By Phil Jarratt
The directions were clear enough: proceed down the single dirt road to Punta Allen until you reach kilometer 32. The only problem was there were virtually no kilometer signs and we didn’t know where the reading began from.
We had a phone number but down the dirt track there was no signal. People we hailed down on the road had never heard of Cabana Balam, the name we had been given for our accommodation. Blank looks and apologies, but no progress. When we finally arrived at the sleepy fishing village of Punta Allen, we realized we had come too far, so back up the pot-holed road with eyes fixed for a sign, any sign.
Finally, in the heat of the day we spotted a Km 32 sign hidden in the undergrowth at the side of the road. A battered sign next to it said “Xamach Dos”, not what we were looking for, but we took the narrow track in through the jungle to investigate. We pulled up in a sandy car park with a few thatched-roof bungalows in front looking out over a beautiful white sand Caribbean beach. The Mexican manager greeted us warmly and confirmed that this indeed was where we would find Cabana Balam.
Francesca, who had no English, led us across the sand to the edge of the jungle and into a windowless hovel through a broken flyscreen door. Inside was an unmade bed and little else. I asked: “This is Cabana Balam?”
“Si, si, Cabana Balam,” she said. I tried to convey in my pidgin Spanish that there was no way we could spend the night here. I pointed to a cabana in the middle of the clearing with an unhindered view of the sea and catching the breeze through its big windows. I suggested to Francesca in sign language that we would be happier over there. She showed us through the fine room with an upstairs viewing deck, then dialled a number and handed me her phone.
“So you want an upgrade?” the gruff voice of the gringo owner said.
“Well,” I said, “I wouldn’t quite put it like that. For the money we’d just like somewhere that’s fit for human habitation.” He grunted and hung up. Francesca helped us with our bags and we moved into the good cabana. Business as usual. I guess they try the upgrade scam on everyone.
That night I looked up the meaning of “balam” and discovered that it is a much-dreaded supernatural being in Mayan religion, a nocturnal, long-headed old fellow who prowls the cornfields whistling scary songs. So well named.
But the rest of our time at Xamach Dos “eco-resort” in the Sian Ka’an was wonderful. The only guests, we swam in the azure Caribbean beyond the weed beds, ate Francesca’s delicious home-cooked meals and sipped her incredible mango margaritas.
Ah, Mexico, you never know what’s around the corner.
A flight delay, a missed connection, a missing bag and an over-priced cab ride later we’re at a cool little boutique hotel a couple of blocks back from the beautiful deep bay of Zihuatanejo, an old school charmer on the Pacific Coast halfway between the better-known Acapulco and Puerto Vallarta. I’ve been here briefly once before, just long enough to know I had to come back and get to know Zihuat a bit better.
As the sun sets over the bay we stroll the walkway between Playa Madera and Playa Municipal, before settling into a meal of ceviche and tacos washed down with good local wine at the Bistro Del Mar. In the morning we’re up with the sun for a dip in the bay, a long walk and a fruit and coffee breakfast watching the fishermen unload their catches on blankets on the sand while the local restaurateurs haggle for the best deal.
A beautiful little port, and still pretty much off the radar despite an international airport just down the road.
Our hotel is so small and tucked away that Corky Carroll can’t find it, and we leave for La Saladita a lot later than expected, but what the hey, Mexican time. It’s been five years since we last stayed with the multiple US surf champ and noted musician, and his lovely Mexican wife Raquel at their beachfront hacienda, but not much has changed with the house or with Corky. A little older, a little deafer maybe, still a barrel of laughs and still surfing the point every day on a stand-up paddleboard despite chronic back issues.
Sadly, we’ve barely settled in when news comes through that the great surfer Mike Doyle has succumbed to Lou Gehrig’s Disease. While not unexpected, the passing of “Iron Mike”, as close to invincible as a surfer gets, hits home hard, particularly for Corky, who grew up under his wing at Seal Beach, California. Towards sunset, neighbour Tim Dorsey, a longtime Seal Beach lifeguard and big wave riding buddy of Mike’s, strolls up the beach chomping on a stogie, and we sit around as the orb drops towards the horizon, raising our glasses to one of surfing’s true greats.
Up on the point, big long interval sets are rolling through, and the competitors in the Mexi Log Fest are getting their last rides for the day. For us, that will be manana.
