morning. Pumping relentlessly, an organic throb that managed to pervade all dreams and nibble away at our will to live : )
We left Tenacatita at the earliest opportunity and took a long bus journey to Maruata, a very beautiful beach with wonderful coves and rock formations. The other beaches had been packed with Mexican famillies but at Maruata, it seemed as though a whole town full of Mexican teenagers had telepathically decided that they would spend their Easter vacation at Maruata.
We pitched our tent beneath a large palapa shelter, amidst row upon row of tents, occupied by cool young Mexican kids. Maruata, we were told, is usually a desolate and tranquil place but at that time, it felt very much like the campground of a pop festival. A lot of joints, some acid and ecstacy and the kids were in full swing. Night fell and we stood by the fire of a drum circle. The Mexican guys played their djambes and people sang and joined in. The music was hypnotic and tribal. There was a fire dancer and we enjoyed the relaxed vibe of Maruata, save for the Mexican policemen that we would sometimes spot, lurking in the corners or questioning some unlucky Mexican teen reveler about the joint in his hand.
That night, the music raved on as we tossed and turned it and seemed to penetrate every thread of our being. We pleaded to the god of partying for some sweet relent, some moment of peace . Our prayers went unanswered and I felt the unmistakable onset of a nasty flu and by the next afternoon, I felt really bad. We spent the next day sat on the beach in the blazing sun, chatting with some sweet kids from Guadalajara.
We all watched in amusement, as some Mexican rasta kid danced to loud reggae and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion. As the afternoon blistered on, his two female companions tried in vain to lift him out of the ocean as he fell every which way, sometimes dragging them down with him. They finally managed to drag him back to his tent and we all laughed and waved at each other, it wasn't too long after that, I crawled into our tent and fell into a feverish sleep. That night, even the hyper tension bombastic beats of acid rave seemed far away, although not far enough!
We left Tenacatita the next afternoon, it took a long time to pack everything due to my feeling like a zombie. I don't remember too much about the journey to Caleta de Campos, except for the absolute relief, after our long, long walk through the town, to the main beach and along the beach to a desolate little bay that whispered promises of a restful sleep. Something that we needed badly after our week caught in the speaker cab of the Mexican party holiday that is Esta Semana!
It had been a long hot walk from the bus stop at the edge of town, down to the beach and on to the private cove which we were desperate to camp at. By the time we arrived, I was feeling very very weak due to my flu and we sat down on a rock to rest. We noticed a large group of Mexican people at the other end of the beach, they had been cooking some food on a fire and one of the ladies in the group came over to greet us.
She politely informed us that we couldn't stay on the beach as it was owned by their friend and was private. This news was a blow to us, after all our efforts to find some peace for a few days and we tried to explain that we would be no trouble and leave no evidence of our stay but that we would really appreciate them letting us camp here in their peaceful refuge. She said that we wouldn't be allowed to stay but kindly offered to refill our bottle of water which was much appreciated by us , as the afternoon sun was now shimmering with a fierce heat.
I was so tired and down hearted and as we sat, not feeling capable of enduring yet another night of Esta Semana party volume pumping through our tent, which was inevitable on the main, crowded beach, I began to weep.
We knew that there were no private beaches in Mexico and this was the first time anyone had denied us camping in Mexico but we were in no mood to argue and I was very fatigued but just didn't feel like I could move from the spot any time soon.
The Mexican lady came back with our refilled water bottle and was visibly moved by the obvious distress we were in. We thanked her sincerely for the refill and promised that we would be on our way soon as we felt we could get our packs on again and walk to the main beach. She smiled and went back to her group, who looked as though hey were getting ready to leave. She brought us over some of their left over food, tacos and various culinary treats that bucked up our spirits no end.
She also said that she had spoken with her friend who owned the house at the top of the beach and he had said that we may camp on the beach but no one else was to be allowed to camp there and that we must leave no litter.
