We are currently in Guatemala, and I am eager to share more picture stories! But first, a more wordy recap of our eventful time on the Oaxaca coast.
Journal Entry 4 - Zipolite, San Agustanillo, & Mazunte
It was noon before we left Pachutla. We had errands to run and we didn't have far to go so we allowed ourselves to sleep in. We would suffer for this luxury; the coastal heat and humidity was brutal, and the hills were not over yet. A fellow cycle tourist and friend of ours was staying one more night in Zipolite, so that was our destination for the day, a mere 9 or so miles. As I said, it was brutal, so I won't go into the description of the ride.
Each of the small Oaxacan beaches is separated by sea cliffs and therefore a hill or two (which may go unnoticed in a vehicle, but not so on foot or pedal). We first arrived to the coast at Puerto Angel, a little port town that I was too over-heated to appreciate. I mostly remember the pretty view from the dern hill right in the middle of town. I wanted to just get to our destination and cool off. Next up, Zipolite.
Each of the small Oaxacan beaches is separated by sea cliffs and therefore a hill or two (which may go unnoticed in a vehicle, but not so on foot or pedal). We first arrived to the coast at Puerto Angel, a little port town that I was too over-heated to appreciate. I mostly remember the pretty view from the dern hill right in the middle of town. I wanted to just get to our destination and cool off. Next up, Zipolite.
Zipolite was the largest of the beaches that we visited. It is long and mostly straight, with a strong surf that breaks farther out than the others. I imagine it could be good for surfing, and we did see a few partaking in the sport. But the waves are large and rough, and to swim beyond the breaks you have to go rather far out where the current is strong and dangerous. There is a system of green, yellow, and red flags to indicate the safety of the water... the flags are all red in Zipolite. Perhaps due to the dangerous surf and therefore lack of family visitors with children, it has become more of an adult beach, aka nude beach. Men, couples, and the occasional solo woman stroll the length of the beach and lie basking in the sun, without a tan line to speak of. The majority are of retirement age and very at home in their bodies. It is comforting to know that as youth diminishes, so can one's cares about such matters. This known nude haven may be the only one of it's size in Mexico, but I didn't notice a single Mexican enjoying that freedom. There were however many Mexican tourists visiting who seemed un-phased by the several shades of gringo on display.
On the east end of the beach, you can follow a stairway over a little hill and discover a tiny cove with a tiny beach surrounded by cliffs. This is the real nude hangout. The swimming area, though small, is more gentle and fun (if you stay clear of the rocks). The surf comes swooshing in around the western cliff and pushes you with it if you are game to take a ride, beaches you for a moment and just as quickly pulls you back out again. It is a game of tug-of-war and you are the rope. The first time we swam there, a few small sea birds came in presumably to feed on insects flying over the water. These gulls would fly against the wind just over the water and therefore would hover motionless, sometimes just inches from my face. A very surreal experience.
On the east end of the beach, you can follow a stairway over a little hill and discover a tiny cove with a tiny beach surrounded by cliffs. This is the real nude hangout. The swimming area, though small, is more gentle and fun (if you stay clear of the rocks). The surf comes swooshing in around the western cliff and pushes you with it if you are game to take a ride, beaches you for a moment and just as quickly pulls you back out again. It is a game of tug-of-war and you are the rope. The first time we swam there, a few small sea birds came in presumably to feed on insects flying over the water. These gulls would fly against the wind just over the water and therefore would hover motionless, sometimes just inches from my face. A very surreal experience.
We met with our friend and stayed a couple of nights at the hostel he was camped at on the west side of town, where the main strip of shops and restaurants ends and the road turns into a sandy lane. The hostel was run by a wacky French lady with mostly French occupants. It was pretty dumpy but kind of quirky, at least until the late night French conversations and chain smoking started. You see, there was just one outdoor common area for everyone, and if you were camping, you camped there. We were able to sling our hammocks for 50 pesos each per night, but our spot was only the toss of a feather from the kitchen table, the home of late night social hour. Luckily, it is an early rising culture here and "late night" usually still ends by midnight. On our last night there, we actually spent a few hours sleeping in another hotel's hammocks on the beach. We were checked on by security once, but presumably because we were white and backpack-less, he let us be.
Zipolite was nice but we were eager to move on, especially since we weren't jiving with the hostel. Next up, San Agustinillo, two hills distance to the west. We had heard good reports about this beach from some people in Oaxaca and I had high hopes. I could immediately see that it was, as a town, more quiet, clean and polished, with fewer largish hotels but also fewer run-down joints. The beach itself appeared to be a smaller version of Zipolite, though it is hard to say since we did not end up spending much time there. San Agustinillo spit us out almost as soon as we arrived.
When we rolled into town, we first met a couple on the street, an American man and Mexican woman about our age and interested in what we were doing on these heavy bikes. They were a lovely couple that were soon to be comforting friends to us. After chatting a bit, we inquired about a place to camp, especially a place that would be interested in trading some of my painting work for a free night. You see, I had painted a sign on salvaged wood for the French hostel's toilet (instructing users not to throw paper into it) in hopes of making the trade there. However we never saw the lady after the first day, and now I was carrying around this sign. I figured it would be a good example of my work so that we could maybe make such a trade at a future beach location. The couple recommended a few places, but seemed to think the next town, Mazunte, would be more receptive to such an idea. They told us of a great pizzeria in Mazunte where we would likely find them later, and we said our goodbyes.
