We have been looking forward to coming to Puerto Escondido for about two years, ever since we started planning this trip and decided to make Mexico our first stop. It all started when we informed Harold's dad of our plans to visit this tourist destination popular among Mexicans and some Europeans. Aware of our budget-consciousness, he advised us to make the six-hour journey in an Urvan instead of the massive, air-conditioned, TV-equipped bus, for half the price. "Chido!", we exclaimed. Awesome! Why pay US$35 when you could pay $15? Saves us the equivalent of two to three meals out! But what the hell was an Urvan?
Harold and I, having spent the last 13, and 8, years outside of Mexico, respectively, are completely out of touch with current modes of transportation utilized in the country, as Mexico is a rapidly-changing, complex place. Anyway, an Urvan is a diesel Mercedes-Benz van decked out with 16 seats, providing about the same amount of personal space as an airplane. Our huge backpacks crammed into the tiny storage space in the back/ in front alongside the driver, and our valuables on our laps, we set off to the beach as the only foreigners in the vehicle.
There are no toll highways to the coast from Oaxaca City, so the old road took us through curve after curve of tiny highland indigenous villages set amid misty mountains and pine forests, often with little indication of the Spanish Conquest. On this path, some of the thirty percent of Oaxacans who are members of indigenous groups could be observed herding livestock, building ecological cabins, operating rest stops including convenience stores, bathrooms, and showers, and warming up tortillas over open fires. Birds of prey cruised overhead. We passed a patch of field burning, traditionally used to prepare the land for the next siembra, or planting. The bus driver stopped by the side of the road as all of the passengers dutifully got out and peed, one by one, behind the bushes.
As we decreased in elevation in the last couple of hours of the journey, we passed the turnoff for Juquila, a town housing the temple of the Virgen de Juquila, famous for many miracles granted as a reward for those who make the journey by foot or bicycle from Oaxaca City. Pilgrims request their wishes come true via clay models representing whatever it is they desire. Harold requested a truck at age ten, and by golly, it came true (ten years later)! We just sold the thing, and it never gave us a bit of trouble! Sold it for a good price, too! As she appreciates a return visit to give thanks for her favors, we owe Juquila a pilgrimage, which is something else we are trying to make happen on this trip.
Anyway, shortly after the Juquila turnoff, the hours of curvy roads took their toll on my queasy, probably already Salmonella-infected stomach, and I wretched and wretched as I vomited all over the delicious pan dulce we had purchased for the journey, filling the plastic bag with puke. People opened windows and fanned their faces, waiting for the fetid odor, which fortunately never came, as I had managed to avoid puking on any surface of the vehicle or myself! Now that's a miracle!
We pulled in to Puerto Escondido shortly after 11pm, a couple hours after we planned, and promptly flagged down a taxi to take us to Harold's mom's friend's house, the address of which the driver was unfamiliar. Awesome! We failed to identify said house after driving around for a half an hour, so we asked to be dropped off at the Hostal Shalom, which we had been told had camp sites available for $7. Closed. Hmmm, what better option than to stay in the "Hotel Hostal" (Is it a hotel, is it a hostel? Kept us guessing...), up the street about a kilometer? After all, I was still queasy and we were both exhausted as the clock reached midnight. The promising grand entrance led to none other than a refrigeration company, behind which was the dilapidated Hotel Hostal, charging $25 a night for moldy walled, grimy-cornered, stained-blanketed rooms. Looking like something out of The Addams Family, rotting mangoes graced the poorly kept hotel grounds, a skinny cat rested on some faded chairs, and a few sheep roamed around near the surprisingly sparkling swimming pool. We were served water in a dirty pitcher. Daring to use the sink to wash up, we promptly collapsed into bed, rising the next morning to head to the Hostal Shalom.
The Hostal Shalom is about the cheapest lodging option in town, as far as we know. It has rooms, dorms, cabanas, and campsites, with access to a super-relaxing beach, Playa Carrizalillo, a 2km walk away. There's a bar, snack shop and wireless internet, with tasty restaurants and coffee shops surrounding it. Would be perfectly idyllic, were it not for the security factor. We trustingly had the owner lock up our valuables in the food storage room and left to go swimming. We returned to find that she had left for the day, taking the only key with her, thereby cutting us off from any money, debit cards, cameras, computers, passports, and medications until the following day. I decided the best option was to throw a fit. Harold threatened to break in. It was a one-two punch that resulted in the owner making a special trip in to unlock the storage area for us. As if it was such a favor!!! The pothead staff has rubbed us the wrong way, and we will aim to avoid staying here again, even though we did appreciate the opportunity to use our discount backpacking tent, which served us well.
I leave you with some pictures, with more to come.....