We were so happy! We thanked the group profusely and they left shortly after in their vans. The nights and days that followed were like a gift from the gods! Bliss, peace and harmony, on one of the loveliest little beaches on the planet!
We would make the long walk into town, every day, to shop for food to cook on the fire in the evening. We would drink from coconuts at coconut stand on our way up the hill into the lovely little town. There was a market and a decent grocery and vegetable shop, a butcher that sold the freshest and most tasty meat and numerous cafes where you could drink licquados (fresh juice and milk blended ice cold drinks). I managed to buy various medicines for my flu, I had acquired a nasty cough with the bug which would start at around 10.00pm and continue throughout the night.
Metso cooked the most delicious fish dinner one evening, it was a feast! Baked potatoes with Oaxaca cheese, guacamole, refried beans and fresh fish to die for, all cooked to perfection on our beach fire. The only thing to remember whilst eating around the campfire at night is, use your torch at all times (actually try to cook and eat dinner before it starts to get dark!) and don't leave your dinner plate on the floor, someone is bound to step in to it, like I stepped into Metso's dinner! Luckily, it was his second dish but a drag just the same!
Our time on the beautiful little beach of Caleta de Campos was very special and in the week that we spent there, we were never disturbed and enjoyed immensely, the very personal, seemingly private views of the sun rising and setting over the ocean.
One afternoon, a Mexican couple and their two children visited our little beach. They seemed to be enjoying their vacation, splashing around in the sea and sunbathing.
We hadn't ventured into the sea, as so often in Mexico, the waves were pretty strong and on this particular beach, the rocky coves surrounding the water, were rough little whirlpools, we were happy to watch the ocean rather than test it.
However, we watched as the children jumped happily in the white foam spray of the sea and all seemed good....until we saw the little girl screaming and trying to get out of the water. She was about 12 years old and her brother , who was bobbling around a few yards from her and closer to the rocks than she was, must have been about 10 years old. It was obvious that the little boy was caught in some kind of current and we watched with concern as their father dived from the sand and into the ocean to save his little boy.
Their daughter was screaming and crying but had made it out of the ocean alright. She was hysterical with worry and we were worried that their may be another child in the ocean, other than her brother but that wasn't the case. I tried to calm her and held her in my arms for a while but her worry overcame her and as we watched her father unsuccessfully try to reach his son, still caught in the current and looking scared and tired but thankfully still afloat, his poor sister ran screaming to the next beach.
Metso and I could see that, although strong, the man in the sea, trying to save his son was not a good swimmer and was unable to break through the very tempestuous current. Metso could watch no more. He ran into the ocean and swam to where the little boy was, now dangerously panicking and tired and calmly and surely brought him away from the rocks and onto the shore. Our hero!
We all watched with relief as Metso swam to shore with the little boy, who was visibly shocked. We gave him water and as his sister came running back from the other beach, he was obviously very aware of how close he had been to danger. After a while of recovery and reflection, the family, looking a lot more sombre and not at all, the jovial family, who had first come that morning, gathered themselves together and slowly walked away from the beach.
The little boy's father came to thank Metso for helping his son but he was still obviously suffering from shock and could only manage a couple of words. I kissed Metso and thanked him for being so cool. Afterwards, I reflected on the situation and wondered what would have happened, had the group who had been on the beach when we first arrived, not allowed us to camp there. Maybe their act of kindness to two strangers, saved that little boy's life. Maybe not, I guess we'll never know but I sure was glad that Metso and I were there that day, at that beach and that all was well.
We celebrated Metso's triumph over the ocean with kebabs cooked on our little fire and warm beer.
The next day, We said goodbye to our lovely little beach at Caleta de Campos and walked up the steep steps carved into the rock , which lead back onto the road where we caught a bus to Lazaro Cardenas. Another bus journey and about six hours later, we arrived at the industrial outskirts of the cool little beach town of Zihuatanejo.
