Puerto Encontrado June 2, 2022
On the morning after the tempest, the clouds break, allowing us the opportunity to survey the damage along the playa. Boards are removed from the glass windows of the bank, while sheet-metal roofs are being reattached to the beachside restaurants. They were removed prior to the storm lest they become shrapnel in the expected gale-force winds, which never materialized.
In the final hours before making landfall, Agatha, the earliest hurricane ever to hit Pacific shores, veered east and missed us in Puerto Escondido, instead barreling headlong into the small towns of Mazunte and Zipolite, some 40 miles away. I am not sure how to read the signs in the destruction this storm unleashed.
The truth of the matter is that our intended destination on the Oaxaca coast was always Mazunte, as it was recommended by so many to us, most especially Eugenio the Philosopher. Suddenly, this no longer seems to be a good housing option, at least judging from the reports, unless mud floors and collapsed palapas can be considered rustic charm. As of this writing, 11 are dead and more than 30 are still missing. The high winds and landslides destroyed homes and businesses, as well as the roads into Mazunte. The governor has declared a state of emergency, and more rain is on the way, so we are staying put in Puerto Escondido for the time being.
On the far end of the long beach at Punta Zicatela, the young surf crowd is undaunted by carnage further down the coast. These young tourists are brimming with confidence in their own coolness, photographing themselves in the throes of a spring break scene that never ends. Rental units for a thousand dollars per month are gobbled up by gringos with way too much cash to spend, despite the sparse amenities: poor internet, hotplate kitchenettes, little in the way of toilet seats or hot water. For Oaxaqueños, none of these are necessarily deal-breakers, except, of course, for the Yanqui prices.
It may be time for us to step away from the ocean and cross Route 200, in order to find where the actual Oaxaqueños reside and if perhaps there is room for two more. As it is, the pharmacies I was counting on to supply me with diabetes meds prove to be nothing more than facades, with inventories of suntan lotion, shampoo and aspirin. “Drugstore” is more of an aspiration than an actual thing at this outpost on the southern edge of the continent. I am informed that if I really want “drugs”, I should go back to Punta Zicaleta and ask for the guy with dreadlocks at the falafel-surf shack.
I was naive to think we can easily make a life here. This place was built for vacationers, not for the likes of us Vagamundos. The transient population washes in and washes out, like the tide. Apparently, those that leave take the toilet seats with them.