Puerto Suelo- The sand bar

Jan 8-10, 2009 Puerto Esc. Oax., Mx.

Suddenly travelers checks have become dicey in Mexico, with only one Casa de Cambio accepting them here in Puerto Escondido. And if it is before nine, or ten in the morning, or on an off day, or the employee is sick, hung over, or his wife is pregnant and expecting, you can`t cash them at all. And even more annoying, suddenly the pin numbers on one of my credit cards doesn`t work, and the credit card company in the states has no idea why. So cashing money early on a Saturday morning, when the group is trying to get off with the kayacks and drive north to just beyond Manialtepec Lagoon, can be a challenge.
However, success at last, a quick trip to the market for ice, fruit and fresh shrimp, and we are off in the not-so-early morning light. John as always, found the correct turn-off ( an inigma to me) to the dirt lane, and I step out to open the `gate`: Beautiful, weathered, hand-carved hardwood posts, four large hand- chiseled notches for the equally heavy hardwood posts. I slide them through the holes.

We pull forward in the old Suburban, with the bright orange inflatable kyacks tied to the roof, , past palms, green grass, up over a hillock where we talked to the weathered, straw-hatted and mustached Arrieo, ( Arrier, to call out to, in this case cows) . The friendly, and sun -burnished, Arreieo-Vaquero, chatted while his curious `Cebu`, Brahma bulls and cows, lifted their ears and fixed us with their baleful eyes. As if to say, `What`s going on here? `Who are you? What is that?`

We park next to the swamp, the baby palms all chewed down to the stalk, the water smelling of brine and the lower pasture of cow-pies. Two long-flat-fiberglass launches are tethered to branches in the still, brown water. We quickly load the kyacks and are off, paddling slowly through a dark, sun-dappled tunnel cut through the Manglar roots and branches. Machetied and Chain-sawed. The water still, still, still. An quiet.

`` Hola Dona Tarantula``, we say respectfully and laughing. A little nervously. `Hello Mrs. tarantula.´

`` Hola Dona Culebra``, `Hello Mr Snake`
`` Perdonanos Don Cocodrillo``, `Excuse us Mr Crocodile` . We laugh again. Not Lions, tigers and Bears in the land of OZ, but Tarantulas snakes and Crocs, in the surreal swamp, the backwaters of the Manialtipec river that feeds Manialtipec Lagoon.!!

The tunnel suddenly widens and we gain a wide pond, covered in pollen from some unknown tree or trees. We search for the next passage through, the next tunnel, and two men in a thin launch pass, and disappear into the shade and darkness on the far side.
``Over there!``

Before we know it, we have reached the wide Manialtipec river that braids through the mangroves, and head in the direction John thinks is the oceon. Who would know,for it it oxbows this river. But he is right as always. His instinct impeccable! (gracias dios.) Rains were heavy this year, and the rivers and lagoons high up to the shiny green skirts of the mangos leaves.

Large brown Pelicans adorn many of the trees above us, their favorite perchs apparent by the white-washed covering of guano on the leaves below.
`Let`s take early morning sun here. Nest there later.`
The four of us paddle on, cranky blue Herons, and cranes crawing at our intrusion, as they lazily fly to the opposite of the river. Dark Cormerans festoon a small, silver, snag, like large distended pods or cocoons, that would occasionally move, and the profile of a head would appear. White elegant egrits would glide into the grassy banks and land, immediately coming to attention in hunters `listening pose´.
`Is that a frog?`their tilting heads seem to say.

Then we headed into the narrower headwaters of the river, between the sandbar that separates the oceon from the waterways, and the low grassy banks with low fields of horses and cows grazing beyond. We see a campesino head, no two mens heads, one with a straw hat, gliding and levitating horizontally behind a lush grassy bar, like a phantom in a Shakespere play, untill they exit stage right, into our view- standing in a moving boat.

Two hours later we land on the large sand dune-Puerto Suelo- with a very rustic long, low shade palapa, made of dryed coconut palm leaves laid on a loose framework of branchs. The oceon waves pound,the strong wind sending a fine mist over the dune, and the surf breaks just on the other side of the dune. To the north, the bay curves round to cliff-breaks and Roca Blanca Isle in the distance. Fish are plentiful and gaggles of pelicans dive in the oceon, their zig-zag profiles shooting into the water like missiles. Moving south to north all day, following the school of fish- probably sardines.

The family lives much of the time on this sandy bar, serving food to tourists, fishing and smoking fish for sale later. We hang in hammocks. Sketch. Have a beer or pop.