We waited and waited and waited....... in vain. Some of the truckers wanted to give us a lift but had no room in their cabs and others simply waved 'hello' or 'goodbye'.
Eventually, a Mexican trucker gave the three of us a lift to a place he said would be easier to hitch a ride from. He took us to a Pemex gas station, an hour or so from Mazatlan. We thanked him and walked along the dusty highway to a place along the road, where we were more visible to the oncoming traffic.
The thing about hitchhiking, is you never know when someone's gonna come along and pick you up, so you wait and wait and wait some more and just when you think you're out of luck, some kind stranger pulls over and invites you into their world for a while and gives you a lift to boot. That day though, we realized that hitchiking in mainland Mexico was to be a different story from hitchiking in Baja. After hours and hours, standing by the roadside, with our handmade destination signs in our hands and our dusty little thumbs pointed to the sky, watching truck after truck zoom by, we decided to walk back into town and take the bus as far as we could that day.
The bus travel in mainland Mexico is cheap compared to Baja. The Mexican people rely on the buses as their main mode of transport and so the services are pretty reliable and comfortable. We managed to get a bus to Tepic and then on to Las Varras. Mexican buses can get very full, so finding a seat with your companion is sometimes impossible and we would occasionally find ourselves sitting next to strangers on our many bus rides through Mexico. A polite 'buenos dias' (Hello in Spanish) would usually break the ice and give way to pleasant and interesting conversation, except on the one occasion, when I sat next to some drunk guy who insisted on trying to give me warm beer and blowing kisses at me the whole seven hours of the bus ride!
On the bus journey to Las Varras, I again found myself seated next to a stranger. As Metso, Pascal and I, boarded the overcrowded bus, a young Mexican man, named Arturo stood up and offered me the seat next to him. He apologized in English to Metso and said that he would only give up the seat next to him, to me, so Metso politely smiled and sat behind us, whilst Arturo proceeded to talk to me at bionic speed, about his life and what was bringing him back to the town of Las Varras after ten long years. At first, the thought of enduring Arturo's whirlwind conversational skills for the whole five hour journey, filled me with dread and within the first twenty minutes of
our conversation, he had asked me three times if Metso was my boyfriend, three times I had replied 'Yes' and three times he had given me a very sad puppy dog look and said that he would like to be my boyfriend if I changed my mind about Metso!
As time rolled by with the wheels of the bus though, Arturo, I realized was a very intense and lovely kid. He told me all about his life in Fresco, U.S.A. where he had moved with his brothers over ten years before. He worked as a chef, as did Arturo's two brothers, one of whom had managed to buy his own restaurant. That was Arturo's dream also, to one day have his own restaurant. He told me he could cook all kinds of cuisine, Mexican (of course) Italian, Japanese. He also has a little girl whom he loves with all his heart and he told me heart warming stories of his efforts to teach her culinary skills from when she was four years old.
In the ten years that Arturo had been living and working in Fresco, he had not been back to Las Varras, his home town and had not seen his mother. He would have been about thirteen when he left Mexico and now he was a young, handsome father, on his way home to his mother's arms.
As we came closer to Las Varras, Arturo became more and more excited and I was moved and grateful that he had invited me to sit beside him to share this special journey. He had no idea if anyone would be waiting for him at the bus terminal and his mobile phone had just died, so he had no contact numbers for his friends or family but as the bus rolled into the dark and docile town of Las Varras, Arturo saw the face of his mother through the dark, reflective glass of the window. He smiled at me nervously and said 'mi madre' (my mother). As I looked out at the tiny figure of Arturo's mother, standing all alone at the bus station, in her traditional Mexican shawl,
her grey hair swept up into a neat chignon, my heart began to race at the thought of this wonderful reunion and I wondered what it would be like to experience such a meeting, after ten long years with the one who brought me into this world.
