We knew that when we arrived in Mexico our ‘holiday proper’ would begin. We’d decided to head straight to Puerto Escondido, which we’d visited three and a half years ago during a month-long trip through Mexico. Home to the Mexican pipeline, PE had drawn us in and installed itself firmly on our list of favourite spots for surf, sun and relaxation.
Back in 2008, we’d ended up at a quirky hotel down a quiet cobbled street leading to the main fishing beach, Playa Principal, north of the much busier Playa Zicatela, and this time we would be heading straight back.
Hotel Flor de Maria is run by the very laid-back and cool Paul and Joanne. Paul, from Slovakia, burst out from the communist state to become a rock photographer in California, misbehaving at the Chateau Marmont, and Joanne, from Toronto, ran a Peruvian restaurant. They’d met in Escondido when it was a small town of 600 with a campsite that attracted hippies and travellers and they had planned to retire here, buying a home in the hills above Zicatela, before the previous owners convinced them to take on the hotel.
Our arrival coincided with Easter, which is a very big deal in Mexico. Unlike the more pious parts of the country, in Puerto Escondido it seems that Santa Semana is very much focused on the fiesta, and the beach was awash with Mexicans. Playa Principal was dominated with families, boogie boards, huge picnics, people selling shaved ice, prawn ceviche, corn and fruit, and fathers standing beachside, proudly videoing their children playing in the surf.
Playa Zicatela was where the real party was at, with hundreds of teenagers on the loose, drinking Micheladas (essentially the mutant spawn of Bloody Mary and beer) by the litre, dancing at the Sol and Corona tents, throwing themselves into the violently surging sea and keeping the lifeguards busy.
Zicatela came as a bit of a shock to us. Everyone seemed younger, but perhaps we are just getting older. On one of our first nights, we sat in a beachside restaurant pondering the ages of our fellow patrons. It soon dawned on us that with ten years between us and a 24-year-old, 15 between us and a 19-year-old, it is feasible that we could be the same age as their parents. IF THEY HAD A BABY WE COULD BE THE SAME AGE AS ITS GRANDPARENTS!
As we walked back from dinner on Zicatela, we saw a group of young girls enter the local ‘nite’ spot, and pondered our situation. I asked Matt if he thought Acapulco would be more “sophisticated”, quantifying that by sophisticated I meant expensive and older. Matt, always eager to join a party, always worried he might be missing out on something, said that he was going to suggest we drop in for a nightcap but then realised he just wanted to go back to the hotel and to bed.
I guess in London we were part of a group of friends similarly stuck between being young and being grown-ups. Most are adopting the trappings of adulthood at an alarming pace, with marriage, mortgages and babies proliferating, but there are still plenty holding the line. Perhaps Zicatela is the harbinger of things to come – will we find ourselves similarly tribeless back in Gisborne? Has the whole of our generation in New Zealand wed and bred?
Oh well, in the land of manana, we’ll worry about that tomorrow.
Later in the week I stifled a yawn as the Corona tent kicked into full throttle - the three-year-old hanging out with her mum beside us was putting in a better effort than me.
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