Fish And Mezcal

The peril of a return trip lies in managing your own expectations and both of us did a terrible job of that as we drove south into full blown summer on Mexico’s central coast. Tenacatita Bay was going to be perfect we told ourselves, a quiet spot to anchor GANNET2, daily swimming and food delivered by motorcycle to our wild camp. Perfect! Ivan and his motorcycle delivery service from his restaurant over the hill: 

A rather pleasant spot for a beach vacation in a self contained van and we had fond memories:

The trouble was the hill separating the perfect swimming beach from the main restaurant filled beach. It has deteriorated a lot since we were there last year with our buddy Ron: 

They’ve filled in the biggest holes with rubble but rainy season has created a rippled effect washing away soil  and covering the track with slippery talcum powder like dust which defeated us. We couldn’t get up the hill and for the first time in 70,000 miles we missed four wheel drive. Bummer. 

Layne vetoed a fourth attempt on the sensible grounds we didn’t want to tear up our home and we retreated through the restaurants on the waterfront…

…to the not altogether unattractive spot far round the bay on the end of a track which gave us solitude overlooking the huge waves crashing on the beach. Pretty, but no swimming here. We glumly drank our beers while enjoying the scenery:

Tantalizingly we could see “our” swimming beach across the bay:

Our reality was lovely but we could only stay a night before we had to implement plan B.  

The nearest structure was abandoned so we had our privacy. 

Even though a pick up came through at dusk from up the hill where I later took Rusty for a walk and found a gate leading presumably to some farmland. We were alone with the crashing waves. 

In the morning we had a slow start deliberately as we had planned a stop in the village on our way back to Highway 200, the coastal road. 

Which was where we met Pancho, a man who retired from a career in banking in Guadalajara to take up the promotion of the elixir of life: mezcal.  

Here he is holding a piece of Agave cactus cooked in a traditional charcoal oven. 22 pounds (10 kilos) of the heart of the cactus are crushed to produce the liquid necessary to make a liter of mezcal after the cactus is baked. 

A traditional still, below. The state of Jalisco paid to build the outlet here and supports indigenous people making traditional “raicilla” as mezcal is known in Jalisco. The idea is to keep alive the traditional skills of hand made mezcal.  

Pancho talked us through the process of manufacture and storage of mezcal which gets its flavor from the cooking process and it’s color from barrel aging in oak casks. The clear version is aged in stainless fermentation tanks. Traditionally served with a slice of orange sprinkled with chili flakes: 

We picked up a few bottles as well as some scoops of corn ice cream for our freezer. We now know what to look for on the label when buying small batch pure agave mezcal thanks to Pancho’s explanation.  Surprisingly delicious. And healthful according to our spry 69 year old host who takes his daily nightcap without fail. 

Clearly it was time for lunch and Layne remembered just the place.

Restaurante La Mosca (“The Fly” oddly enough) enjoys a reputation but we hadn’t been there last year. Prior to leaving Tenacatita this time we determined to have a meal there even if it delayed us enough to spend another night in the same place. All we had to do was find the dirt road. 

Pancho confirmed what I had seen on Google maps where if you find Tenacatita you can zoom in and see a tiny white line representing the sandy track through the bush to the eatery in the middle of nowhere: 

It was pretty narrow as it wound it’s way through mesquite thorns overgrown enough  to brush the sides of our Promaster. 

The drive went on for a while and we got delayed by a limb hanging over the road low enough to force me to get out my machete and cut it down to open the road to our nine foot tall van.

Rusty helped. 

And then wouldn’t you know it a low top van came up expecting to drive on through. In proper Mexican style he was very patient and actually dragged my cut limb off while I backed up and made room for him.  International cooperation at its best! 

From there we progressed unmolested on the sandy trail.

After twenty careful minutes we came to a cemetery. Speaking to our server at the restaurant she told us people sometimes get freaked out when they see the graveyard in the wilderness on the road and they turn back! We pressed on unmolested by the dead and were rewarded with an ocean view: 

Luckily we didn’t stop to pull over and admire the view. Our cheerful waitress also told us the road is solid but the verges are very soft sand and people keep getting stuck when they try pull off the road. That unsolicited advice nixed any idea we had been forming to spend the night here! 

The restaurant parked by itself at the headland where the river meets the sea, doesn’t look like much in classic Mexican beach style. They are open year round till 6pm and Layne wondered out loud how they make it. 

Gringo thinking I asserted. They close at six because they have no lights. They have no overhead like rent or utilities. They bring a bottle of gas and their ingredients to their rustic shack and everyone pitches in. As the late Anthony Bourdain would say they don’t need health inspections as poisoning your clientele is not a good business model… 

This is the Mexico of outdated stereotypes, in the best way of  simplicity, authenticity and an easy welcome, and you feel privileged to wriggle your naked feet in the sand under your table. 

The food was superb, boring crisp fried fillet for me and an outstanding grilled fillet lightly and intriguingly coconut flavored for Layne preceded by superbly creamy guacamole washed down with a margarita for Layne and home squeezed lemonade for me the driver already high on life and  mezcal. 

This is Mexico so everyone ignored Rusty (except me. And Layne). Dog at the table? No problem. 

The funny thing is we came here 25 years ago when we sailed to Key West from San Francisco. We were anchored in Tenacatita and a group of boaters took their dinghies up the river which in those days opened up onto the beach where we were anchored. We popped out here in our dinghies after a ride through the mangrove channels and had lunch at this amazingly isolated beach where several palapas served fish in 1998. La Mosca is the survivor from that distant era. 