As we stood and waited for the driver of the bus, to unload our bags, we watched as Arturo and his mother embraced each other and cried. Love for these two strangers rose from somewhere inside and it was a mighty good feeling to see their reunion, we witnessed something very beautiful that night at the bus terminal in Las Varras.
Arturo and his mother invited the three of us to go and stay with them but we gratefully declined their very kind offer. Arturo's mother wrote down her address so we could go visit her if we wanted and we bid farewell to our new friends and found a room in a little hotel, to share for the night. We were all exhausted but managed to find a cute little taco stand for supper, before hitting the sack in our ramshackle little room.
Pascal left us in the early hours of the morning, to continue with his journey. He left behind a sweet note inviting us to stay with him anytime in Montreal and bidding us a safe journey.
Later that day, we bought some cake from a little street stall, to take to Arturo's mother. It took us a while to find her house, as it was off the beaten track and most of the locals seemed so amused to see us wandering around the area that they forgot to be helpful. We came across a group of pretty Mexican school girls in their uniforms, standing on a corner and amidst their good natured giggles and questions about my tattoos and England, we managed to find the house we were looking for.
We knocked on the door and peered through the open windows of the large house but their was no sign of anyone home. We were about to give up, when the lady who lives across the street from Arturo's mother, came out of her house and insisted that there was someone home. She called out and sure enough, Arturo's mother came running to the door. We were happy to see her and she was happy to see us. No English was spoken but we presented our hostess with the cake and gathered from her excited banter that although Arturo had left for the beach already with his friends, we would be more than welcome to stay and eat with her and her husband.
The house was very big by usual Mexican standards and was very well kept and homely. Many pictures of Jesus and Mary stared down from the walls at us and Arturo's mother was very interested in our religion, I didn't have the heart to tell her that we were about the furthest thing from Christians that she was ever likely to meet and after one more hug and a warm goodbye, we headed off back into town where we took a communal taxi to the beautiful beach town of Chacala.
The journey from Las Varras to Chacala, takes about 30 mins by road. The idea is, to squeeze as many bodies as possible into the little van and off we go, bumping along through the pretty hills and palm trees in the afternoon sun with a great big smile on our faces because life is mighty good right now.....
We spent the next few days and nights in absolute bliss and harmony in Chacala. The beach is a long white expanse of sand, surrounded with jungle on one side.
There are a few big bar/restaurants where you can eat the most gorgeous fresh fish and prawns and the ocean is absolutely clear and beautiful.
This was our first time camping in mainland Mexico, so we stayed at the campground on the beach, where we met some lovely folk, such as Lymon, a sweet American guy, a real old timer with a long white beard and a community spirit. We pitched our tent between Lymon's semi permanent residence and a cool little brown camper van, which we later discovered, belonged to a friendly young couple from Canada, Richard and Omana.
Richard and Omana, are teachers, they had made a couple of records of educational songs for children, about history and culture and they were very generous with their tea, well we were neighbors after all. We hit it off immediately and shortly after pitching our tent, not long after arriving at Chacala, Omana and I took our guitars on to the beach and enjoyed a nice chilled out day.
At one point we were surprised to see a young Mexican man running towards us with a huge smile on his face, shouting and waving. As he bounded closer and closer, kicking up sand, droplets of sea water jumping from his skin, I realized that it was Arturo! After virtually crashing into the sand where we were sitting and giving me a bear hug, Arturo introduced himself to Omana.
I told Arturo that Metso and I had been to visit his mother that morning, he was so touched and it was evident that he was very glad to be home if only for a brief spell. He was with some of his old buddies and they wanted to take him out on the town so he was having a last splash in the sea for the day. He asked Omana if she had a boyfriend and told her he was looking for a girl for the week if she was interested. I wondered if the stunned look of disbelief on my Canadian girlfriend's face was in any way similar to mine the night before, when I had first met Arturo on the bus to Las Varras and he had asked me over and over if i would not reconsider my love for Metso and choose him instead (just for a week)..... I assured Omana that Arturo meant no harm and as he wrote down his phone number for Metso and I to call him if we were ever in Fresco, water dripping everywhere, wearing nothing but his black, skinny little speedos, I thought, what a sweet kid. Good luck to you Arturo, wherever you are, hope you find your girl some day!
