Huatulco August 12, 2022
We are on a reconnoissance mission: To find big waves for Oli and explore a teaching opportunity for Vanessa in the southeast coastal Bahias de Huatulco. Upon arrival, we quickly discover that there are neither waves nor jobs, but, as there is no such thing as failed reconnaissance, we push ahead in order to examine strange new lifeforms and civilizations, to boldly go where many have gone before.
Someday there will be a brand new highway that connects Oaxaca City with the Pacific Coast in just 3 hours, making the way for easy weekend trips to the beach, but Oaxaqueños have been waiting for this for 2 decades. AMLO has recently promised that the project will be done by the end of this year, despite the mountainous excavation and Himalayan mismanagement faced thus far. AMLO promises so much.
In the meantime, all routes to the sea are long and circuitous. Ours is an 8-hour overnight bus trip that avoids the worst of the hills by steering east as far as the isthmus region near the border of Chiapas, Mexico’s thinnest strip of land between the Gulf and Pacific. AMLO envisions a canal here someday, but, again, he has many visions. For half the price, one could shave an hour from this drive to Huatulco by taking a nauseating van ride over the Sierras on a small road that is frequently subject to landslides and closures. Instead, we choose the comfort of the ADO express, with complimentary air-conditioning, bathroom, random immigration inspection, and some badly dubbed Ghostbusters reboot.
Huatulco also has an airport, which might be unexpected in a town of only 40,000 residents, at least until consideration is given to the certain signs of modernization and rampant growth in recent years—marinas filled with luxury yachts, beachside resort hotels, and Americanized infrastructure. Since the pandemic, disillusioned Canadians have been moving here in droves, joining the ever-growing throng of wealthy Mexican vacationers, as can be identified by the chubby petulant children bounding about the swimming pools and buffet lines. Such corpulent bathers would be culled by the violent surf further west, but here they survive by throwing fits in front of the staff. Survival of the fittest.
Locals reside mostly in the vicinity of Crucecita, a modest village about a mile from the water, with a beautiful central plaza and a surrounding grid of streets named after flowers. To reach the nearest beaches, one can hike over a green mountain that has been gouged in half to make way for a spacious walkway, or one can simply take a 35-pesos taxi around the hill. The fares in this town are kept low because there is a commercial constituency of beachside businesses that rely on foot traffic from Crucecita—unlike Oaxaca City, where it costs 70 pesos to take a cab for a just few blocks.
Summer days in Crucecita are hot and sticky, extending midday siestas for those fortunate enough to be near a fan. Once the sun sets, however, the streets and plaza come to life with live music, dancers, trinket-sellers, sports bars, karaoke, curbside tlayudas, and double-decker tour buses promising some premier mezcal experience. The lobster-shaded tourists shriek with anticipation, arms raised in surrender to the night.
The ultimate draw, of course, are the beaches, nestled in a series of coves between rocky headlands. The Chahué club costs 120 pesos for the day, with palapa, lounge chairs, and even a tennis court for those wanting to experience heat stroke. There are no big breakers, but this does not diminish the dangers for the unwary. The current is strong, the undertow drops away sharply, lifeguards are vigilant with their red-flag warnings. The coarse sand fries bare feet like griddle cakes. The ocean is almost bathwater temperature. Oysters and crabs cling to the rocks. Canadians dangle in water wings. The scene is uncluttered and tranquil, but a brand new highway, as still promised, should change this. So would a canal.