The plan was to take the 11pm bus to the small town of Puerto Escondido, hailed as the surf capital of Mexico. By taking the overnight bus, I'd sleep through the trip and, of course, wouldn't have to pay for a hostel.
That was the plan at least. As when Andrew and I took the overnight bus from Cuzco to Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, I was mistaken. Oh, the bus took all night to get to Puerto Escondido, but there was hardly any sleeping done.
When I'd bought my ticket the day before, I was told there was only one more seat remaining after mine. That was in fact true; however, what the ticket agent didn't add was that all the seats being filled did not prevent the bus company from selling past capacity.
As I crammed myself into my seat next to a friendly Mexican teenager, I looked first with amusement, then with horror, as I realized that the 15 or so people jammed in the aisles were not going to be escorted off the bus when the driver came through to verify tickets. The engines cranked up, the door shut (sealing off the last bit of fresh air I'd get), and we were off.
As conditions were less than ideal, I tried my damndest to get to sleep as quickly as possible. It wasn't happening. The pleasant Mexican teen fell asleep before I did and threw elbows and knees at me. I was the aisle seat and so the various, squirming aisle standers jostled and bumped me as they rotated to the bathroom. Of course, children cried. Apparently, as it was December, it must have been against company policy to turn on the AC, even though it was 80 degrees outside the bus and rapidly climbing past 90 degrees inside. As it grew hotter, and hotter, the babies cried more, the aisle standers got antsier and the Mexican teen stepped up his somnapugilistic efforts. Oh, and my seat was closest to the bathroom. Behind my seat and the bathroom wall, a mother and child had crammed themselves for the ride. Whenever the bathroom door would open, and it opened often, I was blasted with no less than what I hopefully never confirm as the stench of Hell.
Bleary-eyed, sweaty, and abominably cranky, I stepped off the bus nine hours later (the trip was only supposed to last eight hours, of course) completely refreshed.
Sadly, Puerto Escondido is what everyone else would prefer their vacations to be like. I found a cheap, relatively comfortable place to stay. Te beach and town were beautiful. The water was magnificent. I lay in the sun and drank beer and piña coladas. Beach vendors peddled their wares; a few offered to sell me "mahr-ee-wanna" and "koh-keye-eena." I exerted myself about as much as a clam. I did that for five days.
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Albert and Sander met me a day after I arrived. They joined me in my sun-drenched inertia. We joked incessantly. They decided to stay in town a few more days so I won't run into them again most likely. They were good traveling buddies.
Two quick stories about the Dutchmen:
1. Our first night in Acapulco, as we walked toward the cave divers, they attempted to draw me into a discussion on politics. I refused, much to their annoyance, and explained that I don't talk politics with anyone since a) talking does nothing and b) it just gets people angry and frustrated. Albert decided to make it a one way discussion about how the US spends too much money on its military when it could be providing health care and improving its infrastructure; the evidence he relied upon came from documentaries he'd seen.
I managed to withstand his baiting for approximately 42 seconds. The political "discussion" ended with everyone's blood up and me ranting wildly to Sander about the French unemployment rate as Albert ran off to join in on a night game of soccer on the beach. Sander politely waited til I paused for breath and then bolted for soccer as well.
2. Another night in Acapulco, old man that I am, I turned in early. They boys were headed to one of the town's many night clubs. In the middle of the night, I awoke to screaming and cussing, mostly cussing. The roaring argument out in the hallway was protracted, featured cursing and accusations in English, French and some other language, and was punctuated with a deafening THWACK! I knew that a Californian and French Canadian were staying next door, so I assumed that they'd come in blitzed. I considered going out in the hall to get them to calm down, but decided nothing good would happen from that.
I was therefore astonished when myh door opened and Albert pushed Sander, gripping a bloody hand, inside. I sat up. "That "$%!ing -----!" bitched the normally preternaturally pleasant Sander.
"You got in a fight with the French Canadian?" I asked incredulously.
"No! Albert! The "$%!ing -----!"
The next day, full of remorse and bewilderment, Sander could only assume someone put something in his drink. His hand was swollen from punching what turned out to be a door (which he had to pay for). He swore off drinking and was back to his normal cheerfulness. In Puerto Escondido, he did have to get antibiotics for the hand, since it had gotten infected.
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