We had a lot of fun at Chacala, playing music and watching the sunset, we spent most evenings with Richard and Omana and a young Mexican belly dancer named Fleur, with dark intense eyes . A camp fire, guitar, a few beers and the laughter of new friends, fellow travelers with your true love by your side is pretty much one of the best times there is.
As the biggest National Mexican holiday of Esta Semana (similar to Easter holiday) approached, the camp site started to fill up almost over night. We awoke one morning to the familiar sound of a mexican truck close by and realized in a sleepy daze, that we were in our tent, in a camp site so how come...... we jumped up, afraid that the truck would simply drive over the tent with us inside but luckily, the driver had stopped just short of us and was now roping off the area around us to mark out the ground, where he and his family would camp and enjoy the holidays.
Our new neighbor wasn't the only one claiming his ground either, a whole convoy of Mexican families had travelled over night to get to Chacala by morning and they were all busy surveying the campsite for the best spot and once they found it, they were going to keep it!
It was quite something to see the transformation of the sleepy laid back Chacala of the day before into the bustling mayhem of a Mexican beach town preparing for Esta Semana. A sight that had once been alien to us and became very familiar over the next couple of weeks.
The trucker who had parked so close behind us, asked us if we would move and we decided to go and camp on the beach that night, it would be our last night at Chacala. We had a few beers with Richard, Omana and Fleur and a couple of young sweet stoner kids who worked at some hotel nearby, we sang a few songs and then bid farewell to each other. As we passed the overcrowded campsite, on our way to our little tent on the beach, the stray dogs, happily chasing their tails and feasting on the remains of food left by the new campers, no one bothered us and we had a good sleep, closer to the ocean and out by ourselves.
The next morning, we packed up our things in the morning sun and said goodbye to Chacala. We caught the communal taxi back to Las Varras and caught a bus from there to Puerto Vallarta.
Our friend Rojo (see Playa de Oro chapter) had told us to try and visit his favourite place in Mexico, Yelapa. To get there you must take a bus to Puerto Vallarta,a huge tourist resort (not our cup of tea at all) and another bus from there to a lovely little bay and fishing community called Boca Tomatlan. From Boca, we were supposed to take a half hour boat journey over to Yelapa. However, we missed the last boat. All was not doomed though, as Ramone, the very kind owner of the beach front restaurant, where we had eaten dinner, had got chatting with us and invited us to pitch our tent in his restaurant for the night. We gratefully accepted his offer and the next day, woke up nice and early and caught the first boat over to Yelapa.
The boat taxis are a thrilling experience and the other passengers were very helpful in getting us off the boat in one piece with our back packs and other bits and pieces.
The driver of the boat and his assistants managed to fit a very healthy number aboard and amused us no end with their method of shuffling everyone around like pawns, in order to balance the boat as well as possible for the bumpy trip around the corner to Yelapa.
We arrived at around 9.00am and had breakfast at Dominic's, a typical palapa restaurant. We enjoyed fresh squeezed orange juice, the most delicious huevos rancheros (Mexican egg breakfast dish) and Lorenzo, a very sweet American guy who worked as a waiter and had been staying in Yelapa for half the year for many years. He told us that Bob Dylan used to have a place in Yelapa and it was fun hearing Lorenzo weave in and out of his various facts and information about Yelapa.
