Puerto Escondido Part 2: Hago Sexo
It was an accident, discovering how to attract a vulture within photogenic distance.
I had been stretched out on the beach for some hours, alternating between reading and leaping into the ocean whenever my skin began to simmer underneath the delightfully murderous heat of the midday sun. At the moment this particular stretch of beach was abandoned, as it often is. Populated primarily by erosion-worn rock formations reminiscent of the surface of the moon, it’s got a real Planet of the Apes, Forbidden Zone kind of thing going. It’s desolate and beautiful. The perfect place to start a cult.
So I was dozing on this paradisical expanse, nearly asleep, when I heard a flutter near my head. I opened my eyes and there it was, ambling toward me—a hungry vulture—its scarlet head as ragged and ugly as a pile of discarded foreskins. I leapt up and so did the vulture—I, shocked at its boldness; it, shocked at my vitality.
Another variety of vulture scavenges the beaches of Puerto Escondido—the police. At night they roam looking beach-goers, who they search without explanation hoping to find a joint with which they can justify an arrest. Technically, marijuana is decriminalized in Mexico. Actually, there’s nothing technical about it—weed is decriminalized. Up to five grams, I think. But the policia care not and will promptly cart you off to the station.
They are, in fact, not interested in the dope. They’re interested in money, and for a one-thousand peso “fine” you will be released without fanfare.
It’s a petty, brutish way to skin a cat, and while I despise them for it, I also understand it. Mexico is not an easy place to earn a living, so skinned the cat must be.
As I was a frequent beach-wanderer, I was also a frequent target of their searches and therefore always left my weed at home. It happens the same way every time—they roll up on their little beach cart bristling with machine guns, roust you or your posse to your feet, then start the search. No amount of “hey I’m just sitting here doing nothing” will dissuade them. They will look through every pocket and in your cigarettes. They do not search your shoes because in Puerto no one wears shoes. It’s usually best to keep your mouth shut and wait for it to be over. It only takes a minute, and as long as they don’t find anything they’ll move on without issue.
I’ve been through this process many times, and after two months of it the police recognized me and seemed to do it more out of habit than anything else.
The one person I’ve known to get a more thorough hassling was a writer from Memphis called Cortez. Like myself, he’d become fed up with personal and national madness back home, and had come down to work in the peace of paradise.
Usually once the cops give you a go over, they’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night. Not Cortez.
One evening, for example, he and I were searched as we were on our way back to my place to smoke a joint. That should have been the end of it.
Some hours later, I popped into a corner store to get some beer. When I came out Cortez was surrounded by a gaggle of seven or eight cops—more than double the usual trio you’ll encounter—who seemed dedicated to giving him a hard time.
He was targeted for three reasons. First, because he’s a living, breathing human within 200 feet of the beach. Second, because he’s black. Third, because he was accompanied by what was, quite obviously, a prostitute.
Here I must mention that Cortez didn’t realize she was a prostitute. Or, he did by then, but had wandered into the situation rather by accident. He had swooped her up about an hour earlier under the assumption that she was just another night wanderer looking for a good time. Cortez speaks little to no Spanish, so it was up to me to maintain conversation.
I asked where she was from – Veracruz. I asked what she did for work in Veracruz.
“Hago sexo,” she said. “Soy trabajadora sexual.”
I gave her a good look for the first time. Petite and pancaked with makeup, I realized that she had done a reasonable job of making herself appear perhaps thirty when in reality she was more like fifty+. Her skirt was so short that the whole show was on display.
“Cortez,” I said. “How do you know her?”
“I ran into her earlier at the market.” They were holding hands.
“You do realize that she’s a working girl?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean if we’re going to continue to spend time with her, we’re going to have to pay her.”
At this she nodded somewhat enthusiastically and took my hand. “Si. Hago sexo.”
Cortez swore.
It was right about then that I spotted her muscle. He was shadowing us about two blocks back.
“Keep your eyes open,” I said.
“What’s up?”
“Her dude is following us.”
At this point it struck me that we could have some trouble. She had spent a good amount of time with us and had nothing to show for it.
“Es tu hombre?” I asked, nodding in our tail’s direction.
She was quiet for a moment, then with some reluctance she said si.
“Tenemos una problema?”
This time the silence dragged out. Then with an even higher degree of reluctance, “Si.”
It was at this point that I suggested we leave the quiet, unlit streets of the Tamarindos neighborhood and return to bustle of Zicatela.
This all led up to Cortez’ second, more aggressive encounter with the police. Which, in a way, was possibly helpful. Their harassment almost certainly helped to ward off the pimp, unbeknownst to them. The irony.
Once they cleared off we rid ourselves of our petite companion and ducked into an all-night party where we knew we would be safe in the presence of some hundred molly-fueled tourists.