The Edge of Puerto Arista December 28, 2021
The coastal plain around Puerto Arista is cattle country. Acres and acres of grassy plots, lined with stately mango trees that look pruned. I have never seen so many mature mango trees, some forming walls, others in lined orchards, each absolutely filled with green fruit. These Haciendas must be owned by the wealthiest ranchers in Chiapas, and, they look like they are doing very well indeed. The neighboring village of Cabeza del Toro, meanwhile, looks as poor as any other. Locals confirm that the ranches are under new ownership, and many suspect money-laundering. At night there are young men driving nice trucks through downtown Puerto Arista, dining finely with costumed wives and fat spoiled children. The men have manicures where their callouses should be. Yes, these cattlemen are doing well. I only wish I could find a decent piece of beef in San Cristobal.
Regarding the downtown of Puerto Arista, it is tiny, consisting of a few hotels, a cement sea turtle, a lighthouse, and a sea of white plastic tables along one paved street. The happy diners are all eating the same thing—Tlayudas, a specialty of nearby Oaxaca, which are giant toasted corn-tortilla tacos filled with chicharron fat, carne asada, cheese, frijoles, salsa. For the few who can afford to spend more, there are shrimp and Robalo filets (Common Snook), and there more than a few who can.
To escape the next barrage of church bombs in San Cristobal, we have driven west on Christmas Eve, first to Tuxtla-Gutierrez, descending over 5000 feet in an hour, passing miles and miles of hillside corn rows, browning in the heat. From the congested capital city, we continue south on the 190 for about 2 hours, passing through parched savannah and sparse settlement, before reaching the coastal range and a final descent to the floodplain of Tónala, a city of 80-thousand residents. This is the last place to find groceries. In fifteen more miles, the Pacific Ocean appears.
A deceptively violent surf crashes against a vast beach of grey basaltic sand, the stuff of ocean plates. The subduction zone along the coast here at Puerto Arista remains seismically active, with this “Maya Block” of the North American Plate racing westward to catch up with California. Not far offshore was the epicenter of the 2017 quake, a 7.5-whopper that was felt from Oaxaca to Quintana Roo.
The scars of past events are evident in our hotel, actually the home of Olga and Manuel, in which none of the steps are level and the balcony leans noticeably. Rooms are cheap, 200 pesos a night, and our host’s garrulous hospitality comes free of charge. The rooms are also free of internet, hot water, and toilet seats. Olga compensates with enthusiastic recommendations for cheap meals and transportation to our next destination—Boca del Cielo, located 10 miles down the coast.
The Mouth of the Sky is actually a brackish estuarial lagoon, stretching the length a sandy spit all the way back to Puerto Arista. The sleepy town on the mainland comes to life each morning around the municipal boat ramp, as 12-foot skiffs ferry vacationing Mexicans across a 3-minute stretch of water. Powerful outboard engines lift the bows over cross-wakes. Others boats ride exceedingly low in the water with twenty cost-savers. Ready to meet them all is a string of Doñas, lining the interior shore with palapas and tables and cold drinks and hot food. Each Doña has a prior arrangement with the teenage boat captain to deliver hungry customers, but we are not obliged to accept her invitation. Seizing on this technicality, we ditch her, saying goodbye to the loud Banda soundtrack, noisy families, boisterous water sports—in short, everything that makes Mexican vacations so wonderful—and walk south over the sand dunes.
A mere 50 yards from the rollicking Christmas party on the lagoon is a different world. The roaring calm of the sea. This is the edge of the continent, where the sun will soon sink from the winter sky, aflame like a molten Mars. Yet very few people are on the beach. The dark sand burns the feet. The water is warm, but no one ventures further than the shallows, as the current is strong and rogue waves are frequent. In the end, Pacific only refers to its appearance, not its true nature.
Back in Puerto Arista, the warm winter sky is patrolled by frigate birds, vultures, and brown-and-white-speckled Mexican eagles, while the wide beach is patrolled by a fleet of ATV’s. Young men drive the new vehicles back and forth, to and fro, like they were gypsy taxis with free gas, offering irritated beachcombers a lift to wherever. There is not anyplace really to go, and there are simply too many ATV’s to make this business affordable. Yet they keep driving up and down the beach, waving and chatting to one another. They all know each other well, even exchanging money, and it is clear that these machines probably all belong to the same owner. Who is he, and what is the real purpose of this mercenary fleet? Might this be a private coast guard? The mother of my anonymous source overhears one young rider say to another, “Cambiar el cartucho,” or, “Change the ammunition clip.”