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PUERTO ESCONDIDO |
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It was a dry Friday afternoon when
I finally stepped off the tired bus into the scorching heat.
To nothing. This place I had heard mentioned many times in
the enthused rambles of fellow travellers had little to show
for itself at this first perspective. I began to doubt the tales
heard in previous days, its preceding reputation not yet in view. But my hopes were renewed by little more than the length of a single street. A dusty track led the way to a very different world. Suddenly Puerto became what I had expected; a bustling horde of beach culture, beers and backpackers, mingled absent-mindedly with the local populace. The sand-covered steps leading down to the main drag were covered in goods of all descriptions. There were painted rocks and plates, carved and polished pendants, jewellery of all sizes and appearance, all colours clashing vividly, fighting for your attention. This area is one where locals congregate in order to expose themselves, and their wares, to all passing through. There was so much noise and shouts, and so many people with the expectant look of a closed sale on their faces. One turn led into the main street which currently lay dormant. A short walk and a hotel was found and a room procured. A small, cool room with a welcome balcony overlooking the street below and the surrounding bay. Now so close to the beach I could hear the waves slapping exuberantly against the browbeaten sand. I sat a while and watched the sleepy town, absorbing the scene, strangely aware of how empty the street below was under the burning Mexican sun. I walked to the beach, and observed the swimmers and paddlers. A multitude of boats line the waters edge, reminding that this is a thriving local community of fishermen, not just a tourists delight. The boats all coloured in a single vibrant hue, their paint aged and fading, and lining up with the others began to merge into one glorious scene; an expression of individuality so many times repeated it inevitably becomes part of the national psyche. No complicated mooring procedure used here, just a loud shout and the boat sprints from the sea to the shore, gliding unkindly up the sand to a position of rest. Children run from the rogue attacks of the boats, and then quickly return enjoying the spectacle and noise of the bizarre docking. I sat at a table underneath a straw umbrella, and silently congratulated myself on being here. Ordered food in my broken speech, faintly embarrassed by my inability with language. My undisciplined lack of Spanish rung loudly in the following silence. I acutely observed the beach, an ever moving frontier under the harsh control of the tide and its lunar master. The limit of my knowledge represents a similar beach, constantly being updated by the changing tides of travel and experience. I was joined by three American girls and stories were openly shared. The sun fell slowly as we sipped cold beer, the light becoming softer as the night awoke. Troubadours played quietly, and persistently, in the background, a constant reminder of where I was. The picked nylon strings rang sweetly on the still air. The girls knew one such gentleman, who was invited to sit in our company. In a loosely inebriated state I asked our singing friend for a loan of his instrument. His face contorted and became stern, and he muttered to me in Spanish an old Mexican saying, "A man must never touch another man's girl, his pistol, or his guitar." When this was conveniently translated by my new friends I felt embarrassment at asking, not having realised the perceived importance. Suddenly his face changed and he laughed openly, handing the guitar to me. The saying was real, the sentiments behind it not. So I had my chance to play, and did. This making of music became the only common expression we shared. The darkness of the night hid many things, including ignorance. Sometimes not to understand can be to romanticise, and being bounded by language can bring hidden treasures. The lack of available conversation led us to a perceived understanding deeper than any chasm crossed by mutual learning. The cloudless sky became sable as the sea continued its relentless attack on the edges of the land. I sat in silence, with only the persistent waves to remind me of the frailty of preconceptions. The once busy beach now deserted, and the once empty street now full to bursting. The lazy day conserved the energy of the town for a vast night of festivities. In the 'Wipe Out' Bar, aptly named for its compliment of surfers and very cheap beers, the revels began. The drinks flowed freely and the stories of exploits became exaggerated to suit the given mood. Crossing borders inside familiar things, perhaps the easiest way to face a given frontier. |