“No no Kati, Espanol de la playa es no bueno! No bueno!”

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The night before we left, I met Alicia and Beatriz at Café Bar Central. Alicia had mentioned in an email that she wanted to go to the beach. I figured she meant in her car, at whatever hour we chose, in a comfortable setting. But really, my plans with Alicia were laid out like this: “So, I’m going to the beach tomorrow, you want to come?” -“Yes! Of course.” It was about 12:30 a.m. at this point. “Great! The van leaves at 6:30 am” -“What? The van?” “Yeah the van to Pochutla. We can take a collectivo from there to Mazunte.”- “Okay, yeah…yeah! I’m in.” From there we made friends and we danced. Every time I made a move for the door I got a “Come on! Just one more!” from the girls and so it was that I went to sleep at 4:45 and woke up at 5:30 to make a run across town in the dark with my traveler’s pack for the van.

In the middle of the Sierra Madre del Sur mountains we met an overly-tanned New Mexican couple who were in their late 40s, as happy as newlyweds after their weekend at the beach. We took in their advice and admired how awe-struck they were by the comforts of living in simplicity, even if just momentarily. After they left we joked in the van about their terrible accents, the stereotypical American “Uhn tort-ill-ah port-fay-vore, sen-yore-eat-uhh” and how even more adorable we found them to be because of it.
In Pochutla we caught the collective- a converted truck bed with ply board bench seats and a tarp top. We met a French Canadian named Kevin who had fallen into the trap of Mazunte and although he had planned on heading into Guatemala a month before, just couldn’t leave the place. He had become entranced by the life and by the hint of it, had fallen in love with a local girl along the way.

Mazunte

Mazunte is a small beach surftown whose economy was previously dominated by the killing of turtles. For years, Mazunte partook in the global market of turtle eggs, from Mexico to Asia and back again. After years of intense pressure from international environmentalist groups, the town flipped its focus and is now making a go of ecotourism.
Time…did not exist for me in my days there. And from what I’ve heard, this is a common trance-especially if you begin the day at 3 pm. The sand is different than any I’ve felt before, it’s soft. The whole place breathes deep.
And the people- there are many different people in Mazunte, but for the most part, all I could see were young folks, in their late twenties, often with dreadlocks, tan and smiling.


My trip was my first real dive into intercambio. I spanglished my way through the entire trip, teaching and learning as I went along.

Alicia

Both Alicia and I had planned on sleeping on the van, but immediately began talking and spent the rest of the trip comfortably squished together in the back, shifting between dreams and conversation, like sleepovers for twelve-year olds, when the lights go off but the talking goes on throughout the night.
When we had our things safely tucked away at our hostal, she took me directly to the beach and to shaded chairs where we could order drinks and sit and sip and lull the afternoon away. Immediately we were laughing and making friends, she was introducing me to acquaintences and making new ones, setting the tone for the next 5 days.

The entire time we were laughing or joking or teasing, our most intense moments protruding directly from grammatical breakdowns in the middle of dancing or walking or sunbathing. And the fact that we both speak our individual languages far too fast (“Tu hablas moi rapido!” “No! Tu!”) even for native speakers to easily understand.

“Okay, how do you use ‘correctly’ in a sentence, Kati”
“You just did, correctly.”
“No, no really how do you use it? Is it correct?”
“Yes you used correctly…correctly haha”
“Ayy what?”
- - - - - - -
“Puedo tener mas Yoghurt”
“No! Kati! That sounds weird. You have to say ‘puede dir me mas Yoghurt.”
“Whats wrong with ‘can I have more yoghrt’ I think its perfectly fine.”
“Its like can you get up and go in the kitchen and get your own yogurt..thats why she looked at you funny.”
“Well that just doesn’t make sense…FINE..Puede dir me mas Yoghurt….por favor. Mio Dios Alicia.”
“Ayyy Kati.”

Our best lingual afternoon was at playa de san augustinilla where I explained to her that two fisherman had seen 200 sharks a few miles north of our beach and had caught two…and wer washing the shark heads in the water next to a few dozen swimmers…and that they cut open one shark stomach, finding a turtle head inside. And then all about my family, including my extended step-family. Then she read my book aloud in English and I corrected her pronunciation. Fairly glorious for free education.
She left two days before me. We said our goodbyes, with me promising to pass off her email to the illustrious and mysterious “Fernando” should he be lingering on the beach during one of my afternoon walks. I decided I had been drawn in and needed more time. I also decided that having to get into the collective, back to the van for the 6 hour drive and into a taxi in Oaxaca all in Spanish was both scary and necessary for me.

When I arrived back home, proud that I had not only made it home, but had spoken extensively with the collective driver and bargained the price of the taxi to the house, the entire family was up in the kitchen, Alicia included- and I couldn’t have been more excited! There was even una tortilla, frijoles y quesillo waiting for me.

We couldn’t shut up with our inside jokes. Half-truths pouring out in joke form sending out fairly incorrect impressions- Don Romiro: “Mucho Fiesta, ahhh Kati??”

