Alvar Nuñez Cabeza De Vaca

I went for a walk without Rusty. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. 

It had to be done.  I took him into town early in the day and tried to convince to walk the side streets of town as all people and dogs were out of sight. He declined the offer  nervously checking for dogs  and ambushes.
The collectivos were out transporting the workers. I remember commuting.  

I wanted to check out the side streets. Looks safe enough, ¿no? Not bloody likely. He went all stubborn and refused. 

So with much regret I girded my loins and left him behind at the campground and took off by myself. It was probably a sound decision because it was hot as hades where I was going. My solo walk had been suggested by Dale the apartment resident in our campground, the nice Canadian.


I set off late around 10:30 and only stopped to buy a bottle of water and a packet of chips for a hiking breakfast. Dale said walk past the restaurants and ask for the dude with the boat to take you across. Pay him 200 pesos, $10, which seemed a lot but overpaying is how you help the economy grind along. I found a place that said “Tours” and off we went.

 I was on the beach across the lagoon from the town at 11:00 with a nice strong sun already high overhead. That was at the spot where the red line starts in the photo.

The owner of the boat had the young lad drive me and keep an eye out for me when I got back. I made a point to tip him 20 pesos ($1) on the way back and he helped me cool off after my walk by creating a cooling breeze as we spun out in the lagoon in a wide circle before we got back to the dock. 



Actual waterfront dining. I love this laid back country. I wish the Keys were still like this. 

The first surprise across the lagoon was the nature of the beach: it was pebbles. 

Dale and Bonita came here with a guide to go fishing. I looked at Google satellite view and figured I could find the trail and gave it my best shot. Mr Bean the amateur explorer. No idea what I was doing…

Covid has killed off a couple of enterprises across here but I had a support group watching my progress: 

Note the active maintenance. 

It was a gorgeous 90 degree day. The ocean was calm enough we braved the surf back at the campground and swam for an hour in the morning, Layne and I, and the waters were crystal clear.  

Rusty was over there somewhere pining for me. I can never get over how weird it is that he actually pines for me when I’m not there. I have witnesses. 

The trick  I knew from the satellite view was to pass the first coconut grove visible in the picture and walk to the second smaller clump where there appeared to be a white sandy path through the trees. It took me half an hour stumbling on the pebbles. 
Sure enough I found a neat fenced coconut plantation. 

And then the path. Off I went. 

It all started to look Keys-familiar. A dried up salt pond. 

More fencing behind the coconuts. 

A hot flat sandy trail between buttonwoods and red mangroves.  

“Lower Forest” I kept meeting these hard painted signs as trail markers. 



A tire lined “ dock” in the mangroves. I guess there is a boat short cut here if you know how to ask for it. I wanted no guide, just to be dropped off…

…and left to my own devices. 

This trail was the second half of the red line in the map above cutting across the island right at the base of the hill at the end. The hill actually has a lighthouse on top visible from our campground. 
To cross the island took me another half hour of marching on sand. Still hot by the way. 


Unlike Florida there are mountains and hills here and looking up I could see the dry season lack of greenery rising up above me to the blue sky. 

There was a point on the trail and I smelled it coming and going where the air was filled suddenly with a strong unmistakeable  smell of horse shit. Perhaps someone used a mule to carry coconuts or something and the cement well was rigged with a bucket on a rope and a second bucket as though to water an animal. The water in the well looked oily and unsavory but beggars can’t be choosers.  Nor can working mules I guess. 

Bilingual signage just like the National Park Service in the US. 



Prickly pear. Food in a pinch. 

Thick soft sand and the sound of swells crashing meant I was close to the beach. 

And there it was. Miles of nothing but me. All mine! 

Though I was clearly not the first to get here! 

I was quite pleased with myself. I had no rod to chase fish I contented myself with writing a name in the sand. The name of a man who walked for eight years from Bradenton Florida, to New Mexico the first European to make the trek. You can Google Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca for his astonishing story. 
Not really sure why I did that but the tide will wash it away.
It was noon. I sat in the little Ramada in the shade and drank half my water. I rarely carry water and my wife calls me a camel because I can go a long time without drinking  but I tried to be conscientious this time.  



It was a bit like landing on the moon. I got here; I looked around; now what?

I’d left my mark so it must be time to walk back. 







Google translate says “falsetes” means falsettos. Somehow the phrase “close the falsettos” after you passed though them didn’t ring right even in my heat addled brain. I think it has something to do with gates of which there were as many as there were falsettos on the trail. I kept going, keeping an eye out for stray falsettos. 

A lovely looking fungus. 

