Puerto Escondido Part 5: Spite Gigs and Life on the Run in Mexico
When all is said and done, there are really only a handful of reasons anyone foreign ends up in Puerto Escondido for any sizable amount of time—to surf, to buy property and prepare for the Tourist Boom the coming of which we all recognize and fear, and to hide.
The landgrabbers are largely focusing their efforts on the southern edge of the Zicatela neighborhood, where they’re putting up bars and hotels and laying down cement roads over the sand and hoping to be on the leading edge of a wave that will wash over the town and leave it ruined like Cancun or Acapulco.
The people who are surfing and hiding are mostly in La Punta.
La Punta is a patchouli-scented neighborhood at the southernmost part of Playa Zicatela. Technically it is called Brisas de Zicatela or Santa Colotepec, but no one refers to it by these names. It is the Point—La Punta.
La Punta is a decidedly makeshift place. Many of the principal streets are made of sand, meaning any reasonable person who stays there for more than a couple of days gives up on shoes entirely. Shirts too. There are perhaps twenty bars and restaurants scattered about, most of which have a sort of Lost Boys-tree fort construction style.
Let me put it this way. When we had a maybe 5.0 aftershock one evening following a 7.3 earthquake earlier that day, one woman in the bar I was in leapt to her feet and asked if we should evacuate. The bartender just looked at her and waved his hand at the ceiling: “It’s all made of palm fronds. What’s the worst that can happen?”
This statement is a reasonable reflection of the attitude that pervades La Punta in general. There is no clock in La Punta. When I landed a weekly music gig at one of the barrio’s main bars, the manager just told me to show up every Saturday at sundown; a request I appreciated for its somewhat Old West flavor.
It took no effort on my part to land said gig.
At the time my apartment was some 90 seconds from the beach, so for every sunset I would go to the water’s edge and play for an hour or so. In the United States, whenever someone plays music in public people tend to give them a healthy amount of space as if they were wielding a machete rather than an instrument. But in Mexico, everyone on the beach gathers close and sits to listen, giving the occasional applause or thumbs up for encouragement.
It was after one of these impromptu performances that a man approached me and told me I could play at his bar anytime I wanted. He told me his name and gave me a confusing explanation of where it could be found, then we parted ways.
Later that night I was at a different bar—the bar where I ended up performing lengthy sets of Springsteen and the Box Tops and Michael Jackson and Adia Victoria and so on—where I met a man called Santiago who was the manager until he was fired some weeks later for having the parties rage too loud and too late. Because of his position, I thought that he might be able to better clarify where the bar I’d been invited to play could be found.
“You say his name is Ricardo?” Santiago sneered. “I hate that guy. He always complains to my boss that the bar is too loud.”
“It’s not a matter of like or dislike—I just want to play some music.”
“Forget his bar. You want to play? You’ll play here. It’s a much better location.”
It was true. And that’s how I got the gig. Sight unheard. Out of spite.
The bar—which as I have mentioned seemed to have no name (I’ve heard it called Touche and Zapoteca and I just called it The Bar On the Corner)—is a fine place indeed. It is situated on La Punta’s central intersection, and everyone ends up there. Mostly surfers, tourists, and criminals.
The staff—all kind, generous, even affectionate people—is comprised largely of people with, shall we say, questionable backgrounds.
Take, for example, Juan (names have been changed to protect the potentially guilty), who more or less took over the bar after Santiago was fired. Juan is from Guadalajara, which he had to escape after a series of tragedies pushed him into drugs.
“I had to get away from there, and I love to cook. So here I am.”
And he is an excellent cook. The flavors he produces from the bar’s rough outdoor kitchen are fantastic. Portobello burgers and sashimi and so forth, all spiced to appropriately sweat-inducing echelons.
And then there’s Jimmy, from Oklahoma. I have no idea what crime Jimmy committed, but I love his story.
“Yeah I had a couple of felonies and some problems with the family so I decided to jump ship. I’ve been here for nine months without a visa. I don’t even have a passport.”
I don’t know what Jimmy’s felonies are, and I don’t care. He is a friendly, outgoing fella with a good handshake and no intolerances. I know foolish laws, and I know foolish crimes, and I know good people. Jimmy and Juan and the rest of the crew are of this sort, foolishness be damned.