The Coast Road To Acapulco

  Acapulco, Mexico
Saturday, December 1, 2007

A speedboat buzzed across the conch-shaped bay and a multi-coloured parachute sailed by overhead. Its adrenalin-filled pilot called out greetings to a group of gringos who were loudly shouting encouragement from the beach. Before long another among their number would have an almost-identical feat of derring-do digitally recorded for posterity. Further out, a myriad of gleaming yachts sat at anchor in the sheltered water. Launches ferried their crews back and forth across the bay and children with body-boards rode ashore on the wash - that was as wild as it got in the Bahía de Zihuatanejo.

I sat down on the sand to dry off. A steady procession of flesh made its way along the Playa de la Ropa. Broadly, it comprised of two categories of norteamericano: couples in their twenties or thirties who'd flown down to Zihua for a weeklong romantic break; and snowbirds who were spending the season in México. The snowbirds strode confidently along the beach having long-since ceased to feel any guilt about body-hair, excess flesh or brown leathery skin while the pasty-skinned lovebirds who walked by looked self-conscious in newly-acquired bathing costumes.

Across the flanks of the green crescent of hills enclosing the bay spread variegated tiers of low-rise development - hotels and holiday-apartments no doubt. Closer at hand, a densely packed row of bars and restaurants fronted onto the beach, each with their own little empire in the sand. White-jacketed waiters scuttled to and fro attending to clients in beach-attire. 'Cuanta cuesta una cerveza?' I asked. The camerero held up the fingers on both hands and replied 'Diez pesos, señor'.

Evening fell and I returned to camp - a patch of earth in a backyard a couple of blocks from the beach. The sweet scent of bougainvillea combined with a sickly stench of human waste to fill the warm tropical air. My neighbour, a silver-haired gringo in a campervan, informed me that the municipality was in the process of upgrading the sewage system.

Jack kindly invited me over for dinner. Laurent, a Québecois who was parked next to him, supplied the wine. The two old boys talked while I, in the main listened. Laurent was a lovely man, a retired banker who was still coming to terms with losing his wife to cancer. Jack, on the other hand, was a complete rogue. He hailed originally from San Diego, California and had spent the best part of his life working as photographer for various publications of dubious repute. The happiest days of his life had been spent in Cuba before the revolution. Misty-eyed, he declared: 'Cuban pussy is the best in the world!'

Though he'd long since retired, Jack liked to keep his skills up to date. By day he would tour Zihua on a scooter, chatting up women and trying to talk them into disrobing for the camera. 'You shoudda seen the nineteen-year old I brought back here last week!' he bragged and made a kissing sound with his lips.

How come the old-timer with the tache gets the girl?

Early next morning I wandered down to the beachside bazaar in search of breakfast. A warren of narrow alleys hosted stalls dispensing beachwear, crafts and tourist trinkets. As I sat in a café eating huevos rancheros stallholders began to arrive and take down the shutters in preparation for a day's trading. A group of female sun-seekers on their way to the beach paused to browse at one of the stalls. Seconds later the morning calm was shattered by an outburst of shrieking. I looked up from my breakfast to see a panic-stricken herd of bikini-clad backsides wobbling back up the alley from whence they'd come. The source of the outrage, a rat of some considerable size, sat still as a stone in the middle of the passageway, until finally a broom-wielding youth appeared and took a swing at it. The startled rodent disappeared through a gap beneath a shutter and the hunt was on. I forgot about my breakfast and headed back to the campground to load up my bike.

Beyond the airport Highway 200 reverted to two lanes with an intermittent shoulder about half-a-metre wide on either side of the road. Contrary to my fears, traffic turned out to be mercifully light as I pedalled southeast into a hitherto unknown realm, of which the barren foothills of the Sierra Madre, shrouded in haze to my left, were to become an ever-present feature.

Coastal Lagoon Near Patatlán

Unknown creatures - snakes, lizards, rodents or birds - rustled around in the bone-dry scrub along the roadside; empty Coca-Cola bottles accumulated on the shoulder next to signs forbidding littering; the decaying corpses of dogs lent a tang to the air; and all the while the morning heat intensified. I rolled past groves of tall, slender coconut palms; through dusty villages prowled by squads of noisy, tire-biting mongrels; and by noon I'd made it as far as Petatlán, a hot, sweaty town of several thousand souls. Here, I stopped to eat lunch and kill sometime on the Internet and by half past two, having escaped the worst of the heat; I was ready to move again.

