Nineteen and a half hours of riverbed jungle tracks, mountain passes, passenger seat sleeping bag sleep, roadside tacos, plane straight night line chasing highway, a million speed bumps, cammionettes and the fear of bandits hiding us out in midnight tanker convoys, til the need for speed guns us into an uphill, blind curve, adverse camber sidestep and back alone.. rushing towards dawn, one last vibrating checkpoint and teenage military grin us down through the final twisted foothills to the secure suburban sunrise of oaxaca. We looked younger in our passport photos they said.
10am two weeks before and we floored it through the first feet on the road to reality. Cut out past the gigantic supermarkets and automobile dynasties of out of town mall land towards the port of angles. Drifted out over the high table planes, candelabra cacti in our wake, dodging potholes and slowing for the low rise grid and strip towns of the dry baked flats. Diverted through shanty shack stacked red earth scrub and then punching up into the sierra madre del sur. Mountains twist the highway into a sinew, air cools and leaves surplant thorns, lunging up from a 1600 metre base plane, peaking at three k’s high and we glimpse the sea at san jose, a shard of horizontal silver. No stop and we drop through opium country slowing for cheese tortillas with a petrol hint of Mexican green empasote. Time warp or food coma fools us down among broad frayed banana leaf fingers, bee hives and coffee bean glades. Fronds us down through tropical lush and russet ferns in the arms of the last big trees. Buries us down beneath mornings datum, into the cauldron, and back to thorns and chalk and rocks and the edge of the half planet sea.
Military drill lines the streets outside the naval academy without boats, the sun falls into a hippy hoppy beach and cool hammock swings the day to a close. A choice of bed argued into the toss of a peso. Where’s the morning gone says jack, retiring into a trig poser, two ladders in an alleyway, with a paradise top.
On the turtle trail short Largo gives us the toothless word and out we trudge, stars in our steps and over our heads, to meet mama turtle dropping her eggs off at the twenty mile beach, but it’s a no show. We seek the higher authority of the boss of the turtle ziggurat and endless contemplation of a cupless water cooler later, we catch little joey turtle and his legion pals off to become seafood platter for sharks in the ninety eight percentile. Dan reveals a hitherto unseen tenderness and nudges one of the two surviors to be out of the jaws of croc lagoon and into the embrace of the pacifying surf. Tears well, well almost.
Wood slat deck chairs drag us out onto the midnight sand and throw us at the mercy of the oaxacan red. The moonlight surf symphony in black blue and white noise leaves us speechless or gibbering. Synchronised eye and ear breaks in a crescent lagoon auditorium that carries its own applause.
Back in the Sunday light Steeve blown in from a hurricane years back, and out of the business for good, swings under the cool palms of a canyon fertile on the dry loo proceeds of international eco tourism. The world passes through and pets the anteater cub. Boss Mateo paints his fathers stories amidst dismembered canoes cut from the heart of impossible mahoganies. He keeps the water sweet and flowing and eyes the presidents space age electric entra-oceanic freight shuttle plans and the arriving new road as impending economic southern tequilla sunrise and new hope, or false dawn and apocalypse. Either way, self sufficient in water and fruit, he laughs and pours another shot of mescal silk.
We overtake international latino packhorse and shanks pony shod hippies in the fourth mile of the first day on the road from their beach hammock dreampost to Guatemala. 800 clicks to the border and the cool beer, surf and reefer snares of Zipolite round the next corner. We buzz on, the humpbacked people wagon keeps mule train trouncing insect time. The white bug’s back in the hairdryer and on to Juchitan for a date with the Mushes.
Fat City and everyones on double rations. Weebling and wobbling without falling. Tug boat ladies, bellies proud and forward. We’re almost feeling slim, shunning cows head taco and pickled iguana eggs. Rushing out of the rotten meat market to retch, but soothed by gods mangos and toasted coconut frisbees. Eat in the heat, gotta keep fat to keep hot. In the midst of which abundance stands Fellina and friends cutting it and cutting hair in a wedding dress cabinet. Dressing up on occasion, dessing down in the day but still as woman rather than the man she never really was. We swing through a feature of film and by a doctor, a receptionist and a dress maker, all dressed as women and accepted by fat city as nowhere else in macho mexico.
Dip in the pea soup pool and night spent in air con swamp, chatting to the roach patrols. Enough is enough and we ride the rails of the coast road for a possible mango festival, or festival of roadside crates, that pushes us up into a night-time hike among hauling Pan American fairy light freight boxes to Chiapan capital Tuxtla.
No room at any inn and holy week holiday makers line bandstand beds in the marble square, paved cream brown and smoked with glass in a boom time planning dream. Nineteen seventy oatcake maroon and beige deluxe saves the night and we sun rise and shine climb to the state capital of another time. Cool colonial San Cristobal de las Casas, hot spot for 94’s Zapatista rebellion and blood spill, now alpine resort feel destination of Europes’ skint but chic global freefallers.
Checking the catering we leave bar three, blown away by three generations of tequila at 100 pesos a bang and we fall into my baptism by pool doubles. I’m making it worse but the demon eye of dan holds us to a winning streak and by the eighth game only the bar staff are left. Locked in at 5am. I double the black to win and we’re pulling out, riding the crest of a fluke before the stakes get raised, pissing laughter up the euphoric streets. Champion.
