Puerto Escondido Part 7: Wild Dogs and the Spice on the Taco

One thing that is not imaginary are the packs of wild dogs that roam Puerto Escondido.

As far as strays go, they tend to be an amicable bunch of curs. I’ve visited less hospitable places that are more prone to savagery—like Denver—where there are signs warning that wild dogs are to be avoided and even feared. This is not the case in PE. There they are, generally speaking, friendly at best and disinterested at worst.

Wild dogs are usually driven to attack due to a dangerous fusion of starvation, pack mentality, and the Will To Survive, but not in Puerto Escondido. It’s too hot for that sort of thing. Mostly the dogs lie around all day, moving with the shade, then wander the streets and the beach at night in search of inebriated tourists who are willing share whatever food happens to be on hand.

Consistently found outside my fence, for example, was a well-disposed mutt—ravaged by mange—that would spend the entire day lying motionless in the street, the only sign of life the lazy wag of his tail that would wave hello whenever he’d hear me approaching. Around dusk when the day finally began to cool he would muster the energy to stand, taking up post at the gate like some starving sentinel. At night he would disappear to find food, then when I woke in the morning the whole routine would start over again, dog lazing in the street.

Though he was clearly well-intentioned and never once begged for food nor affection, I was careful not to pet him or make any overtures that could be taken as an invitation for companionship. The truth is that I would have been happy to befriend this confused breed-jumble, but I didn’t want to get his hopes up that he’d found a permanent home. Pets don’t fit into my traveling lifestyle. So our tenuous relationship was maintained—me with noncommittal avoidance, he with his seeming comfort at my noncommitment.

In the entire month of our neighborship, we experienced only two major transgressions from this situation. The first came when I returned one drunken evening in such fine fettle that I broke a rule and petted the dog—very tenuously for apprehension of his mange and muss. From then on our interactions held somewhat more camaraderie. Each time our paths crossed, we exchanged a nod and a wag.

He truly won my appreciation after the earthquake.

Ever since the big shake in September of 2017, the Mexicans have earned a new, fearful respect for seismic action. While that 7.1 pounder left Puerto Escondido itself relatively undamaged, word is that the entire state of Chiapas to the south was leveled to the ground, Oaxaca City to the north sustained heavy damage, and Mexico City became an authentic goddamned human tragedy with buildings collapsing left and right, panes of glass raining from the skyscrapers, and some hundreds killed.

So when PE was hammered by a 7.3 roller followed by a series of high-five aftershocks in February, it should come as no surprise that the locals were less than thrilled. The Europeans—mostly Germans—were similarly disconcerted, they coming from a continent where plate tectonics rarely put on a show. And the dogs flat-out lost their fucking minds.

You could tell whenever another aftershock was eminent from the sudden eruption of barking and howling that would rise in a panic all throughout town. The dogs would call out in warning or fear, then the earth would move, everyone would pour into the streets, and when it was over we’d all go for a drink and laugh nervously. The dogs did not laugh. They became crazier and crazier.

By nighttime they were out for blood, no longer roaming alone or in pairs, but scouring the beach in large packs with teeth bared and noses hunting for easy prey. And thus—walking home late at night, very drunk from an evening of swapping disaster tales—I found myself followed down the beach by a bristling, snarling hoard of madness some eight or ten strong.

It did not look good, let me tell you. At first I tried to ignore them—just casually walk on, avoid eye contact, and hopefully leave them behind on the beach. But once we got into the closed-in proximity of the street they began to cut their distance, their hungry silences increasingly punctuated by maniac growls, their intentions clearly shifting from curiosity to violence.

Suddenly they began making little mock charges to test my resolve—one at a time at first, then two at a time, then three…I was the first time I’d felt Fear—authentic, existential Concern—in quite some time. I kept an eye on them and would whirl about and snarl when they got too close, forcing a retreat. But the charges were becoming more frequent, their retreats coming later and shorter. Any moment one would bark up the courage to come in for real, to try for a taste, then it would happen, and your friend and narrator would be consumed by a pack of wild dogs driven ravenous by the unpredictability of a world in motion.

And that was when he appeared–The Dog–racing my direction at top speed (I had, in fact, never seen him do much more than stand and wag, so this sudden burst of vivacity was even more surprising), a low growl building in his chest, excited barks blatting out now and again.

He zipped past me and collided with the offending pack head-on. A cannonball wouldn’t have had more effect. He was larger than some of them, but smaller than many, and even still they were devastated by his imposition. Dogs seemed to fly in every direction. There were snarls and barks and yelps and yips and whines and the angry clatter of battling jaws. At first the pack attempted to regroup and hold its own, but his arrival was too unexpected, his attack too ferocious. Within moments it was over, and the quake-crazed dogs were driven to the sea. The likes of Sherman, Patton, and Hector would have been proud.

Suffice to say that I pet the fucking dog after that, mange or no mange. In the days to come the basic respectful distance of our friendship remained relatively unchanged, but it just might be that I contrived to throw out and “waste” a little more food, the lid to the garbage can left conspicuously ajar. When I would leave my house in the morning, suddenly I had words of hello for the dog rather than a mere nod. When I returned home late at night, he received affection.

The wild dogs never bothered me again.

As I write this final chapter it is some three weeks after leaving Mexico (the previous six were dashed together in a drunken haze as I flew out of the country), and I am flying into Belgrade, Serbia, a little drunk and very tired from some 24 hours of travel. Wild dogs, earthquakes, police, prostitutes, felons on the lam, Rock and Roll, Crime and Punishment—all of these things are on my mind.

Is there a clear correlation? Maybe so, but perhaps not. The thread does seem to run through, though. In Mexico, the center holds.

In Mexico, the legend is real. You can enjoy easy days of fishing and tequila and beaches, and nights of prostitutes, drugs, and corrupt cops. It’s all there, but so is a beauty and an amicability that I have yet to see reproduced anywhere else. The people are kind, helpful, patient, and generous. The food is delicious and cheap. The landscape is paradise.

The potential for dubious decision-making, for crime and bad cops, for being eaten alive—all of that is the spice on one hell of a tasty taco.