Fun in Acapulco

With the long range weather forecast predicting a 70% chance of rain for the next 10 days we were in two minds whether to bother going to Acapulco at all. However, with a similar forecast not coming to pass in Mexico city we decided to chance our arm in the hope that it would be similarly wide of the mark in the "Jewel of the Pacific". The omens weren't great for the first 5 hours of our 6 hour journey through spectacular mountain scenery but as we descended down towards the coast the sky cleared and the sun shone down on another of John Wayne's old haunts. Having started the day at 7500 ft and in heavy cloud and then spent 6 hours on an air-conditioned bus we hadn't spared a thought for our disembarkation. Clad in long trousers, socks and trainers it was enough to broil us as we wrestled our packs into the bus terminal proper and Kerry soon assumed her overheated look, a cross between a beef tomato and a slapped arse. We'd elected not to book a room as I was pretty sure that we wanted to be based in the old town whereas all those available to book online were in the swanky gold zone. We were pounced on by a ferrity faced man as soon as our taxi pulled up in the old town who promised to find us a room for a good price so we let him lead us a couple but they were pretty grotty. They were also up a steep hill which did little to make us feel much better in the stifling heat. Away from the glitzy tourist area Acapulco is surprisingly down at heel with massive potholes and open manholes just waiting to be fallen into by unsuspecting, case-wielding, gringos. We didn't, but it was close on a couple of occasions and this, the heat, our packs and the jibbering of our new friend all added up to make our introduction to the town unfavourable enough to get another taxi up to the gold zone and a semblance of acceptability. Most taxis in Acapulco are VW Beetles but much as I love them they're not really up to the job of transporting 2 people, 2 large packs and 2 small rucksacks in a great degree of comfort. Poor Kerry was squashed in the back with the packs whilst I nursed the day packs in the front and tried not to knock the car out of gear with my left knee. (having said this I did see 7 people emerge from a beetle a couple of days later so perhaps I'm making a mountain out of a molehill) We checked into the Sands hotel but for various reasons it wasn't to her ladyships taste so we checked out next morning and into the Camaima which, online, looked far better. We walked out with our infernal packs and trundled them about a half mile up the road before accepting we'd gone wrong somewhere. You can imagine our ire when we eventually found the Camaina literally next door to where we'd set out from half an hour earlier. Still, no matter, a mile long walk pulling a case on cracked pavements in 35 degree heat whilst being asked 400 times if you want a meal / a taxi / a handbag / to go on a boat trip is how every day should start I feel. And how we laughed when we were shown to our room and it made the one we'd left look like Buckingham Palace! The bright spot was that the hotel was just over the road from the beach, and not just any beach of course, this is Acapulco. A beautiful strip of palm lined heaven which we made full use of for the remainder of the day, playing in the surf and snorkelling around some rocks where we saw a multitude of brightly coloured fish. Bringing our snorkelling masks has proved an inspired piece of packing as we've already had great use out of them which is more than can be said for some of our other choices. I brought a jacket which I lugged around the USA before posting it home from San Diego and quite why I've got 3 pairs of trousers and 2 jumpers with me is anyone's guess. Meanwhile I didn't bring my flip flops, travel hat, sunglasses, spare pair of swim shorts or beach shoes. For her part Kerry spent the first month shedding items of clothing as her pack wouldn't close, then she bought a new and much bigger pack in LA when a wheel came off her original. On Friday evening we took a local bus along the costera (coast road) to La Quebrada to watch the famous cliff divers. The costera is a mad stretch of road, 3 lanes in each direction and seemingly no rules apply. It is a sea of VW Beetles, local buses and other cars in various states of battery and disrepair. To try to cross the road and get to the beach is to invite an early demise, if not at least serious psychological damage. Riding the local buses is no less fraught an endeavour for they are nearly all driven by adolescent males who spend 70% of each journey sounding the horn, 25% leaning out of their window shouting at their mates and 5% in control of the vehicle. There is seemingly a competition among them to see who can play the loudest music for their clientele to "enjoy" and who can