The Road to Oaxaca

            The town where we spent our final days in Chiapas is called Nuevo Paraiso (“New Paradise”), and in many ways it was just that. The Sierra Madre range of Chiapas boasts lush cloud forests, a temperate climate, an abundance of rivers, waterfalls and springs, and warm, resourceful people who are welcoming to visitors while not being preoccupied with them. We enjoyed our few days at Comun Yap Nop Tic, following Peter into the field, swimming in rivers, and spending time with his colleague’s family (whose wife was hours away from giving birth to their third child, but nonetheless helped me do laundry, prepared us a meal and escorted us to the river to swim). However, by Thursday Peter had completed his work with the collective, and he was eager to begin his few days of summer vacation. So we loaded up the car and headed south and west to the Chiapan Pacific coast.

            After an eight hour drive through the Sierra Madre we stopped in a small beach town that was recommended by a co-worker as a beach town with reasonable hotels and palapas (thatched roof bars on the beach) serving cold beers and fresh fish. We rolled in to town with plenty of time to swim in the warm surf and scope out the scene. Since it was the eve of Peter’s birthday, my first gift was to assume full responsibility for securing a good room according to his list of requirements (relatively quiet, on the beach, plenty of bed space, a bungalow if possible). I compromised with a nice, quiet, clean room on the second floor with two double beds and a great view of the water. All of the beach front rooms came with fans and no AC, but it seemed sleepable with the stiff breeze coming off the water. I didn’t think twice about moving our things in and joining Peter and the kids on the beach.

            We had a typical dinner of cheladas (lime juice and beer) for us, chocolate licuados for the kids, and grilled shrimp and fish, along with a sunset swim. We then returned to our room for showers and bed. Peter was the first to notice that the many open windows, gracefully concealed by wooden slats, did not have screens. “Do we think that’s going to be okay?” he asked, using the marital singular and swatting a mosquito on his neck. By this point we had unloaded a lot of our things, used all the towels, and basically trashed the place, so changing rooms seemed like a huge inconvenience. The kids were exhausted and ready for bed. “We are not moving,” I offered as an answer. I mean, if they were renting a room with no screens, screens must not be necessary. Maybe mosquitoes do not fly so high. We would be fine.

            I sprayed everyone down with bug spray (except Peter, who refused) and we turned in. I was right. The mosquitoes were no problem.

            It was the noseeums that got us.

            In Gabon the mosquitoes were to be avoided because they carried malaria and dengue. But they were a minor nuisance compared to the noseeums, or “fooroos.” They came out at dusk and feasted on any and every square centimeter of exposed skin, crawling up shirt sleeves and into shirt collars, resorting to eyelids if necessary. Immediately they merely produced a red welt on the skin. It was about six hours later when the toxins set in that they finally elicited a painful itch that lasted for hours if not days. After a few months my body developed a sort of immunity to the bite and could process the toxins in a matter of moments, like a mosquito sting. But on many evenings when I was new to the African village experience they nearly drove me mad.

            For the first few moment of trying to go to sleep, I was reminded of Gabon.

            It was as if word passed around that there was a stupid gringo family sleeping in room 27 with the open windows and every noseeum on the coast of Mexico paid us a visit that night. Peter and I each slept with one of the kids and did our best to defend them. Every time Josie budged, I sprayed her with more repellant. Peter hardly slept a wink while Jasper scratched and tossed and turned. To top it off the sea breeze and single floor fan were hardly enough for the July heat and we were sweltering. I finally resorted to wrapping our bodies in wet sheets which offered some comfort. They dried off in about an hour, however, so I had to re-soak them several times throughout the night. At about three am I turned to Peter who lay wide awake and suffering in the bed across the room and said, “Happy Birthday, darlin’.” A suffered sigh was the response. At daybreak I was thankful that we were coming to the end of what will hopefully be remembered as our worst night in Mexico.

            We left as soon as possible the next morning, after a birthday breakfast for Peter of Huevos Mexicanos and another swim. Then we set off for another long drive along the coast. We were looking for a town by the name of Masunte which we could not find on any map or in any guide book, but which we were assured would be a perfect place to spend as many days as possible (by another colleague of Peter’s). We were promised turtles and dolphins and bungalows with views of the ocean. We only knew we had to find the town of Puerto Angel and turn left. Eight hours later we came to Puerto Angel, which seemed like a cute fishing village with a small spit of beach, so we turned left and kept going. As we proceeded north, each beach town we passed became progressively appealing, with well groomed cobbled streets and hand painted signs professing coffee frappes and artesenal mezcal. We were tempted to stop, since it was already past dinner time and the kids had only consumed a bag of Takis (think Doritos, but far worse) since breakfast, but we forged on for Masunte. We were so glad we did.

            As we pulled into Masunte we could tell it was magical. The clean, narrow streets and densely lined with cute shops and cultivated flowers. Situated in a cove of white sand and magnificent surf, it is a coveted surfing destination and traveler’s paradise. Most of the travelers here are backpackers who have set up camp under one of the many palapas along the beach. There are also dozens of hotels that offer bungalows, cabanas, habitaciones, cuartos, or whatever kind of accommodation you prefer. We followed the recommendation of the same colleague for a nice place that he claimed would be “hygienic and reasonable, very nice owner.” We wound our way down a series of dirt roads, following our nose more than anything else, past the cemetery and up a steep driveway to the Altamira Hotel.

            The hotel was so quiet I assumed it had gone out of business. But we eventually found the manager and were showed several bungalows for our choosing, each with beautifully canopied beds with crisp sheets and broad windows (with screens!) opening towards the ocean. 500 pesos a night. Or about 40 bucks. We chose one further down the hillside and closer to the beach with a double bed for us, and a loft with a second bed for the kids. The many windows had screens, and each bed had a white mosquito net, so we were in business.

            We first had to execute a quick “surprise party” for Peter, which Josie had been obsessively planning for days, complete with balloons, noise makers and a disco ball. Josie and I sent Peter and Jasper down to the beach while we put our things away and set up the party. When they returned we yelled Happy Birthday, had a scavenger hunt for his presents (including a new machete to add to his growing collection), and had a miniature two minute dance party with the disco ball. Done. By the time we finished it was nearly dark, the kids were starving, and Jasper was scratching like a street dog. His fooroo bites seemed to be getting worse, and the bugs were coming out. I climbed back into the car and set out for dinner and drugs.

            Further down the dirt road I found an improbable pizzeria run by a collective of aging hippie Italians and ordered two pies to go. I then retraced our steps to the town center and found a pharmacy where I purchased antihistamine and calamine lotion and more bug spray. An hour later I returned to the bungalow with cold beer, hot pizza and strong medicine, all of which were consumed lustily. We sang Happy Birthday to Peter over Snickers bars (there were no candles to blow out), and called it a night. We tucked ourselves into our mosquito nets and fell asleep to the sound of the waves and congas coming up from the village below.

            As soon as we arrived in Masunte we vowed to stay as long as possible. We have three days to swim (with caution and gusto; the waves are strong and undertow alarming, but the kids are having a great time inventing new sports like “Wave Jumping” where they launch off of Peter’s shoulders over a wave before it breaks), hike, wander the streets, enjoy the traveler food (crepes, pastas, and coffee drinks in addition to the fish tacos, empanadas and licuados), and take a trip to see the sea turtles up close. It is hot, but there is plenty of shade and water to keep us cool, and I can safely say that at this moment there is no other place we would rather be on Earth. Fooroos and all.