And then I walked down the pebble beach back to the point and stood at thereafter edge as instructed and sure enough the panga came out to get me. I staggered back into town and stopped at the taxi stand stand. 50 pesos ($2:50) for a five minute ride home? A bargain. I collapsed in the car.  

A quick ride home. 

Where Layne ordered lunch for delivery. Six bucks for two plates of chile relleno, a pepper stuffed with cheese. 

I was ready for a nap. 

A successful day and Rusty was delighted to see his helicopter parent home safe and sound. He napped with his head on me. 

Our House Camping

You'll see this white wall driving into Barra de Potosi, and the main gate is imposing. The side door is unlocked and we come and go as we please, though Rusty has to get one of us to open it for him as he can't reach the door handle:

Inside the ground is sand and most of it is firm but as we have shown there are soft spots. To the left is the usual parking spot with the shower and toilet beyond.

You drive in where Rusty's walking and then we backed up the left hand side of the hedge aiming to get back opposite the toilet and shower. The soft sand stopped us halfway.

The toilet and shower are simple but effective.

Its so hot a cool shower doesn't feel cold in this climate and on the contrary it refreshes. Hot showers are a rarity in shared or public facilities. The owner of the property lives in an old aluminum Mansion trailer. I’ve never heard of it but here it is ( for you Wayne):

The apartment and the house (Link) are on the beach, small and torn up by hurricane surge. The water is swimmable much of the time but some days the swell is vicious.

Rusty stretched out by a wide angle shot:

The best cellphone signal is about here! If you don't have an iPhone this is the only spot I can send you a text. WiFi works at the back and at the van. Life is compromises!

Looking down the shore  at the village of Barra and the tiny remnant  of the post-hurricane beach. Dale the Canadian says the sand is slowly rebuilding but the beach used to be wide and long before this past summer.

Across the main road and opposite the campground gate Señora Rita presides over a kitchen inside a shack, which is also a focus of delivery vehicles and workers coming in for lunch. Layne loves having fewer cooking duties and also eating with the locals.

I have no idea if this would pass a health department inspection but I've been in Mexico often enough I don't care. The only inspection this food needs to pass is the diners'.

One day we saw Rita's daughter handing food over the wall into MY House for our landlady. Oh, Layne said, that's an idea. So...she got barbecued octopus and I got breaded fish. Dinner tends to be some cheese and a salad. 

It's not all fun and games I should point out. Ana offered the use of her outdoor fridge so Layne emptied ours and defrosted the freezer and cleaned every shelf and container.

I carried the food back and forth as part of our plan to have Gannet 2 clean and ready for the return to the US before we settled into our apartment for a week completely off. We have access to a household three pin 110 volt plug so we can run our electrical system as we like.

That job was a weight off her mind.

Then we swept and dusted and wiped down the wood. Layne pulled out her drawers and looked for unused stuff and lost items. She found a rolling pin we never used, gave it to Bonita in the apartment who has a new pizza oven at their home in British Columbia.

Ana came by with plate of her favorite cheese, from Oaxaca, slightly salty and drier and more flavorful than the usual white cheese (queso blanco) found in Mexico.  She cut us a slice.

That's life in the campground. Wake up. Walk Rusty. Make tea. Do an exercise tape. Tray for a swim. Shower. Clean the cabin. Read. Get lunch. Another try for a swim. Another rinse off. Nap. Walk Rusty. Dinner. a TV show. Sleep. Call Rusty in. Sleep. etc...repeat.

I forgot! Clean the microwave. Then collapse in our recliners.

New developments for sale:

Swimmable? Probably...

I want to drive that!

Señora Rita keeping an eye on the customers:

Barbecued shrimp for Layne fried fish for me.

Rusty hanging with us:

Not really brilliant dog walking and not much in photography either. Minor glitches I think.

Walking To Barra

 Life since we arrived Tuesday night has sunk into a routine worthy of a long term camper. We however will be leaving this weekend and next week will be stationary in Zihuatanejo. We sleep with air-conditioning because we can with a power cord to keep our batteries charged night after night, and because its hot. We're looking forward to mountain travel even though we will be leaving the beaches for a while. The mountains will be cooler and the cities will be hopefully more historic. The worst of our current campground is the lack of interesting photo opportunities. Rusty isn't too keen to walk much so I may considering taking off by myself to see what I can find. There is a dog in the far left hand side of the picture below. The Coconut plantation is across the street from our campground.