We tried my idea on one spot without much interest, and then Lewis became reluctant to keep trying. This put us sort of at odds with each other. While we were standing around silently frowning, a retired gringo couple stopped to chat with us a bit and also suggested Mazunte. Apparently, San Agustinillo wasn't the "sort" of place for our lot (campers, dirty travelers, artists trying to trade work for living). So we moved on, one more hill and very short ride to Mazunte. We took the first beach access road in town and the first restaurant with camping on the beach accepted the trade deal. Unfortunately that night would cost us more than a few hours of painting. Cue the suspenseful music.
Zipolite was nice but we were eager to move on, especially since we weren't jiving with the hostel. Next up, San Agustinillo, two hills distance to the west. We had heard good reports about this beach from some people in Oaxaca and I had high hopes. I could immediately see that it was, as a town, more quiet, clean and polished, with fewer largish hotels but also fewer run-down joints. The beach itself appeared to be a smaller version of Zipolite, though it is hard to say since we did not end up spending much time there. San Agustinillo spit us out almost as soon as we arrived.
When we rolled into town, we first met a couple on the street, an American man and Mexican woman about our age and interested in what we were doing on these heavy bikes. They were a lovely couple that were soon to be comforting friends to us. After chatting a bit, we inquired about a place to camp, especially a place that would be interested in trading some of my painting work for a free night. You see, I had painted a sign on salvaged wood for the French hostel's toilet (instructing users not to throw paper into it) in hopes of making the trade there. However we never saw the lady after the first day, and now I was carrying around this sign. I figured it would be a good example of my work so that we could maybe make such a trade at a future beach location. The couple recommended a few places, but seemed to think the next town, Mazunte, would be more receptive to such an idea. They told us of a great pizzeria in Mazunte where we would likely find them later, and we said our goodbyes.
We tried my idea on one spot without much interest, and then Lewis became reluctant to keep trying. This put us sort of at odds with each other. While we were standing around silently frowning, a retired gringo couple stopped to chat with us a bit and also suggested Mazunte. Apparently, San Agustinillo wasn't the "sort" of place for our lot (campers, dirty travelers, artists trying to trade work for living). So we moved on, one more hill and very short ride to Mazunte. We took the first beach access road in town and the first restaurant with camping on the beach accepted the trade deal. Unfortunately that night would cost us more than a few hours of painting. Cue the suspenseful music.
Alas, one of our travel nightmares came true: we were robbed in the night. Ugh. It happened as we were sleeping peacefully in our hammocks to the sound of the waves, a sound I now realize can cover any noise prying hands might make that would normally wake us. A touristic beach, with it's loud surf, footstep-muffling sand, and experienced thieves is no place to be loose with your belongings, not even a little. But we were lazy, spoiled by over 9 months of travel in Mexico with not one negative incident, not even when wild camping in the "dangerous" parts. We forgot that our good camping experiences were really due to the fact that they were mostly in the countryside and away from tourist zones, where we are not noticed, even if there were someone around who would think to target us. We did take some measures to secure our things which is why I think the hit wasn't as bad as it might have been (they didn't run off with entire bags, they had to go through them in the dark). Also there was supposedly a night guard on duty. But we learned during the rest of our stay on the coast that the guards are pretty worthless, being that they are usually asleep or drunk or both. Hell, our guard on this night might have even been the one who did the job. He certainly wasn't making a livable wage, especially if he had a family to support. We are reminded that there are still bad (or desperate) people in the world, they just generally cluster in places we don't frequent, at least not without four walls around us in the night.
So we awoke with dreamy bliss to a beautiful sunrise we could see from our pillows, and then to the realization that the chair that held our bags of valuables, which we had roped together and placed between our hammocks and almost touching our heads, was no longer there but was 20 feet behind us and tipped over, bags still attached but contents scattered. Denial. "Fucking dogs," Lewis mumbled. But we knew. Laptop, gone. My beloved camera. Gone. A crappy smartphone, a portable speaker, some random but necessary cables. our only avocado. Well, something to laugh about!
We then noticed that our bikes, which were on the porch of the hotel/restaurant, had also been targeted. They were locked together and the bags secured, but the thief did what he could. He got both my hiking and biking shoes and a couple of minor tools. I saw that our tent was no longer in it's place and my stomach sank. Our home! But then I saw it on the ground half way across the porch. What he didn't get was any important credit cards, our passports, the external hard drive where all our data is stored, my tablet. We were wounded, but not broken.