Rojo had told us to seek out his very good friend, Freddy, once we got to Yelapa, he said he'd take care of us. Lorenzo pointed Freddy out to us and we asked if we could camp in his place. Freddy is native Yelapan and his mom owns the local night club. He lives on the beach with his wife Olivia and their beautiful little girl. He has a palapa hut on the beach with hammocks, a couple of beds and plenty of space for a couple of tents. We pitched the tent inside the palapa shelter and adopted a very good guard dog who watched over us every night as we slept. Our un-appointed guardian would come and lie down next to our tent, shortly after we would go to bed. We would hear him stagger to his feet to chase off various people who wandered a little close to our tent. Barking like a mad dog and growling a ferocious warning to anyone around to hear him, our brave dog soldier would saunter back to position and take up his post once more until morning, when he would vanish. We only saw him once or twice and we thanked him sincerely for his kind attention. He was a no nonsense kind of dog and simply bowed his head in acknowledgment and that was that.
We fell in love with Yelapa. Our days were spent swimming, playing the guitar and walking into town to dine in the evenings. We were told about the local restaurant, Pollo Bollo by Jose, one of the guys who worked on the beach, selling stuff. He said we should check it out. It was brilliant! We waited for about half an hour for a table. The restaurant was jam packed full of Mexican families and couples, enjoying the lovely outdoor candlelit atmosphere and probably the tastiest chicken in Yelapa!
The tiny little town of Yelapa sprawls and meanders in every direction with steep walks to a waterfall and lovely little cantinas tucked in every corner. In the evenings, the town becomes a sleepy, lamplight beauty. There is a large tree at the town's entrance, where the chickens perch and sleep. Jose told us that each chicken returns every evening to the same branch of the tree and we watched with smiles, as they rustled and bustled into their night positions, much like a group of old ladies, proud and wise at the end of a long day.
The horses which are rented out to take people to the waterfall, rest on their heels and others carry their owners through the little streets of Yelapa. There are no cars and only the main street is covered with cobble stones.
Unfortunately, crack cocaine had hit Yelapa some time ago, making some of the local kids crazy and causing a whole lot of trouble, so the Mexican police force were ever present, mainly on the beach where I guess they'd had a few problems with drug dealing in the past. We didn't see any ugly stuff going on but our friends told us that crack had got a pretty good grip on Yelapa. It would be a big shame to see such a cool place ripped apart by crack, hope they snub it out.
Every day, boat taxis ferry crowds of tourists from Puerto Vallarta to Yelapa for about four hours, to drink cocktails and lie on the sun beds provided by the bigger restaurants along the beach. In these hours, Yelapa would become a different creature, bristling with the brilliance and sheen of the tourist collective. We usually headed into town or chilled out in our palapa huts when they descended upon us.
At night, the beach was altogether different. Almost hushed, except for the few people who lived on and around the beach and a handful of travelers. Only a couple of bars would stay open at night. One bar had flame torches outside and allowed people to build a camp fire outside. It was very dark at night, so the flames were comforting and warm, though we hit the sack early most nights, preferring to wake with the sun.
One day, a cool German guy with long blond hair and viking characteristics, called Nico, turned up with his wife and her sister, who were from Mexico City and their lovely little girl. Nico has a club in Berlin called Sage. They were a sweet family and when we finally packed up our tent and decided to continue with our journey, they moved their tent into our spot.
We made our way back to Puerto Vallarta, where we embarked on the 8 hour bus journey to Tenacatita. The bus dropped us off at the highway turn off for Tenacatita. In the middle of nowhere and we wondered if we would be able to walk the 10 km to the beach. Luckily, the closer you are to a beach in Mexico, the more likely your chances are of getting a lift in one direction or another.
We hitched to Melaque on the back of a pick up truck with a pleasant group of young Mexican boys on vacation. A breezy, bumpy hour later, we arrived in Tenacatita. Esta Semana (the Mexican Easter holiday) had brought many Mexican families to the huge beach and raucous, Mexican Mariachi pop music blared, full blast from the multitude of bars and restaurants that lined the beach. When finally resigned to pitching our tent in a tight, noisy spot between a cluster of other tents, the weather had become considerably cooler and we spent a restless night, regretting that we had left Yelapa so soon. The music took on a rave vibe at around 3.00 am and continued to disturb us until morning. Pumping relentlessly, an organic throb that managed to pervade all dreams and nibble away at our will to live : )
We left Tenacatita at the earliest opportunity and took a long bus journey to Maruata, a very beautiful beach with wonderful coves and rock formations. The other beaches had been packed with Mexican famillies but at Maruata, it seemed as though a whole town full of Mexican teenagers had telepathically decided that they would spend their Easter vacation at Maruata.
