Mazunte was once a backpacker's jewel, a fishing town of 500 with plenty of hammockspace along the beach, cheap eats, a couple of hostels, and a small hip constituency that made you feel cool. That was then. A couple of years ago, the demons known as travel writers discovered it and trumpeted it as a place where anyone can go to be cool. Seeing as a lot of people were reading the travel books and seeing as people like to be cool, Mazunte experienced something of a goldrush--backpackers flocked to the beach with entrepreneurs hot on their trail. In two years, the place ballooned to at least twice its size and its status changed from dusty little village to international backpacker obligation (like El Panchan in Palenque). This isn't bad, per se, but I soon realized that the locals were not going to give me free breakfast which was something of a disappointment.
As soon as I arrived, a random guy passing on a bicycle asked me if I was looking for something. I told him I wanted to camp and he recommended Mermejita, a beach across the mountain, for its seclusion and tranquility. I took his advice and made my way up the hill. I considered setting up in the forest atop the hill but there was a sign that marked the territory near "Punta Cometa" as sacred and I didn't want to be the object of any ancient Toltec rites so I kept moving.
I crossed the point and found what appeared to be a nice, fairly sequestered beach so I hiked down to investigate. The beach was a bit too sequestered as it turned out, judging by the fact that the entirety of its small population was walking about in the nude. I was turning tail for other waters when a Spainish couple came up to vehemently make my acquaintance. I got a nice history lesson about Punta Cometa, however I couldn't help but feel that we were not quite on equal terms, me being fully clothed and all. They said they'd see me later, I just smiled and made my way to Playa Mermejita.
I set up camp on a beachfront lot that was for sale and walked the beach, which I shared with one family, five vacation homes, and a little restaurant/cabana spot, closed for the season. I gathered firewood so I could brew coffee later, saved a kid's skimboard from a gruesome death upon a the rocks, and sat down at a little table at the abandoned cafe to dry my pants and write in my journal.
Just as I put pen to paper, I was interrupted by someone coming out of the woods. I looked up to find some friends from the Netherlands who are studying with me in Cuernavaca. We knew we were going to be in the same part of the country, but no cell reception made meeting up an impossibility, or so I had thought. They (Kristal and Leoba{spl?}) were lost--looking for the main beach--so I took them there and got them settled into a palapa full of young campers. In return they bought me dinner and some fancy cocktails which, because I'd forgotten to find an ATM earlier, was a most welcome gift. We met some students from UNAM in D.F. and passed the night with them. Everybody but me smoked a lot of pot, adding to the cloud that hovers above Mazunte every night (no doubt making the Dutch feel right at home).
Before we went to the local bar for reggae/ska night, Kristal and Leoba decided that they needed to buy some "mota" (weed) of their own and went looking for the nearest Rastafarian. They were gone for some time and when the Mexicans left for the bar, I went looking for them. I finally found them on a dark road evidently finishing up the deal with a squirrely fellow with wanna-be dreds and his short, shirtless minion. All was well until he asked for 40 pesos more to cover some other cost that I couldn't understand. Kristal didn't know what to do and tried to terminate the transaction. The squirrely one who I call Green Shirt didn't like that and tried to puff himself up to look threatening, demanding half the package of weed instead. This advance and threat of violence was terribly exciting to me. I know it's an uncommon sentiment, but fighting a skinny, smalltime drug dealer and his silent minion to protect some friends seemed like the perfect night's entertainment (there was another, fairly buff Mexican guy with me which tipped the scales well onto my side). Man, if I could intimidate malignant potheads for a living I would. After a few minutes of very savory tension, we opted to smooth things over and handed the pot to Green Shirt who ripped it in half in forced rage and stormed off into the darkness, Silent Minion bobbing along behind.
As we walked on to the bar, I was a little bit sorry that there had not been a fight, but (I am still a rational human being) I was more happy that Green Shirt had been appeased, because he knew where the Dutch were sleeping and self-conscious people do crazy things when their egos take a hit. But I sat and thought over an Indio about the whole thing. Everyone else was talking about how harrowing it was; I didn't say anything because it was the best part of my day. It's so appealing, standing in the way of a threat. It's appealing to look into the other guy's eyes and see how nervous he is that all of your body language is telling him that you're not worried about him. I'm not a fighter. I'm not going to go out on the street here and try to beat up miscreants vigilante-style. But that tension is pretty addictive. I guess I need to accompany more people on their drug-buying errands.
The cultural lesson for the night occurred when Green Shirt and Silent Minion showed up at the bar, obviously at another level of stoned-ness, and started dancing. I kept an eye on them, but I could tell that their attitudes were at a different levels as well. As the night passed, they made their rounds and told everyone involved in the night's narcotics activity that they were really sorry--the classic Mexican at a fiesta, wanting everything to run smoothly again, spouting every different form of "excuse me" and "I'm sorry" that the language offers (which are many). They didn't return the mota, but they were sorry.
I returned to my little camp on Mermejita satisfied with the day. Mazunte had satisfied very differently than San Agustín, but it had certainly made me rethink my initial prejudices against its intrinsic hipness. Though it was late, it was my last chance to have a fogata (campfire) for a long time so I burned my pile of firewood and feasted on a plump orange, the full moon, the roar of the surf, the whine of the jungle bugs, and the lightning out on the Pacific.
Then the lightning out on the Pacific became the lightning much closer to the beach.
So I snuggled into my hammock before the bottom dropped out and slept to the rhytm of the rain.
(photo: Mermejita by morning)
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