apply their brakes at the latest possible juncture. It is altogether a terrifying experience and one which we didn't seek to repeat. By the way, it's interesting to see just how many VW Beetles there are here, specifically in Acapulco and generally in Mexico. That Hitler's vision of simple and affordable personal transport for the masses reached fruition in a country populated by non-whites is a fabulous irony. It's also heaven on earth for this VW nut and I may just be investing in another one when I get home. The La Quebrada divers didn't disappoint, they were as amazing as I remember from 13 years ago and perhaps even more incredible is that they scale the cliffs they dive off in bare feet and speedos. I found it more heart stopping to watch them climb than to dive off. On the way up to the cliff I felt a familiar griping in my guts and began a frantic search for a loo to negate the rapidly increasing probability of inconveniencing myself in a way that only inmates of The Maze prison might appreciate. I saw a sign saying "Servicios" and followed it into a shop where a wheelchair bound chap relieved me of 5 pesos and a lady handed me 4 sheets of tracing paper and directed me to "el negro cortana" (the black curtain) behind which I found a seat-less toilet. If mattered not. 2 seconds later I was around a pound lighter and a disaster had been averted. On Saturday we went to a water park and acted like big kids on the slides and in the waves with our tubes. Surprisingly we were the only whities there and we suffered again at the hands of the mexicans refusal to talk at anything less than light speed. There was an utterly incomprehensible exchange regarding a locker where the sign seemed to imply that in exchange for a key you must hand over some official ID or 200 pesos. As we had travelled as light as possible I had no ID on me so gave the wench a 200 peso bill but this didn't seem to wash and she jibber jabbered about ID. I said I had none, only my hotel room key which she took as collateral and returned my 200 pesos in 10 peso coins. I do know it's our problem. We're in a Spanish speaking country and unless we are asking what time the bus departs, telling a hotel receptionist that we have a reservation or asking if that comes with carrots we are left in apologetic mute-dom but we are trying. I wish they'd give us a break and speak a bit slower. Sunday was another scorcher which we spent in the pool in the morning and then at the beach in the afternoon where we snorkelled again. I swam out to a large crab-infested rock that looked like Jabba the Hut and climbed on to it and then realised I was stuck. I did eventually shimmy my way off it and it gave the locals some free entertainment. A little later on I saw a Dad helping his teenagers up onto the rock which they were then jumping off into the sea. I fancied a go so swam out there and gestured for him to get out of the way so I could climb up but he in turn gestured that he'd give me a shimmy up. Against my better judgment, and certainly against his, I accepted and placed my full weight onto his thigh via my knee and hauled myself up. His pained expression and yelp of discomfort suggested he had calculated I might weigh a little less than I do and on top of that the force I exerted on my final push sent him sprawling into the sea for additional comedy value. Beautiful as the beaches are at Acapulco it's not as relaxing as it might be on account of the aforementioned traffic, the volume of hawkers and the general ambience created by a city of 1 million inhabitants. In many ways it's the classic trophy destination, it sounds better than it really is and those of a certain vintage recall it's 1950s Hollywood heyday, Elvis Presley films and the cliff divers on World of Sport with Dickie Davies. There is also a significant drug situation which the government is combatting by deploying balaclava wearing and gun-toting troops by way of visible deterrent. Whilst it makes for Peace of mind on one level it is slightly disconcerting to look up from your omelette at a pick up truck driving past with masked gunmen standing sentinel in the back. As such on Sunday we plotted our next move, to Puerto Escondido about 8 hours down the coast. This is a much smaller place with a laid back vibe and good surf, the Newquay of Mexico if you will. This sounded right up our avenida so on Sunday morning we went to a travel agent to book our tickets for the next days bus at 0930. Unfortunately they couldn't take plastic and we didn't have enough cash on us so we asked what time they were open until and said we'd be back later. We left it a bit later than we hoped but nevertheless it was only 1920, 40 minutes before the office closed when we returned armed with oodles of pesos to exchange for our bus tickets. Cue more quick-fire Spanish with the upshot