It was the start of a long day, a very long day. It was barely ten degrees, a bright, chilly and pine-scented morning in the gorgeous, mountain-town of San Christobel de Las Casas. Leaving the town behind us with some regret, we travelled on a wide tolled road, the first toll road we have encountered so far.  Descending rapidly to the lowlands, the temperature ascended just as rapidly and we were reaching for the car air-con within forty minutes.    

We hadn’t a definite destination in mind, just headed in the general direction of the beaches on the Pacific coast of Oaxaca. A French woman we met on a tour of the archaeological ruins at Palenque had raved about  the small seaside town of Mazunte so we thought we might go there. The only problem was that it was at least  an eight and a half hour drive without breaks. So we drove on, seeing how far we would get.

Stopping for something to eat in the middle of nowhere, the simple family-run restaurant was just a few tables covered in bright tablecloths.  An elderly man in a wheelchair and three women of various ages sat watching some soap on the TV when we poked our heads inside the door.  It wasn’t obvious whether it was open for business but they all sprang into action and produced a plate of scrambled eggs, some sort of creamed cheese accompanied by a basket of warm tortillas, a tongue-searingly hot sauce and mugs of black coffee.  

For the first time since we arrived in the country, the terrain became more typically ‘Mexican’, dry and dusty with scrubby red hills under a blindingly blue sky. Our main problem on this journey was not the speed bumps or the threat of protesters, this time it was the sheer number of pot-holes and craters in some sections. At one stage we were behind a police car which was swerving like a crazy drunk to avoid them with oncoming traffic doing the same dangerous dance.

It was well after 4pm and decision time. Mexico was not a country to be driving around in the dark. With no cafes in sight, we stopped at a  ramshackle, roadside shop in a stiflingly hot dusty town to discuss our options. An overweight teenager, swinging in a hammock and playing on his phone, could barely rouse himself  to take our money for a Coke and some chocolate. Mazunte was still at least two and half hours away but with sugar rushing through our veins, we decided to press on and booked a place to stay. The online reviews were good, claiming it was a quiet relaxing place between the two beaches on either side of the town.

Descending from the mountains that stretched almost to the coast, we arrived just after sunset. It was already dark and Mazunte was full of gringos, (many of them barefoot and scantily dressed) wandering in the middle of a narrow street full of cafes, restaurants and jewellery stalls. Turning up the unpaved road to our accommodation, pedestrians streamed down the hill and cars abandoned everywhere. The road was so narrow that we had to reverse to allow the traffic that was coming against us to pass.  We had arrived, not only at the busiest time of the evening but the busiest time of the week. Weekend crowds were returning  after viewing the sunset on the west-facing beach near our accommodation. Thankfully, calm returned within twenty minutes and the traffic disappeared.

 Our landlord wasn’t available because of the short notice and our room wasn’t ready either. We whiled away the time, sitting outside the shop next door and drinking cans of ice-cold beers ….probably the nicest and most welcome drink we’d ever had. It was after 7 pm and still thirty degrees.

Mazunte had a holiday, hippy vibe with many vegetarian and vegan eateries, full of ‘cool’ people of all ages…..our kind of place, at least for a few days. Hotels, bungalows and cabanas with thatched roofs stretched up into the hills, half-hidden among the coconut trees and the flowering shrubs. The pace of life was slow here, people ambled around in a heat haze. The cocktails were always on ‘special offer’, the coffee was strong and stands selling coco frio, cold coconut water drunk directly from the shell were everywhere.

The sweet period in Mazunte was early morning from 6am to 9am. After that it was time to look for shade until the late afternoon. It was a few days of sunrise walks, sunset swims and yoga sessions. Practising  yoga  on a thatched veranda overlooking the beach was like’ hot’ yoga without the need for heaters. Sweat trickled down my face, my hands slipped on the mat and I tried to catch a breeze from the Pacific Ocean. It was 8.30 am and already 29 degrees. Paulo, our instructor was Mexican but had spent five years living in Dublin and still had lots of friends there. On this trip, we have met so many people of different nationalities who have visited Ireland and all have only good things to say about it.

The coast to the east and west of Mazunte was gorgeous, full of beaches with something to suit everyone,  some were more suitable for surfing, others were perfect for swimming and snorkelling but all were ideal for lolling around.

It wasn’t just humans that flocked to this dusty, sun-baked stretch of coast. Whales also made their way from the frigid waters of Northern Canada to the warm seas of Mexico’s Pacific coast to breed and nurse their young usually from December to March. Several varieties  of turtles laid their eggs on the sandy beaches and there were several turtle research stations in the area.