Beyond Petatlán the highway climbed gently and I caught sight of a body of water through the treetops to my right. Arriving at the crest of a hill, I ditched my bike and followed a rough trail through dense undergrowth for a short distance. The muddy brown waters of a mangrove-fringed lagoon unfolded before me. And on the far side of a thin coastal strip, beyond a verdant canopy of palm fronds, the ocean, shimmering blue, decanted its frothy-white vigour onto a desolate strand.

View Towards Papanoa

After gaining the coast at the hamlet of La Barrita the highway clung tight to the shore for several kilometres: a steep, scrub-covered hillside rising immediately to one side; and the broad blue expanse of the Pacific extending to the horizon on the other. The road climbed gradually before emerging atop a low promontory where a stunning prospect awaited: a broad arc of golden sand stretched away towards a distant point where the bare brown hills of the interior dipped down to meet the ocean; and the crescent of coastal shelf that lay between the mountains and the foaming surf glowed emerald-green with the foliage of coconut-palms.

As I glided past the plantations the day's work was drawing to a close. Harvesters walked homewards with machetes dangling from their belts while their women-folk transferred the coconuts that were stacked at intervals along the roadside onto the beds of pick-up trucks.

Two kilometres beyond the little town of Papanoa a track led down to the long lonely strand that I'd looked out upon not a couple of hours earlier. A fiery sun sank ever seaward, making silhouettes of half-a-dozen youths who were frolicking amongst the breakers. I let my bike fall to the sand and waded out into the warm frothy brine.

Twilight at Papanoa

I woke next morning early, to the rumble of the ocean and the irritating drone of greedy mosquitoes. Bleary-eyed, I moved along the empty beach, daylight advancing with my every step. Pelicans hovered on the breeze, their beady eyes scanning the waters for fishy prey. Every so often one of the winged predators would plunge headlong into the depths to emerge, after a few seconds, with a silvery breakfast lodged in its giant beak.

Bahía de Papanoa

A dull thud followed the sound of a clinking blade and I crawled out of my tent to investigate. A couple of groundsmen from the solitary hotel nearby were out harvesting coconuts. While one held a ladder against a slender palm-trunk his companion aloft wielded the machete; and one by one the coconuts fell to the sand. As I decamped and loaded up my bike the pair approached and we ended up shooting the breeze awhile. Before I departed the hombre with the machete sliced the top from a coconut; and I drank back its cold sweet milk.

Pelicans At Papanoa

Leaving Papanoa behind, I climbed sharply to a low crest; then swept down the far side of the hill to a junction where men in blue uniform were not-so-busy manning a checkpoint. Forsaking the main highway I followed a narrow byroad that twisted and climbed its way across a parched brown hillside before plunging down to the little harbour of Puerto Vicente Guerrero. A bright two-storey building, onto which the word 'Armada' had been fixed in black lettering, sat atop one of a pair of piers that jutted out into the bay. The boats of the navy were away at sea and life in the settlement that abutted the port seemed decidedly sleepy: old men swung around in hammocks wherever there was shade to be found while little knots of barefoot children ranged the dusty lanes. My enquiries took me out of the village along a bumpy dirt track.

From the brow of a hill I looked down upon La Playa Escondida: a pale crescent of sand curling gently around the edge of a broad cove enclosed on either side by twin headlands. A line of wooden shacks extended along the length of the beachfront and alongside each of these structures palapas - open-sided shelters with a roof of palm fronds - had been erected to offer relief from the sun. Arriving at the beach I drew up at the closest establishment. Aside from a large rooster, which strutted imperiously across the makeshift floor, the restaurant seemed deserted; then suddenly, from the shade beneath the palapa a hammock rustled and la dueña appeared with a menu in hand. I ordered a beer and sat down to contemplate the strand. Along its entirety there was not a soul to be seen.