being that it was too late, the system had shut down and it was now too late to buy them. We could buy them in the morning, though not at the bus station we wanted to travel from and no, the tickets did not come with carrots. So next morning we're up early and at the bus station for 0900 and confidently asking for 2 tickets to Puerto Escondido. "0930 es cancellado señor" "Bugger! When is the next one then?" "....................1715" "1715? You're having a laugh Pedro. We've checked out of the gaff, it's nearly 40 degrees, we've got these sodding cases and there's no bus for 8 hours?" (or words to that effect) After a brief discussion regarding our options: Wait 8 hours Stay in Acapulco another day and go tomorrow Spend £240 on a taxi We elected to go to the other bus station in town for a second opinion. At first it looked like a wise move: "what time us the next bus to Puerto Escondido?" "1145 señor" "result! 2 tickets please" So we sat and waited for 2 hours in the boiling heat and at 1144 I enquired as to where our bus was, a precursor to much discussion among the bus station staff and then the bombshell: "1145 es cancellado señor. Next bus, 1315". We finally got going at about 1330, 4 hours and more after first arriving there and what was our first port of call on the 1315? Yes, the bus station we'd made our initial enquiry at that morning. But at least we were on the move and one of the first things I had to do was to take a leak. I made my way to the back of the bus which was bouncing around all over the road and tugged at the door. It wouldn't open so I asked the lady sitting nearby if anyone was in there. She didn't think so so I gave the door a right heave-ho just as we took a sharp bend and hit a pothole, the combination of which flung me backwards to end up lying across the lap of the woman I'd questioned and her travelling companion, looking up at their horrified faces. I hauled myself up, apologised and made for the loo, desperate to escape the several pairs of eyes that were burning into the gringo with the apparent penchant for lying prostrate on strangers laps. With the door shut it was pitch black in there and after a quick fumble I found the light switch which was broken. The road had not improved any so there I was being flung about a cramped and sweaty toilet with little hope of accurately discerning where to aim the old chap. Even if I could locate the pan I guessed that my aim would last for half a second before the next lurch would have me peeing down my trousers. Then I remembered I have the iTorch app! The remainder of the journey was pretty grim; a packed bus travelling along a terribly winding coast road with speed bumps approximately every half mile or so. Darkness fell and we were treated to a spectacular lightning storm away to the west and then finally, mercifully, we arrived in Puerto Escondido at about 2300 and went straight to bed. On waking up next morning we both had the right arse with life, each other and everything inbetween. We were frazzled from the long delays and travel of yesterday, we couldn't get wi-fi in our room, our room had no air-con, I got bitten by mozzies in the night and again over breakfast and the town just didn't appeal to either of us. We decided to just stay one full day and crack on and took the opportunity to stock up on some toiletries, buy a new diary each and eat a roast chicken in a corrugated iron shed that our proprietor fished out of a cool box. In the afternoon we went and took a look at the impressive surf, had a drink in a hammock on the beach where Kerry fell asleep and I got bitten by sand flies and had a little play on a safer bit of beach which was still producing waves powerful enough to knock you off your feet. After one of the hottest and sweatiest nights of my life, imagine being under an electric blanket in a sauna and you're about there, we're away and are currently en route to Oaxaca. (Pronounced "Wa-haka", though nothing to do with Emperor Hirohito nor the All Blacks) We're on an 18 seat minibus travelling through the Sierra Madre Occidental. It's pretty unpleasant and we're both feeling a bit sick, more so since the child sitting behind us honked her guts up. The scenery is spectacular though and we're seeing an incredibly isolated and underprivileged part of the country. Before I sign off thanks to those of you who have been in touch regarding this blog. It's very gratifying to know that it is providing some entertainment as well as leaving a written legacy for Kerry and I to enjoy for years to come. According to the stats on google the readership stretches from the UK, to Australia (hello girls, hello girls' friends and hello Tom ) to a couple of hits in each of Germany, Russia and China. If anyone wants to get in touch to say hello then drop us a line, it'll be great to hear from you.