So we awoke with dreamy bliss to a beautiful sunrise we could see from our pillows, and then to the realization that the chair that held our bags of valuables, which we had roped together and placed between our hammocks and almost touching our heads, was no longer there but was 20 feet behind us and tipped over, bags still attached but contents scattered. Denial. "Fucking dogs," Lewis mumbled. But we knew. Laptop, gone. My beloved camera. Gone. A crappy smartphone, a portable speaker, some random but necessary cables. our only avocado. Well, something to laugh about!
We then noticed that our bikes, which were on the porch of the hotel/restaurant, had also been targeted. They were locked together and the bags secured, but the thief did what he could. He got both my hiking and biking shoes and a couple of minor tools. I saw that our tent was no longer in it's place and my stomach sank. Our home! But then I saw it on the ground half way across the porch. What he didn't get was any important credit cards, our passports, the external hard drive where all our data is stored, my tablet. We were wounded, but not broken.
So that day in Mazunte was a flurry of activities. In fact, it took us nearly a week to get over the robbery. It was only a material loss, but it still felt like a punch in the stomach. We were beating ourselves up about being stupid with our things, and we were sick about being touched by a bad person, after such great experiences in Mexico. Everything was now jaded with negativity and we couldn't really relax and enjoy the beautiful place in which we were stranded, even though we tried. I say "stranded" not just because my shoes were gone, but because we couldn't decide what to do next. We flip-flopped between the idea of taking this opportunity to be unplugged on an amazing beach and getting the hell out of there, sometimes changing our minds three times in a day. We started to hear more robbery stories, and not just in response to us telling ours. We actually overheard a few conversations about it, saw fliers around town with rewards for stolen items, and a girl at our new hostel had her wallet stolen in the night. This place was sketchy.
At the same time, we liked it and already had friends there. We ran into the couple again, who introduced us to another couple whom we realized after a little conversation that we had met before, volunteering at music festival over the summer. We also saw again several people that we had met in San Jose, and we made new friends too, including a few different groups of cycle tourists. It was really a beautiful place, with a chill hippy vibe and lots of good restaurants. There was yoga, there was hiking, there were great pastries and fish tacos sold right on the beach. There were several other little beaches in walking distance to enjoy. Internet was lacking but that was part of the charm for me, though it drove Lewis crazy. Three moves later we ended up in a little cabin tucked into the jungle along the main street. We started to unwind. We hiked to see the sunset most nights, and a few nights we helped out at the pizzeria for tips. I got a few more painting jobs around town and went to a couple of yoga classes. I fell in love with a hammock that belonged to the owners of a fantastic ice cream stand, and they let me buy it from them for cost. "Hey, we'll just get another," they said. I lived in that hammock during our last three days in Mazunte, having found a palapa on the beach that no one was claiming or charging to use. Lewis and I took turns chilling in the hammock, reading or relaxing or sewing, and going for a swim or walk down the shore.
At the same time, we liked it and already had friends there. We ran into the couple again, who introduced us to another couple whom we realized after a little conversation that we had met before, volunteering at music festival over the summer. We also saw again several people that we had met in San Jose, and we made new friends too, including a few different groups of cycle tourists. It was really a beautiful place, with a chill hippy vibe and lots of good restaurants. There was yoga, there was hiking, there were great pastries and fish tacos sold right on the beach. There were several other little beaches in walking distance to enjoy. Internet was lacking but that was part of the charm for me, though it drove Lewis crazy. Three moves later we ended up in a little cabin tucked into the jungle along the main street. We started to unwind. We hiked to see the sunset most nights, and a few nights we helped out at the pizzeria for tips. I got a few more painting jobs around town and went to a couple of yoga classes. I fell in love with a hammock that belonged to the owners of a fantastic ice cream stand, and they let me buy it from them for cost. "Hey, we'll just get another," they said. I lived in that hammock during our last three days in Mazunte, having found a palapa on the beach that no one was claiming or charging to use. Lewis and I took turns chilling in the hammock, reading or relaxing or sewing, and going for a swim or walk down the shore.
Finally after two weeks, with our minds more clear, we felt it was time to go. I had been gifted a pair of used hiking shoes so at least I could bike more easily, but we decided instead to take a bus to San Cristobal in the neighboring state of Chiapas. It would save us at least 10 days of mostly unpleasant riding, and would allow us a few days to enjoy San Cristobal and also to go to the neighboring city of Tuxtla, where we might be able to replace some things. We rode back to Zipolite for a few more days of hammocking and swimming, and then on to Pochutla, where we were to catch the bus. There I also had to mail the hammock home, sadly, as it was too large to carry on a bike tour. I type this now from my camping hammock, which is great for sleeping in, but just not the same as THE ONE. Someday we will be reunited!
There is so much more I could write about our time on the Oaxacan coast, and the people we met and the things we saw and did and ate and thought, but I see how long-winded I have been already and I feel it is time to wrap it up. Being robbed is no fun, but I cannot help but see some gifts we received because of it - extra time on the coast that we otherwise wouldn't have spent, a few days of true relaxation, new friends, many great sunsets, a wonderful hammock and I even found an abandoned pair of lounge pants like I had been wanting for a while. I also feel like we learned a lot from the experience, from how we handle things like this to what we can do better in the future. Life goes on, and so does our cycle tour!