Rusty ignored my reminiscing and ran up and down the beach , buzzing me and splashing in the fresh water. When Layne sounded the horn he galloped off up the beach to greet her on the hill. 

It was four o’clock and time to leave. Jeep loads of gringos were still coming to this secret hip eatery in the beach. Have you eaten at La Mosca? is a question similar to asking if you’ve secured a reservation at a super chic Parisian bistro and my dear! The drive…such an adventure. And then they meet a big lumbering camper on their secret back road. I felt like apologizing for the intrusion. 

On the way back to civilization the Devil entered our spirits and we took the other road when we came to a fork in the path just past the “pantheon”  (cemetery). Shall we? I asked Layne and she nodded. If we couldn’t get through we were certain to have to spend night back at Tenacatita Bay to avoid being on the road after dark. There are too many unlit hazards on Mexican roads for gringo night driving. It would be easy to maim a cyclist or a pedestrian or a cow in the dark. Or to drive over an unmarked “tope” (speed bump) too fast. None of which incidents would have a happy outcome. 

As it was the return trip was splendid and dumped us in the village not far from the agave distillery. 

Everyone was out of sight on the hot sunny afternoon.  We breezed through and…

…got on the highway. 

Punta Pérula was our destination a small tourist village an hour north of Tenacatita. 

It’s not wild camping but there is a swimming beach and at $15 a night we can afford it. The toilets have seats and the showers are hot. 

We may be here for a while. 

Highway 200 And Puerto Vallarta

Highway 200 goes all the way to Guatemala down the Pacific Coast of Mexico. It’s a libre two lane road winding through mountains and along beaches, and some of it resembles Big Sur winding along plunging cliff faces while in other stretches it crosses river deltas and finds its way through bucolic farmland. 

We drove most of Highway 200 last year and I’d do it again if we didn’t have different plans. A decade ago the cartels had a turf war along the Michoacán stretch and consequently you’ll hear from endless numbers of critics who say it’s a dangerous drive. Maybe it is but for me it’s a scenic wonder. Our greatest peril is running into farm stock: 

And yet having said all that I was not looking forward to Highway 200 to Puerto Vallarta. From last year I remembered terrible road surfaces, heavy traffic and lashings of rain all of which combined to make me dread the drive from our campground in Tepic to the big city. 

As you can probably guess this year we had an easy drive in perfect weather. Which is not to say the traffic was light. Indeed we got caught up in one long line after another of slow moving vehicles. 

And it kept happening as they are busy replacing the road surface even as they build a four lane bypass to speed traffic into and out of Puerto Vallarta. For the time being this is the main road. Indeed, the only road. 

Puerto Vallarta is a pain in the ass. It’s a major port and center of commerce and tourism but it’s cut off from the rest of Mexico by a huge range of mountains, so far not penetrated by roads and perhaps they never will be, no bad thing in a world covered in cement. 

However this means you are limited in your choices to get around the knot created by the city. So we took the bull by the horns. And because this is Mexico traffic flowed, slowly but easily as we took turns moving into and out of one or another lane restriction. 

Layne started reminiscing about a family vacation she took forty years ago when she was the family chauffeur and they got pulled over for a traffic violation. Her father told her how he used to keep a twenty dollar bill when driving the mean streets of Chicago and he kept the money next to his drivers license to take care of any traffic violations he might incur. This is a common belief among North Americans driving Mexico even today but so far we have yet to experience any request for a bribe. Giant cruise ships, below, of the absurd size they want to bring to Key West: 

Then Layne started talking about that vacation in old Puerto Vallarta a part of the city she made sound enticing, and then we came upon it: 

It was actually prettier than I managed to capture in our few minutes driving through. Apparently there was a road closure and Google sent us through the old city. 

It was a long slow winding drive, not unpleasant or stressful as traffic moved forward without drama. 

The cobbles were a nuisance as they cause GANNET2 to bounce in a manner not much enjoyed by the occupants. This was a far call from the hustle and rush of the more familiar four lane waterfront. 

This is decidedly gringo town. Everywhere we looked we saw non Mexicans on the sidewalks. 

And then we were out of it and back on Highway 200 winding along the waterfront high above the ocean on a cliff lined with expensive homes and condos and hotels. 

It reminded me of the French and Italian rivieras though perhaps if I went back there now I might see less of a resemblance. Who knows how developed those areas are now! 

There are inclusive resorts and hotels and finally a freshly paved road ruined of course by innumerable topes! 

In case you were in any doubt English is spoken here. Bring dollars. 

And then it was back to Highway 200 south of Puerto Vallarta. Great scenery and food stops! 

A pick up full of corn, you’d think there was a joke there: 

We stopped for a jug of water to top off our 30 gallon tank in preparation for our week at the beach. The siphon system suggested by Bruce in Arizona, last year works a treat. 

Layne went hunting for fruit armed with her camera, a long lens pocket Panasonic ZS200: 

Boiled corn with chili peppers, below. I always ask for moderate peppering of my food, “estilo gringo” because I tell them I’m not a Mexican. I have to admit I can’t keep up with the levels of heat they enjoy. Boiled corn I find is much tastier than roasted. 

Not Starbucks but delightfully rustic set in the pine forests at the top of the hill. 

I took Rusty for a walk up the hill under the pines, my favorite kind of tree. 

I love Mexican road food. It’s all a surprise but sometimes you get a good one. This was a toasted sandwich made of puff pastry more or less filled with ham, melted cheese and a slice of green pepper not too spicy. 

Layne the intrepid hunter off looking for bargains. A nice break from the long lines of traffic. 

We did finally find the beach at Tenacatita Bay.