We pitched our tent beneath a large palapa shelter, amidst row upon row of tents, occupied by cool young Mexican kids. Maruata, we were told, is usually a desolate and tranquil place but at that time, it felt very much like the campground of a pop festival. A lot of joints, some acid and ecstacy and the kids were in full swing. Night fell and we stood by the fire of a drum circle. The Mexican guys played their djambes and people sang and joined in. The music was hypnotic and tribal. There was a fire dancer and we enjoyed the relaxed vibe of Maruata, save for the Mexican policemen that we would sometimes spot, lurking in the corners or questioning some unlucky Mexican teen reveler about the joint in his hand.
That night, the music raved on as we tossed and turned it and seemed to penetrate every thread of our being. We pleaded to the god of partying for some sweet relent, some moment of peace . Our prayers went unanswered and I felt the unmistakable onset of a nasty flu and by the next afternoon, I felt really bad. We spent the next day sat on the beach in the blazing sun, chatting with some sweet kids from Guadalajara.
We all watched in amusement, as some Mexican rasta kid danced to loud reggae and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion. As the afternoon blistered on, his two female companions tried in vain to lift him out of the ocean as he fell every which way, sometimes dragging them down with him. They finally managed to drag him back to his tent and we all laughed and waved at each other, it wasn't too long after that, I crawled into our tent and fell into a feverish sleep. That night, even the hyper tension bombastic beats of acid rave seemed far away, although not far enough!
We left Tenacatita the next afternoon, it took a long time to pack everything due to my feeling like a zombie. I don't remember too much about the journey to Caleta de Campos, except for the absolute relief, after our long, long walk through the town, to the main beach and along the beach to a desolate little bay that whispered promises of a restful sleep. Something that we needed badly after our week caught in the speaker cab of the Mexican party holiday that is Esta Semana!
It had been a long hot walk from the bus stop at the edge of town, down to the beach and on to the private cove which we were desperate to camp at. By the time we arrived, I was feeling very very weak due to my flu and we sat down on a rock to rest. We noticed a large group of Mexican people at the other end of the beach, they had been cooking some food on a fire and one of the ladies in the group came over to greet us.
She politely informed us that we couldn't stay on the beach as it was owned by their friend and was private. This news was a blow to us, after all our efforts to find some peace for a few days and we tried to explain that we would be no trouble and leave no evidence of our stay but that we would really appreciate them letting us camp here in their peaceful refuge. She said that we wouldn't be allowed to stay but kindly offered to refill our bottle of water which was much appreciated by us , as the afternoon sun was now shimmering with a fierce heat.
I was so tired and down hearted and as we sat, not feeling capable of enduring yet another night of Esta Semana party volume pumping through our tent, which was inevitable on the main, crowded beach, I began to weep.
We knew that there were no private beaches in Mexico and this was the first time anyone had denied us camping in Mexico but we were in no mood to argue and I was very fatigued but just didn't feel like I could move from the spot any time soon.
The Mexican lady came back with our refilled water bottle and was visibly moved by the obvious distress we were in. We thanked her sincerely for the refill and promised that we would be on our way soon as we felt we could get our packs on again and walk to the main beach. She smiled and went back to her group, who looked as though hey were getting ready to leave. She brought us over some of their left over food, tacos and various culinary treats that bucked up our spirits no end.
She also said that she had spoken with her friend who owned the house at the top of the beach and he had said that we may camp on the beach but no one else was to be allowed to camp there and that we must leave no litter.