The weight of the ocean crashed in repeatedly around me. Sometimes I would elude its power by diving into a wave just as it was on the verge of collapse; sometimes I would resist the tyranny, standing Canute-like before a breaker until I was overwhelmed with a boom, dragged along with the surge and then dumped on the shore like a limp rag-doll; and at other times I'd venture further out and just float on my back and gaze up at the azure sky - though the sun was high - and think how wonderful everything was. As I scuttled over the beach its pale powdery sand would scald the soles of my feet. I'd sit down awhile and eat or drink or write my journal and then, when the heat of the sun had dried the drops of liquid from my skin, I'd scythe across the sand and into the warm embrace of the sea once more. And so time passed until it was three o'clock: time to settle my bill; and time to leave the 'hidden beach'.

I retraced my route along the bumpy lane, through the sleepy village, up the steep incline above the port and down the parched slopes on the other side of the hill until I arrived at the checkpoint and the junction with Highway 200. By the entrance to an adjacent school a line of students neatly dressed in blue and white uniforms waited for transport to their native villages. I checked the map - fifty kilometres separated me from a bed for the night.

The road was straight and even and the terrain was flat. Lush palm groves alternated with scrubby cattle ranges and, every so often, the grey waters of a distant lagoon came into view across the treetops; while, to my left, the unbroken barrier of the Sierra Madre stretched off beneath an ever-present haze. Traffic was sporadic: camionetas - pick-ups with benches and a sun-awning mounted on the rear - filled with students who would wave and shout greetings to me as they passed; military trucks lined with green-helmeted soldiers who were too engaged in holding their rifles upright to acknowledge my waved greetings; and the occasional long-distance bus en route to either Acapulco or Zihuatanejo. After a while the friendly school-kids ceased to pass; and I stepped up the pace.

Time passed and the shadows of palm trees grew longer. Machete-carrying pedestrians began to appear along the roadside, signalling the end to another working day. Slowly a cleft revealed itself in the chain of mountains ahead; and the highway began a gradual climb. As the sun dipped beyond the horizon somewhere to my rear I pedalled over a bridge spanning a broad but shallow river. On the far side of the water lay my destination, the town of Tecpan de Galeana.

I awoke the following morning with my head groggy and my skin ablaze - the effects of sunburn and dehydration. It was eight o'clock and from the street outside came the sound of an amplified voice - the inane blabber of an advertising man. I turned up the overhead fan and tried to sleep but it was no use; the voice jabbered incessantly about the merits of branded washing powder. Finally I could take no more; and, still in my briefs, I strode out onto the balcony ready to do battle. Already the street was thick with people on their way to do the business at the nearby market. My oppressor was operating from an old VW Beetle with a mounted loudspeaker, which was parked below. He sat in the car - windows wound-up firmly - reading a newspaper while his taped announcements tortured everyone within a hundred-metre radius. Enough was enough and it was time he moved on! I tried to communicate these sentiments through the use of vigorous hand gestures; but succeeded only in providing amusement to a group of passing schoolgirls. With as much dignity as I could muster I retreated inside my room.

Banda el Recodo

I laid up for the day enjoying liquid refreshment, the soothing down-blast of a ceiling fan and satellite TV. I flicked between ESPN's coverage of the Champions' League and BandaMex, a channel dedicated to Mexico's favourite musical genre.

Like a greyhound from a trap I bolted from Tecpan the following morning, intent on reaching Acapulco by nightfall. The scenery was not dissimilar to that which I'd seen two days previously: to the left, the haze-covered foothills of the Sierra Madre; to the right, the occasional hint of a coastal lagoon; and on either side of the highway, where the trees had been cleared, was pastureland. At intervals rivers came down from the hills to feed the lagoons and the highway would pass over a bridge. I'd pause awhile to look down on tranquil waters where pink flowers colonised the margins and wading birds stood sentinel for passing fish; and then be on my way.

One sleepy roadside settlement gave way to another. I would slow down for the ramps and then pedal hard to outpace any mutts who fancied their chances, swinging a boot if necessary; or if I felt thirsty I'd pull in by a shop, buy a drink and sit beneath a palapa making chitchat with whoever was - often literally - hanging around. Sometimes as I pedalled through a village mischievous kids would call out 'gringo'; and I would smile and pedal on, figuring that they could be throwing stones at me instead.