My time with Alicia was one of those trips that bonds friends, really, like a bike ride from San Francisco to Santa Cruz and back for a 21st birthday or a spontaneous job-quitting-worthy weekend in New York with a new roommate.

La Barrita: Rosa, Tonio mejor, Tonio menor

Our hostal was the most interesting place I have stayed yet in Mexico. It doubles as a nightspot bar and grill with music until 3 or 4 am, really loud music. Our hosts, Rosa, Big Tonio and Little Tonio were incredibly welcoming. When we arrived, Little Tonio sensed my apprehension about the paneless windows in mosquito country and set up nets around the bunkbeds, next sensing my hesitation at the lack of lockers put all of our things in a separate empty bedroom with a lock (a more expensive one we didn’t want to pay for), and then sat us down, got out his machete, grabbed a couple of coconuts and straws- and bam we were relaxing with coco drinks, decompressing from the bumbly van ride.

There were a few bumps at our homebase - we couldn’t sleep until the early morning hours, barracho bar guests haranguing us two young hostal girls to come out for a drink or five,
And I swear one night my bed had fleas. But hey, for 80 pesos- not bad! I don’t know any clean place on on the California coast I can stay for less than 6 USD a night with mosquito nets and free coconuts.

Diego

Diego strolled along the beach when Alicia and I first arrived. He came up alongside Caesar, Alicia’s beach amigo. He wanted to try to speech English with me so he sat on down for our first intercambio. We stumbled through it, but with laughter. He likes macrome, I like crotchet. It worked out well. I left with Caesar and Diego to play volleyball and at the court Diego told me defiantly “Stop speaking English to me, no more, you must learn Spanish. Form now, Espanol solo.” And I knew he would be very helpful. Throughout our visit, his tenses and pronunciation really improved- and I was definitely picking a lot up as well. He came with Alicia and I to the first sunset at Punta Cometa, and showed me the place nearby on the cliff rocks where he has slept alone at night, on a very small natural chair. “Sometimes when I sleep here, I dream I am falling into the ocean below.” I told him I wanting to take a boat to Chiapas, to find my way inland to San Cristobal, so we walked the length of the beach looking for the right one, all the time with him teaching me the important basics: I am going to steal a boat. I am stealing a boat. Last night, I stole a boat.

Caesar y Danny

Most of the time, Alicia and I spent our time with Diego, Caesar and Danny. The first night of our stay we all stayed out late, or early, on the beach watching the absolutely stunning night sky, all a-glitter with the Milky Way on full display after the moon set. That night there were many shooting stars, or “raining stars,” llueve estrellas[/i}. “How do you say it in English?” -“Orion’s belt.”-“Ahh, cinturόn de orion….oh-ree-oohn….how do you say it? Like an English name? Like O! Ryan?”

We had a couple nights where music surpassed language barriers. Dancing to two great bands: Fractal y Casa Verde

The three boys laugh so easily, even in the face of a difficult beach “job” market and hundreds of mosquito bites, they laugh and play contagiously. They are responsible for teaching me useful colloquialisms (cabrόn, mota, the different tones to use with “Guerra”).I spent countless hours during my trip sitting and listening to them all speak to each other. In the beginning, especially with Alicia around, I was having fun simply catching one word every few minutes and watching the exaggerations in their faces. By the end of my trip, everything seemed to slow down, and I realized half of what they said were either cuss words or “gue”…you know, California, like “dude.” It’s because of these three that the whole ambiguous cloud of the Spanish language began to dissipate and instead I saw the holes, where I was missing understanding. Now I know what to study and I’m determined to fill them all in before I return to Mazunte….in a week.

Brandon

Brandon made it to Mazunte, to La Barrita, from the city. He has so much potential, but right now he seems lost. He’s looking for something. I put my resources out, trying to give him a lamp to hold onto, but I’m not sure how far my weak help will take him. It came in the form of dragging him to class in the city and was unsuccessful. Now it comes in the form of calling him to the warm and welcoming beach town with its laidback and abundant lingual opportunities. Here I learned more- about the air force, about his timeline, about his orientation in time, in this place, in the ambiguous future- and I’m impressed. I’m not sure that we’ll be friends again in the future. I gave him a hug goodbye and got a single, quick pat on the back in return. Presently it appears that, in relation to everyone I have met in Mexico, American boys are far less interested in meeting, speaking with and learning about this abrasive and ambitious Americana.

Francisco

My day with Mr. Armani. I drove him around in his new standard 2008 VW, I heard his stories, over and over. His yacht, his citizenship in Canada, his residency and tax-free life in Bermuda, his car accident in Alcapulco, his life, his wives. He offered me for nothing in return his soon to be wasted expense account reserved for his assistant who recently returned to Portugal. At night he became intensely intoxicated, buying alcohol for every visitor to the restaurant, and meals for me. Or rather, putting it on his tab. He cleared out the cerveza refrigerator in one night with his gifts. Let’s hope he gives his money to Rosa and Tonio in return for that tab. More on this story later - whether or not all of my bank account has been emptied. Or if he pays me back for the pack of cigarettes, bottle of pepsi and tank of gas I bought him.