Our Canadian neighbors who live in British Columbia have been coming here for years. They rescued an abandoned dog and give money and fish to a local family they have befriended. Fish you ask? Yes, they love to fish along this shore, damaged by hurricane activity this summer:

They're pretty good at it too. Catch and then release to a local family:

The weird part is the local North Americans, people who travel here year after year and overwinter. Suddenly I feel like a "Touron" in Key West and it cracks me up. Some locals in the  Keys love to treat their meal tickets like nuisances on the streets and as I've said before I empathize with exhaustion in a tourist resort but you have to acknowledge the value of your local industry, especially tourists, and I was always polite to visitors. Around here the North Americans are like a close ranked private colony in the village. Its a pity because I enjoy Dale and Bonita's stories of coming back here year after year. The ones I meet on the street studiously ignore me which makes me feel like an invader in their private corner of Mexico. I love being on the road and perhaps my happy smile makes me look weird  or creepy?I have always even on my crappy days exchanged good mornings with passers by on the streets and I still do that here. My mother would give me a talking to if I didn't. Serious joggers get a pass.

On the whole I prefer towns without a strong gringo presence. I know we shop at Walmart and Costco but we take pleasure in checking out small stores and poking around the local neighborhoods. I startled a North American coming out of his home with two adopted Mexican dogs who were barking wildly at my silent companion. Good morning I said as my mother taught me. He just stared at me. A woman with a shopping bag on her arm scurried past me, both of us masked as the town prefers masks to be worn even in open air, and she glanced away as though I were infectious with something worse than Covid.

It's just weird. I really like wandering around Mexico and I'm always ready to share the joy. Mexicans often start a conversation by saying how fat our dog is. Me too I reply, can't have a thin dog with a fat man. To think Rusty is fat gives you an idea how lean local dogs are, but then Mexicans themselves live in pretty lean times. By contrast a young woman and an older woman striding out of town ignored me as I watched them go. Rusty sped up and I passed them as they were studying and photographing some form of honeysuckle common to this area. Good morning I said and the young woman replied overly loudly to my greeting while the older women continued to ignore me. She wasn't deaf as they were talking together as they walked.

These kinds of encounters put me off the idea of ever settling in Mexico certainly in places where Americans "feel safe" doing just that. I don't want to be part of a colony, an isolationist outpost, and I don't want to feel that "touron" mentality towards outsiders again. I had enough of that in Key West. I don't even have work as an excuse to be grumpy nowadays and if you're spending a whole winter in these lovely places you should express your good fortune at least with an appearance of joy even if inside you are burning up with disappointment. I read Doug Bennett's posts from Key West (This Week On The Island is his blog) and I want my final resting place to be like that. I want my time on the road to be cheerful, and expression of the joy of the place and time, as he expresses with his pictures and words. I wouldn't mind being neighbors with someone like that.

It's a ten minute walk from the campground into the village of Barra de Potosí. Alert readers will have noticed quite a few towns called Barra de Something on our journey down the coast. Barra simply means sandbar, so any city called Barra de Something is located on sand and usually next to an estuary on the coast. In this case de Potosí. Potosí. apparently means fortune but that seems rather obscure in this case.

They've figured out the value of park g tin the village and I saw a ton of signs offering estacionamento (parking). for up to three bucks a day. The restaurants at the end of the village overlooking the water have prominent signs banning dogs so that's a non starter for us. If you look at this photo you could just shrug and say what else do you expect but its not that simple.

The town is actually quite clean with paint, swept streets and trash cans. This was actually a collection of trash, poorly binned, but swept up. There weren't people around as I walked Rusty early before the 90 degree heat kicked in.

Rusty prefers being on a leash and I worry less about him darting into the street to avoid packs of local dogs. Usually they aren't aggressive but three or four on one overwhelms little Rusty and he gets fearful. Sometimes I bend down to pretend pick up a stone to get them to back off. When he's happy his tail flies like a flag.

Mask rules at the entrance to town, and I just put my mask on despite being outdoors and socially distanced etc...it just seems polite.

If you look closely at the washing line you'll see I caught a bird in flight...entirely by accident.

Bonita who lives in the apartment in the campground told us dogs were everywhere years ago but these days the strays have been removed and the dogs on the streets are owned  and you can even see collars on them. In Mexico dogs actually live with a. lot more freedom than US pets cosseted and tied upon leashes or herded into yards. They run around all day and play and come over to inspect newcomers. The leash gives Rusty confidence I have his back. When he feels safe off leash he shakes his head and if we're off the main roads I let him go.

Rusty spends most of his day snoozing and watching people come and go form various spots in the sand. At night we have to practically drag him in to eat dinner and then later to make sure he sleeps properly in his bed. I'm not sure why it matters but I'd feel weird if he was outside perfectly safe in this tightly closed compound but I want him in the van. If one of us gets up to pee we let him out after five in the morning and he sits outside quite happily until I surface and take him for a walk.

A happy dog in Mexico.