You had come to Mexico to find paradise, but that was before you couldn’t make it home. Now you realize that paradise is a convenient place. In paradise there are flushing toilets with toilet seats. In paradise the coffee is hot and the beer is cold. In paradise there is electricity on demand and remote controls. In paradise there is cell phone reception and free wifi. In paradise there are familiar faces and hot showers. In paradise things come easier than they really should.
At some point the novelty of it begins to fade and the pining for convenience begins. Things that should be easy grow daily harder, and a hundred pesos suddenly feels like so much more than ten dollars. When it rains your stuff gets wet and never dries out again, ever. Perspiration and dirt cover all surfaces. Piles of rusty corona bottle caps are reproducing faster than the cockroaches. The humid breeze is the opposite of refreshing and actually makes it harder to breathe. Men with guns seem to be studying you closely despite your attempts to retain anonymity. The mosquitos swarm. The bathroom stinks. The sad excuse for a bed is a puddle of sweat. The tacos make your digestive system self destruct. All you want to do is go home and remember the easy convenience.
But every day home feels further and further away.
Donny and Eric meet us at the airport in Zihaut. They have already been in Mexico a week and have lined up everything, including a taxi with a cargo rack on the roof. Brad and I attach our board bags with twine and nylon and we make the hour or so drive to Nexpa. The surf is flat when we arrive, but the beer is almost cold.
Sunday ~ 9/2
The point is too small, so we hike down the beach and wade across the rivermouth. We find some nice sand bars around the corner, and waves just big enough to ride. After about two and a half waves I brush against something as I’m paddling and feel the sting throttling my fingers. Soon others are stung and we realize there is a massive flotilla of jellies overwhelming the beach. We drift back to shore carefully, trying to paddle without touching the water. The locals call the jellyfish the agua mala, and say sometimes it lasts for a week or more.
Tuesday ~ 9/4
The agua mala has subsided, but so has the surf. We walk down the beach again in search of waves but find the ocean barely licking the shore. Returning to the palapas we pass a couple jeep loads of policia taking lunch break near the rivermouth. They watch us suspiciously as we hike past, standing with weapons slung around their shoulders. Most look about 18 years old. They take turns firing their large military rifles into the river.
The pounding of the waves wakes me up sometime during the night, a much more comforting explosion than gunfire. (more…)