Zipolite, Oaxaca, Mexico
November 12, 2014
Latitude
15.6621° N
I know, and I have known, for a long time why I'm attracted to Zipolite. It brings me back to the origins of my travels in the 1970's when residents of Greek islands rented out rooms in their
cum beach towns had strings of wooden cabins running to the South China Sea, where monkeys were my neighbors and snakes hung from nearby trees. It brings me back to Thai islands in the early 1990's when there was still huge parcels of empty land, where cows still grazed and where people lived in small villages. In Mexico, it brings me back to the days, not that long ago, when Playa del Carmen 's Fifth Avenue--
Avenida Quinta--still was a dirt road and where a thirty minute's walk north of the main beach brought you to the end of town, to wild Caribbean beaches butting up against the Mayan jungle, where palm trees grew close to the sea and where you could actually spend a day almost alone.
homes to tourists or into stables that had been cleaned and converted to guest quarters. It brings me back to the East Coast of Malaysia in the 1980's when fishing villages
Zipolite brings me back to the days before global tourism took over a place and converted those lovely beach shacks into expensive, chic boutique hotels, before tourism went amok, before the days when the whole world seems to be traveling at the same time, to the same cool places, before the days when you have to wait in line for your turn to take a photo or battle the hordes of Tokyo as they plow through a tourist destination.
Zipolite brings me back to the "hippie" days of travel when things were just a whole lot quieter, back to the days, almost forty years ago, when travel what done by far fewer people.
Zipolite is the wild west, that lawless corner of Mexico where just about anything goes. You get a clue to this when you get into a taxi from the airport. The driver will always ask you where you're going then may offer to sell you
ganja--marijuana. Yeah, right. It's a very good thing to stay on the good side of the law, whatever that is, in this place.
Warm blue days leads to warm clear nights. The surf never stops pulsing--earth's rhythm in sync with the land around it.
I was in Zipolite to wrap up a two month trip, a trip that could be split into three chapters--Europe, the cruise and now Mexico.
After seeing Glenda off in Miami, I flew on to Mexico City. For a week I happily visited friends, scoped out possibilities for the winter of 2015 and enjoyed the buzz the city offers. But I'd also planned a more restrained end-of-trip--a week in my favorite Mexican beach town--Zipolite.
I love the Pacific side of Mexico, its wild coastline, water that's warm year round. I love the dramatic backdrop of
Sierra Madres that rise high above the coastline and crawl down the spine of Mexico. But mostly, as in the case of Zipolite, I love the sense of isolation this part of the coast provides. It's just a hard place to get to. Eighteen hours by bus from Mexico City via Acapulco; twelve hours by bus via Oaxaca or a short 55 minutes by air from the capital.
Zipolite isn't much more than a three-street town, population 931. Double that in winter when Americans and Canadians pour in. It doesn't have a street light and I've never seen a cop. Hotels have no TV, no air conditioning. There's no bank and no grocery store. Just last year an ATM machine was installed, but half the time it doesn't work. There are maybe ten restaurants, a smattering of bars and three small
tiendas. It's so far south that it's always hot.
Just this year did the three streets get paved. At each end of the street that runs alone the sea are a stretch of homes where locals live. The streets are dirt and scrub palms, almond trees and bananas grow willy-nilly in sandy back yards. Smaller hostels dot that landscape, dorm rooms for less than 100 pesos a night. Sometimes, instead of walking on the beach to
Playa del Amor, my favorite place to spend the day, I'll stroll through these "neighborhoods." Laundry is always hanging on lines, children and dogs are always around. Roosters crow. There always seems to be a small bonfire somewhere. It's always hot and usually very still in these parts of Zipolite. Sometimes, on the hottest days, the rotting smell of decaying vegetation fill the air.
I love these walks.
Zipolite is Mexico's only true nudist beach. Just about anything goes, but, as I've said earlier, it's always best to stay on the clean side of the law.
At this time of the year--mid-November--it only feels marginally different from mid-July when it's a bit more humid, not that humidity is the issue it is on the other coast, the Caribbean side when it always feel sticky. Only the arc of the sun is different.
By mid day of this marvelous week I'm always nauseous from sitting in the sun. I have to seek out shade. Almost no one sits in the sun, so the shady areas are always packed with people.
The Pacific fizzes green and blue. There is no moon during this visit so the sea is somewhat calm. At other times, when the moon is waxing, the surf crashes on shore and is actually dangerous. I never plan a visit during the full moon. For three days, it's far to dangerous to enter the water beyond your knees.
There isn't much to do in Zipolite, all of which is fine with me. Of course, I only come in the off-season, and off-off- season is even better. This is the off season, before Christmas when town, as it does during
Semana Santa, explodes with revelry. Off-season is always, always better and off-off even better.
When I do choose to leave Zipolite, I wait on the side of the road for a ride in a shared taxi or in a
camioneta--a large pick-up truck with a roof a seats on each side of the bed. The truck will stop, give me time to crawl into the back where, if I'm lucky, I find a seat. Otherwise I stand.
On a typical morning I can share space with a farmer transporting bags of corn, corn that's spilled over the floor of the truck. WE have to dodge the ears to get to our seat. There are always mothers on board with children. Sometimes there are small cages with chickens in them. If there was ever an accident we'd all be dead.
I love this about life in Zipolite, too.
In fact, I just love this place period. There's a controlled lawlessness about the place and it's a perfect place to spend a week or two. Beyond that I'm not sure. I think life would be a great challenge. There's the beach and the dazzling blue sky, the wild pounding surf and fine grained sand and a sky full of stars.
But that's about it. I'm afraid I would lose my soul in a place like this. Odysseus almost did when he met Circe. I took him a year to leave the place and move on, but at least he got away.
There are no seasons, really, to demarcate time. There's only the wet and the dry. I think life would become monotonous and boring. The town is to transient to sustain long-term friendships. I think I would always be an outsider.
It's great for a week, though. It's great for long, lazy days of doing nothing, of eating fresh fruit salad every mornings and freshly caught seafood at night. It's great to let the surf and sun ease away any tensions that have crept into busy lives.
I"m glad have no further allusions about the place.
On the last night I was there I sat on the sand at
Playa del Amor waiting for sunset. The bar above beach was playing a soft piano/saxophone jazz. It was low tide and waves quietly lapped the shore. There were only a few rogue clouds hugged the horizon. The sun, a fiery hot orange, slid through the cloud bank and slipped into the sea. It was quite the splash.
A day later I flew back to Mexico City and a day later still home to New York, to Thanksgiving and to the land of early ice and snow.
Zipolite had been a remarkable last chapter to a remarkable sixty-one days away, but I was not sorry to see it end.
It would be good to be home.