Fernando

Fernando is a writer from Spain. His novels detail his spiritual exploration. "My first novel is entitled 'Heart' and my next will be 'Mind', much like your book there, 'Eat, Pray, Love." He is 42 and looks to be about 30, and I ask him how his lives to present so youthful. He lives in Mexico six months out of the year (no doubt skillfully pulling lower-tax residency in a manner similar to Mr. Armani). He lives in the Sierra (Madre) mountains, without utilities, near a natural pool where he takes water and bathes. He told me: “You are sitting next to a very rich man. Not because I have much, because I hardly consume, and so I am rich. You know there are two different ways to go about it.” In Spain he teaches writing workshops, secludes himself in his writing, and one night a week, Sunday, he is a bartender, “to meet people, you go crazy if you’re alone too long..and…the money’s not bad.”

The first day, on our way to the sunset, Alicia and I passed him on the beach, reading “The Story of B” by Daniel Quinn, one of my favorite authors, and I stopped walking looked down at him, simply stating “Good book.” And Alicia took hold of the opportunity, “We are going to Punte COmeta to watch the sunset, are you coming?” And he said yes. He walked with us for aways, discussing a little about himself and asking about “Ishmael,” before seeing another friend and wishing us a beautiful evening. Alicia was very fond of him immediately. We saw him once more on the beach, when I left her alone to speak with him before we rushed off to another sunset.

I had been feeling bad about not seeing him on my days alone, when he walked up to me lunching alone before an hour before my collectivo taxi-truck departure. We split a tlyuda, and I learned all about his admirable rhythm, one I would very much enjoy having in the future. One that is quite possible. And I took his email for Alicia…and she’s very happy about this.

Hugo, the collectivo driver

Within five minutes of our broken conversation in Spanish, my collective driver asked me to marry him and move into his home in Mazunte. Now, there was still twenty minutes left in the drive, so I had to think of really good excuses in terrible Spanish to shrug off his comical and semi-serious offers. He told me he would very much like to have an alta Guerra for a wife, that I’d look good next to a short dark man. He was harmless, short and round-faced, laughing often, chewing nervously on a piece of plastic as I sat up front with him. He also told me it would be most prudent to take him back to California. We’d be very happy there, he was certain of it.

He told me I spoke Spanish well for my short stay, and I told him I thanked Mazunte. And he asked me what Mazunte taught me, and I told him:
I learned plenty, like “pinches moscos…puta madre….no me chingas…chupa mi pe-“ “No!No! Kati! Espanol de la playa es no bueno! No bueno!”

I was late to my van ride and he offered to drive me the 6 hours to Oaxaca. ”Vamos a Oaxaca, Kati! Bueno chica!!” He was so full of compliments and comical advances I was almost crying with laughter.
We left it at maybe, just maybe, I’d go dance with him in Zipolite when I return.
“Vamos a bailer a una discoteca cerca la playa en Zipolite a dos semanas.”

Baños language slip

After all of that, I got into the van, and the driver didn’t stop….for 5 hours. Nobody said a word, nobody complained, and apparently nobody had to pee. Well I did. When we finally got into town it was cold out, everyone was wearing big jackets and pants- and me? I got out of the van in short and a tube top, sporting flip-flops (it was 90 F in Mazunte!). Needless to say, people thought I was crazy. I was getting looks all around, I was tired, I had to pee like I never have before, and when I walked up to the 3 peso bathroom I had only 2 pesos. I told this to the woman and she said to me “Sin papel..si.” And my brain melted out of nowhere…I had no clue what she said to me…”Como??”…”SIIINNN PAAAAPEL….SIIIII” and here I really messed up….I felt like crying more than peeing now…looked at her and stated very bluntly “I DON’T UNDERSTAND YOU” not mean…just dramatic…overly dramatic…and turned on my heel….look at the driver waiting impatiently, said to him “OH WELL.” I immediately realized my error as the van backed up…oh…without paper….I can go in without paper…wow…I really need to pee. It was another two hours home. “Bienvenidos a México!”

And since then

I went to an amazing museum, Museo de Arte Prehispánico Rufino Tamayo (http://www.go-oaxaca.com/sights/tamayo_sp.html), to see old old old carvings and figurines and recepticles displayed for the first time as art not artifact. And I learned that it was quite common in Mexico thousands of years ago to breed and eat those funny looking small hairless dogs.

Today Doña Gude and I talked…about a lot…in Spanish, and it was awesome. First we talked about the local organic market I went to, Mercado Pochote, then about taking the bigger room in the house that just became available along with its books on Spanish verb tenses (score!), then about vegetables and how to sanitize them and where to buy the stuff to sanitize it and precisely where inside the supermarket down the street to find it, then about her awesome carrot salad, then about my family and then and then and then….it’s opening up.

This afternoon I think they decided to play a game of “Scare-ah the Guerra” and in a bowl of spiced soup I was served up a fishhead… “Gude….cabesa de pescado? Mira! Ojos!” Followed after by Mezcal and chile…because according to Don Ramiro, in Oaxaca Mezcal is medicine…for all that ails ya.

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Photos

our "pool"
never had water

one of many beach vendors
and one of many beach-parked boats