Puerto Escondido Part 3: the Donkey Show
As we left the party—which was at a weird outdoor spot called la Piedra—Cortez speculated as to whether it was safe for us to separate and walk home alone as the unpaid pimp could be lurking anywhere. I was of the opinion that they had moved on to other, more profitable targets.
“But hell,” I said, “I’ll walk with you as far as the highway.” On the other side of which Cortez lived.
“What about you? Then you have to walk home alone.”
“I speak Spanish. And besides, I’m a white dude and the cops are less likely to fuck with me. We have different situations here.” He agreed with this logic.
The day hadn’t been all police and prostitutes and pimps and racism. The morning had been a more typical day in Puerto—fishing and beer.
Two friends–Diana (model) and Jared (photographer)–who were visiting from Seattle joined me at noon for a charter with a fisherman called Eduardo, aka “the Burro.” He was a part of a fishing collective that also operated a beachfront restaurant aptly named El Pescador. We’d met him the previous day when he approached us about fishing, and after some language confusion (my Spanish diminishes whenever I am hungry or tired or hungover, and I was all three) we agreed to head out the following afternoon for the sum of two-thousand pesos. I believe this price was actually rather high, but I was just eager to get on the water, and “the Burro” seemed like an amicable fellow with whom to spend several hours on a boat.
When we arrived at the planned time, the Burro was nowhere to be seen. For a moment we thought we’d lost our two-hundred peso deposit when we heard a gregarious shout—“Hey American amigos! Are you looking for the Burro?”
This man turned out to be Maurice, a friend Eduardo had asked to come along to help with translation, and who insisted repeatedly that he did not drink while simultaneously helping himself to as many of our beers as he could get his hands on. We drank many, many beers.
Eventually we were on the boat and out on the water and I was suddenly struck by the feeling of being very much in my element. Shirtless in the hot sun, drinking beer and chain smoking and talking about fishing and women and the mountains and psychedelic mushrooms and the sea with men who knew how to fish and drink and shoot the shit. It was the life I was born to live, and goddamn if I wasn’t enjoying living it.
We didn’t catch any fish. Everything from tuna to dorado to sailfish to marlin had been discussed but did not materialize. While Eduardo (“The Burro!” Maurice would holler joyously. “This is what we call the Donkey Show!”) seemed very much upset at his inability to deliver fish, I was quite familiar with the problem and in fact went into things with rather low expectations. When Eduardo had initially approached us about fishing, he suggested that we head out at 7AM. My friends and I, however, knew that we would be drinking that night, and that an early morning was not on the menu. When I proposed noon, I didn’t need to see the Burro’s skeptical face to know that the timing would not be right. I know how fishing works, and how it becomes much more difficult when the sun is high and hot and the fish are low where it’s cool.
So no fish, but no matter. There were whales and leaping manta rays and at some point Eduardo dove into the water and actually captured a massive sea turtle, which he hauled onto the boat for closer examination. Admittedly, this struck all of our Seattle, environmentalist sensibilities as a rather disagreeable thing to do. But, also admittedly, it was quite impressive.
At some point our realization that there were no fish to be had crossed paths with our realization that we were almost out of beer, so Maurice suggested that we cruise over to Playa Angelito where we could swim and hit up the Oxxo, which is the local equivalent of a 7-11.
Playa Angelito is a cove that is primarily enjoyed by locals and Mexican tourists. It’s a postcard-perfect spot with calm water for swimming and a few bars. Sometimes it has a rather laid-back atmosphere, but today it was a chaos of boats coming into then launching from the shore, families playing with loud glee, beach vendors shouting and attempting to hawk their wares, and drunk, somewhat startled looking gringos.
Eduardo piloted the boat to shore, then Maurice and I leapt out to acquire the essential supplies of beer and cigarettes and orange juice. We relaunched then anchored to swim, and Jared used what seemed to be a massive camera condom to take photographs of Diana underwater. After a time we pulled up anchor and went around the point to Playa Carrazilillo then Playa Coral.
Eventually the beer, the sun, the swimming, and Maurice’s attempts to sell us real estate in increasingly incoherent Spanglish began to wear on us, and it was time to head in. Back to El Pescador we went, where money was paid, photos were taken, eager handshakes and hugs exchanged, and I had what I must say was one mean plate of Camarones del Diabla—prawns in a spicy sauce.
At that point it was maybe four in the afternoon. A couple hours later I would run into Cortez and we would embark on the aforementioned night of debauchery.
But before that, the mezcal tasting.
Just another day in paradise.