The father thin and muscular, like all pescaderos, washed his catch for the day- oceon fish- what looked like twenty-four to thirty inch tuna, although he called them something else. ´Corel´I believe. Then he fileted them in half and gutted them, throwing the bloody inards to the gulls and one lone pelican, all of them inching forward, salivating over the filets laid on submerged palm fronds soaking in the fresh river water, the dark red meat and swirls of deep red blood staining and slowly curling in the water, like liquid cigarette smoke. The fat and nearly toothless mother prepared the fire and grill, a primitive, home-made frame of rusted chicken-wire and thin-oxidized-rods. The resulting and presumed `smoked fish`, was blackened and overcooked presaging our dinner prepared by the daughter: hard, rubbery, over-salted and over-cooked shrimp. The worst any of us had ever eaten! Capesino cuisine at its worst. The good side of capesino-country cuisine were the incredible sopes and tortillas. Hand ground corn, earthy smelling , with a wonderful fresh aroma of corn, and grainy like some of the ´chaff´had been included, and cooked on a wood-fired ´camal´. The black beans were cooked in ´asientos´, the bottom drippings in pork cooking, like gravy base. A reduced, tasty lard! With an herb topping.
The chubby son had many pets: Skinny, Negro the dog, a black and white beach-breed ; two tiny smokey-grey rabbits with red ribbons around their necks, in a bird cage; a small green parrot, who would sit on my finger while I swung in the hammock; in-bred Muskogie and white domestic ducks, one of whom loved as we did, the white meat of the family`s coconuts; And lastly the self-adopted cockroach who lived in the bottom of the plastic cup at our table, with paper napkins above him, light-weight camping gear at its best!

Carmen swam a VERY little- although neither the owner nor Carmen could convince me the water was safe. I basicly dipped.

´´ Nada pasa. Nada.´´ ( They won´t bother you here.) he says, as his son jumps in the water. ´´No nada pasa aqui.´´ the father says again in true Mexican fashion. The crocs are within three hundred yards of us. At the most four hundred. And the image of legless fisherman is still fresh in my mind! Yes, he was killed somewhere here at Manialtipec. Perhaps just over there.

I flashed on the gargantuem Iguana I named Vito, who lives under the concrete, by the pool, at the hotel. He is incredibly macho, raizing his chin repetitively, butting his head aggressively, and with such Italian-mafioso-attitude, you would expect him to talk like he is from ´Joy-zee´

´´My brod-dah´s a Croc, ya know?!´´, stutting his warts and leathery head n´back spikes. ´Yeah, sure Vito.´
``And my bisabuelsos ( grandparents) was T. Rexes, ya know?!´´( Poor Vito. He´s probably more closely related to a chicken. ) Vito has a macho ego. In fact, his agents just pitched a five script pilot to HBO about a talking Iguana. The HBO honchos were tepid.
´´A talking Iguana? Nahhhh, it´s too Mexican. Too ethnic.´´
´´ They´ve done talking horses on TV before.´´
´´Nahhhh.´´
´´Not very sexy.´´
´´We could get Penelope Cruz or Selma Hayak.´`
´´ To star with a talking Iguana?´´
´´Forget it!´´
´´Forget it! ´´ Just didn´t fly with the head honchos

The point is, Vito postures . He butts his head. He Puffs. HE WARNS. This is what we want! Animals that have evolved annd developed enough through the eons to warn you first! Cats arch their backs, hiss and raize their hackles --- three distinct warning comunications! Dogs growl and much the same. Birds and fish puff-up their chests, feathers and air-sacks. But the more primitive, paleolithic, killing machines like sharks and crocs DON´T. They swim stealthily below and behind you, then snap and chomp off an arm, or two legs, or your entire conscienceness. ´SWWAAAHHSSZAPP!!´ a kick of his big honkin´ tail and it´s over!!!

´`They won`t bother you here.``the father says in true Mexican fashion.

``The kids swim here.``

Yeah yeah, for a while. Untill the crocs are curious or good and hungry! But life goes on as always. Nature doesn`t belabor one species much less one persons tragedy. Herons, pelicans, egrits, cormerans, cranes all fish in their fashion no doubt as happy to be here as we are, as many of their kind perished in the severe cold of December in the northwest, Canada and Alaska.

We relaxed late, and Carmen´s shoulder was sore, so we loaded the kyacks perpendicular across the top of the fisherman`s boat, and the pescedero slowly plowed through the still waters untill we reached the first mangrove ´tunnel´. I paddled one kyack, John the other behind me.

Still, still, dark, briny, murky waters. Dark, and now with little visibility. No sun dapples. Dusk blanketed by deep brambles of leaves, tendrils and trunks. And then the low growls started from above. Or behind. Like quiet howler monkeys.

``Grrrrrrahhahhahhhhh.`` Insistent and low. Like a sleepy panther. Waiting. Crouching.

``Grrrrrrrrraahahahhahhh`` again, as I paddle, gratefully towards the earthy smell of cow-pies and land. I ask the pescadero when he pulls up to the bank, what the growl is.

``Pajaros. Patos`` ( Birds. Ducks)``Cormerans.``John replies

´RIIIIGHHT! And those are Cormerans??? Birds? Glorified ducks? RRRIIIIGGGHHHT.

``Grrrrrrrahhhahahhhhh!`` we hear again. Carmen and I laugh . `Quisas. Quisas. Quisas`

... Maybe. Maybe. Maybe...

Abrazos

Esteban