Lagunas De Chacauhua

Our wait is compounded by the oppressive humid air, each warm gulp threatening to drown us. This is the second of four transfers we will make today, a process that inflates our two hour trip into three or even four. Rather than give in to agitation, we slowly work our way through a bag of mandarines, which, like the air, is a combination of drinking and eating. Between slices we focus on our breathing. We have grown accustomed to this wait in the crossroads town of Rio Grande, as it serves as the hub between Puerto Escondido and Parque Nacional Lagunas de Chacahua. In future visits we will discover a vegetarian burrito van, goat tacos, and high speed internet, all travelers companions which help to pass the time. However, on this occasion, we sit idly, dustily, and silently.

The colectivo driver finally does arrive, although his vision appears to be severely impaired by the large milky cataracts blooming across his eyes. We wait for a while to see if any other passengers will show up and when they do not, we climb into the back of the modified pick-up truck, a sort of steel cage covered in a tarp. This is the typical mexican transport for those with a greater abundance of time than money, equally suited for the moving of people as it is crates of fruit; and indeed, as we pull out of town, we find ourselves to be minor ingredients packed into a large smoothie.

The goods are safely delivered to our next transfer site, a tiny port at the edge of a brackish lagoon. We are unloaded along with the large boxes of ripe bananas, mangos, and avocados among others. Thinking myself to be helpful, I carry a crate of papayas to an old man on the dock, the strain of which causes me to arch my back and waddle the twenty feet to the edge of the boat. With a generous smile, the old man mumbles words of thanks and effortlessly swings the crate into the boat. He then returns to the truck to collect two crates, one on each shoulder. Tiny waves lap against the shore, depositing foam and algae atop the previous layers of leaves and plastic bottles. The same waves trigger a rhythmic sound as the boat rocks against the dock, only out done by calls of large white cranes and the clatter of dominoes. A group of old fisherman hold four worn-out piano keys in each hand, laughing, yelling, and throwing coins into a pile at the center of the metal table. The time passes faster here, and soon enough we leave behind the refuse of the shore and are on a boat winding through virgin mangroves and enjoying the temporary relief of the wind offers.

For once the transfer is seamless, and we step out of the boat directly into another pick-up truck, which then races us at top speed across a dry strip of land between the lagoons and beach. And so, three and a half hours later, we have arrived in the village of Chacahua. Almost as a greeting, a perfectly formed wave peels off the breakwall and rolls two hundred meters before crashing on the shore. A man walks past with a bucket of gasping fish and a woman carries a tray of sweet empanadas on her head. We set up our tent, finish the mandarines, and thank the Mexican government that it is not easier to get here.