Life As Canvas

We thought we’d give Oaxaca a try but when we got to the bus station, the woman at the counter shook her head. You can’t go all the way to Oaxaca. You have to go to Puerto Escondido first. Ok. Puerto Escondido, then.

Tickets in hand, we shuffled acrost the station, big packs on our backs, little ones in front, ever the turtle-like curiosity for the locals lazing in their plastic chairs. You could almost hear our skin sighing as the chilled air of the waiting room washed over us. Two men, tan, lithe, blonder than blonde, sprawled in the corner in front of the television, their surf boards leaning against their chairs. We asked if they’d been to Puerto Escondido and, as it’s a popular surf spot, turns out they had. In a thick Australian accent, they suggested Hotel Buena Onda, or “good vibe,” and told us where the waves were good, which doesn’t really help us, as we only stand on the board about once every eight waves. We’re that good.

Night bus, dirt road, lots of bumps. 8am - Puerto Escondido. It’s nice to get into town when it’s already light out. Taxi to the hotel way out on the outest of outskirts of town - 2 bucks.

Buena Onda is run by Pierre and Olivier, a pair of French fraternal twins. Seems all French people who make it to Puerto Escondido stay there. It’s one part Gilligan’s Island, one part Swiss Family Robinson, two parts summer camp, shaken with a dash of France. There’s one two-story building with paintings of waves and aincient gods inside and out, windows with no glass, right on the beach, no other hotels around. Also: huts out back with thached rooves, hammocks out front, mosquito nets on the beds. It’s perfect. We paid 35 bucks each for the entire week.

Puerto Escondido holds a nice balance of locals and tourists. I don’t feel like I’m bumping into gringos in hawaiian shirts around every corner, but I don’t really stand out, either. During the day we take Spanish lessons for two hours and maybe a surf lesson or hang out at the beach swimming and doing our Spanish homework. At night we walk along the beach back to the hotel, little blue plankton glowing at our feet as the waves wash them around on the shore. It’s some kind of magic, being here.

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This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 23rd, 2007 at 6:07 pm and is filed under Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.