By early afternoon I'd covered the sixty kilometres to Coyuca, a bustling town of several thousand souls set on the southern bank of the Rio Coyuca. After a bite to eat I spent an hour or so in the air-conditioned comfort of an Internet café before setting forth on a back road bound for the coast. The winding byway carried me through shady palm-groves close to the riverbank. The further I travelled the more alluring the broad body of water, shimmering beyond the tree-trunks, became; so when I came upon a wooden shack that styled itself a restaurant nestling among the trees I dismounted and went in search of cerveza. A hitherto somnolent youth sprung from a hammock and asked me to choose my poison. Cradling a cold bottle of Indio I ambled over to a small wooden dock where a bucket containing half-a-dozen lifeless fish lay unattended. Beneath the great blue bulk of the distant mountains the channel emerged from amidst twin curtains of lush green foliage and swept gently around to the pier whereon I stood before continuing its progression to the sea.

Fisherman At Laguna de Coyuca

A sudden splash startled me; and I looked down to the foot of the dock where a strange glistening creature had just come to the surface. The man wore a snorkelling mask and cradled a large spear gun on which a fish was impaled. He placed the fish into the bucket, re-positioned his mask and disappeared beneath the water again. Satisfied that crocodiles were no longer a threat I disrobed and plunged into the warm, murky depths.

Boatman At Laguna de Coyuca

After splashing across the river a couple of times I dried myself off and went to fetch another beer. On my return to the dock I found a well-dressed man who introduced himself as Ramirez, a dentist who lived locally. He'd come to collect fish that he'd ordered for a barbeque that he was hosting. Ramirez went on to tell me the Rio Coyuca had been used as a location for some of the scenes from the movie Rambo: First Blood, Part Two in which a heavily-armed Sly Stallone travels to Indochina to take on Charlie. Although I hadn't actually seen the movie I could see how, with a little imagination and a lot of conical hats, the tropical Rio Coyuca might pass for 'Nam.

After declining an invite to Ramirez's party I headed off on my bicycle once more. A couple of kilometres further on the road ended abruptly on the northern shore of a broad channel linking Coyuca Lagoon to the ocean. By a dock boatmen waited to carry passengers across the water. I agreed a price with one of their number and lifted my bike into his launch; and then we were off.

The sun's last rays, reflecting off the inlet's choppy surface, imbued my passage with a golden hue. Boats buzzed across the water; pelicans perched on mooring-posts or circled overhead; and, along either shore, humble homes nestled beneath the palms. A dock came into view, we approached and a short time later I was standing at the limit of La Barra de Coyuca, a twenty-kilometre long sandbar that separates Coyuca Lagoon from The Pacific.

Dilapidated buildings, run-down hotels and graffiti-sprayed block walls lined the arrow-straight road running down the centre of la barra. Mean-looking youths sped by on motorised scooters. Free-range mongrels loitered mid-thoroughfare forcing me to brake or swerve on a couple of occasions. The dereliction continued unabated for several kilometres while to the west, beyond the barrier of palm that blocked my view, the sun was setting. Slowly, twilight fell, and with it came signs of the prosperity afforded by the tourist dollar: comfortable-looking hotels; appealing restaurants; tree-lined avenues filled with expensive cars; and an absence of litter or graffiti.

At Pie de la Cuesta where the road from la barra joined the now-busy Highway 200 I flagged down a bus. The driver nodded his assent and I scrambled to force my fully loaded bike through the rear doors of the bus; but it got stuck and would not budge; until a couple of passengers within, seeing my predicament, took hold of the handlebars and pulled the bike up inside.

As the bus slowly made its way through the suburbs of Acapulco I acquired an admirer, an attractive woman of around thirty who questioned me closely about my journey. She herself had spent the day on the beach at Pie de la Cuesta along with her younger, prettier sister and the sister's friend, a forty-something fair-haired man whose face had seen too much of the sun. I addressed the man but he did not understand and asked me to speak English, a language of which he himself appereared to have only a limited grasp. It transpired that he was down from Quebec on a week's vacation.

Three of four times during the journey my newfound admirer asked me for my impressions of city. Each time I would look out of the window, slightly nonplussed, and see a hillside full of lights and reply 'Hay muchas luces' (there are lots of lights) and she would affect to be highly amused at my hilarity. When finally, we arrived in the city-centre and I was manoeuvring my bicycle towards the bus's rear exit she thrust a piece of paper into my hand, looked me deep in my eyes and implored me to call her. As I wandered off towards the zócalo I wondered 'What price a bit of fun?'