We were so happy! We thanked the group profusely and they left shortly after in their vans. The nights and days that followed were like a gift from the gods! Bliss, peace and harmony, on one of the loveliest little beaches on the planet!
We would make the long walk into town, every day, to shop for food to cook on the fire in the evening. We would drink from coconuts at coconut stand on our way up the hill into the lovely little town. There was a market and a decent grocery and vegetable shop, a butcher that sold the freshest and most tasty meat and numerous cafes where you could drink licquados (fresh juice and milk blended ice cold drinks). I managed to buy various medicines for my flu, I had acquired a nasty cough with the bug which would start at around 10.00pm and continue throughout the night.
Metso cooked the most delicious fish dinner one evening, it was a feast! Baked potatoes with Oaxaca cheese, guacamole, refried beans and fresh fish to die for, all cooked to perfection on our beach fire. The only thing to remember whilst eating around the campfire at night is, use your torch at all times (actually try to cook and eat dinner before it starts to get dark!) and don't leave your dinner plate on the floor, someone is bound to step in to it, like I stepped into Metso's dinner! Luckily, it was his second dish but a drag just the same!
Our time on the beautiful little beach of Caleta de Campos was very special and in the week that we spent there, we were never disturbed and enjoyed immensely, the very personal, seemingly private views of the sun rising and setting over the ocean.
One afternoon, a Mexican couple and their two children visited our little beach. They seemed to be enjoying their vacation, splashing around in the sea and sunbathing.
We hadn't ventured into the sea, as so often in Mexico, the waves were pretty strong and on this particular beach, the rocky coves surrounding the water, were rough little whirlpools, we were happy to watch the ocean rather than test it.
However, we watched as the children jumped happily in the white foam spray of the sea and all seemed good....until we saw the little girl screaming and trying to get out of the water. She was about 12 years old and her brother , who was bobbling around a few yards from her and closer to the rocks than she was, must have been about 10 years old. It was obvious that the little boy was caught in some kind of current and we watched with concern as their father dived from the sand and into the ocean to save his little boy.
Their daughter was screaming and crying but had made it out of the ocean alright. She was hysterical with worry and we were worried that their may be another child in the ocean, other than her brother but that wasn't the case. I tried to calm her and held her in my arms for a while but her worry overcame her and as we watched her father unsuccessfully try to reach his son, still caught in the current and looking scared and tired but thankfully still afloat, his poor sister ran screaming to the next beach.
Metso and I could see that, although strong, the man in the sea, trying to save his son was not a good swimmer and was unable to break through the very tempestuous current. Metso could watch no more. He ran into the ocean and swam to where the little boy was, now dangerously panicking and tired and calmly and surely brought him away from the rocks and onto the shore. Our hero!
We all watched with relief as Metso swam to shore with the little boy, who was visibly shocked. We gave him water and as his sister came running back from the other beach, he was obviously very aware of how close he had been to danger. After a while of recovery and reflection, the family, looking a lot more sombre and not at all, the jovial family, who had first come that morning, gathered themselves together and slowly walked away from the beach.
The little boy's father came to thank Metso for helping his son but he was still obviously suffering from shock and could only manage a couple of words. I kissed Metso and thanked him for being so cool. Afterwards, I reflected on the situation and wondered what would have happened, had the group who had been on the beach when we first arrived, not allowed us to camp there. Maybe their act of kindness to two strangers, saved that little boy's life. Maybe not, I guess we'll never know but I sure was glad that Metso and I were there that day, at that beach and that all was well.
We celebrated Metso's triumph over the ocean with kebabs cooked on our little fire and warm beer.
The next day, We said goodbye to our lovely little beach at Caleta de Campos and walked up the steep steps carved into the rock , which lead back onto the road where we caught a bus to Lazaro Cardenas. Another bus journey and about six hours later, we arrived at the industrial outskirts of the cool little beach town of Zihuatanejo.