It was hard for us to believe but it was winter season here, the coolest  and driest time of the year. The rainy season is between May and October but the temperatures begins to creep up in March until forty degrees is fairly common.  Jonathon, our landlord, pointed out where water runs down the hill between the bungalows and the unpaved road becomes a river. We stayed in a very unusual place, an architecturally designed cabana, angled to catch the breeze and stay cool without air con. It had a series of sliding shutters but was open on all sides so we could hear the squirrels scampering in the trees outside and the sound on the waves breaking on the beach down the road,

After four nights, it was time to go or we might never have left. The city of Oaxaca, about which we had heard so many good things, was calling us.  We travelled for about an hour on a highway going towards Acapulco with coconut stalls, cacti, flowering shrubs and bridges over (almost dry) river beds. The song Going Loco in Acapulco was going round and round in my head but soon we turned inland towards the hills, climbing again, ears popping and chewing on the dust that seeped into the car. Huge efforts were in progress to stop the steep mountains  from sliding onto the road, There are many  tailbacks as rock falls were being cleared. Road workers climbed like abseiling ants in high-vis jackets up the vertical rocky slopes, trying to secure the sides and prevent more erosion.

Oaxaca is in a central valley, at 1550m, ringed by mountains with brightly painted houses sprawling up the hills. The historic centre is an UNESCO World Heritage site, laid out on a grid system with handsome buildings, artisan craft shops and art galleries in sixteenth century buildings with stout walls, shady courtyards and subdued signage.

The centre was full of tree-shaded plazas, a magnificent cathedral made of the local rock which has a green tinge. There were churches and monasteries on almost every corner. The church of San Domingo was the most splendid, a solid baroque exterior with a sumptuous interior of gold, gilt and bas reliefs.

 As we wandered around the breezy, cobbled streets under festive buntings, homeless people thrust clinking cups under our noses, begging for change.  The stench of urine even in the main plazas was oppressive and one street away from the touristy centre, belching buses and honking taxis destroyed the peace. The shoe shine people, who were mainly weather beaten, middle-aged men, ignored us after glancing at our runners.  Oaxaca seemed a beautiful but complex place, with a significant underbelly of deprivation co-existing with the wealth and glamour.

It was a city of music with buskers of every sort and ability, playing and singing all over the place. A small orchestra set up outside the Santa Domingo church and  we stumbled across a parade of women in swirling  long dresses, dancing to the drumming of a marching band.

Oaxaca is also the culinary capital of Mexico. One of the more unusual ingredients was roasted grasshoppers (chapulines) which were sold in big basins on every street corner and eaten as a snack or as garnish or topping on dishes. They were regarded as a fantastic source of protein and may actually become the food of the future,  at least according to our guide on our walking tour of the city. We haven’t tasted them…..yet.  

In the botanical gardens which is famous for its huge variety of cacti and local flora from the region, the only available tours were in Spanish as the tours in English had been discontinued.  This is admirable in one way but slightly baffling in a city whose income is almost totally derived from tourism. At least half the thirty people on the tour had difficulty understanding the guide. Although we followed some of what he was saying with our rudimentary Spanish, we would have appreciated being able to fully grasp the intricacies of the garden.

Located just a few kilometres from Oaxaca City lies Mount Alban, one of the most impressive archaeological sites in Mexico. It was founded around 500 BC and continued for almost one thousand, three hundred years. It became so influential that it has been called the Rome of the Americas.  

The location of Mount Alban was spectacular with views of the valleys and surrounding mountains.  Oaxaca was spread out at our feet, looking much bigger than when we were in it. At this time of year, the site was sunbaked and dry with vast open areas between the temple complexes.  Shade was at a premium and people huddled under the occasional trees. Just as in Palenque, the museum was excellent in a beautiful modern building.

The ancient Zapotec built these complexes and ruled vast kingdoms.  They were known as ‘cloud people’ because they believed they originated from clouds and also because they lived at high altitude in areas that are often shrouded in clouds. Now the descendants of the Zapotec live in villages to the northeast of Oaxaca. It is possible to visit the area and hike from village to village.  

We organised a hiking trip in an office in Oaxaca, run entirely by women from the Zapotec. They were helpful and welcoming but drove a hard bargain. Eventually we settled on a price although no English speaking guides were available.

Tomorrow, we head  up into the clouds for some high altitude hiking as the villages are at 3200 m…..it should be an interesting breathless challenge

Thanks for reading

Hasta luego, amigos.