Playa Punta Pérula

When I think about it an RV park in Mexico can feel a lot like some of the diplomatic compounds I’ve seen in various embassies in foreign parts. Of course there is no diplomatic immunity here but the rules of RV park life in Mexico differ a good deal from those in the States. Imagine that! And also from daily life in the Mexico that  surrounds each park. 

Our spot in Punta Pérula is perfect for us, small but private and close to the impeccably clean showers and toilets. We have access to water and electricity (though our 30 amp outlet may need a service if my ground reader was correct) and a sewer dump is also at each site so you can park here all winter for $18 a night $15 per night per week or $330 a month in US dollars with a small surcharge to plug in. This place is packed with Canadians and one couple from Michigan though Debbie did point out she lived for years in Port St Lucie and one RV is from California. Of the Canadians two RVs are from British Columbia while the rest are from Québec. French is spoken here. 

There are some RVers and Overlanders who categorically refuse for reasons of principle of economy to ever stay in a paid campground, but we are pensioned old farts so we can afford to lay and there are frequently times when it’s easiest to pay. The big draw here for us is the swimming beach. We are in the water twice a day for an hour each time. It’s lovely once you work your way past the modest surf. 

I freely admit we were looking forward to wild camping at Tenacatita but after we got over our disappointment at not making the steep and torn up entrance track in our Promaster we knuckled down and recalled what a pleasant place this had been last year for the three nights we stayed. 

And let’s face it having hot running water, trash collection, on site water refills and neighbors who, once they learned I can mangle French opened up to us without fear of looking stupid mangling their English, well I say what’s not to like?

I love listening to the Québécois chatting, soaking up the sun, reveling I’m not being in a snowdrift. They live large in the tropics. 

There are other dogs in the park but Rusty has the run of the  place so far as he bothers no one, doesn’t bark and when feeling threatened by the crowds of dogs or humans retreats politely to the comfort of his home. He’s entirely happy and I don’t have to bother with leashes. Twice a day he wants to go for a walk when he drops his eggs far from the compound and I promptly pick them up a la gringo so no one has to be annoyed by him. It is a very civilized arrangement. He also keeps getting stopped by nice French ladies who crowd him and let him and he sits there preening and lets them make a fuss of him. 

He’s not keen on walking into town thanks to his fear of dog gangs. But the beach? There he can’t be ambushed so he has become a beach lover. And it’s not a bad place for that. Take your chair of your hammock and hang in the shade provided by the campground owner Sonora Yolanda. On weekends tents sprout like magic under the awnings and the place fills with Mexican campers enjoying the facilities. The cove here is totally laid back - in three languages! 

We aren’t going to do much for the next week or so. When we do leave, and we are in no hurry, we’ll drive two hours south to Manzanillo for an oil change and a tire rotation and alignment. Then we want to drive inland to meet some friends we encountered on the road last year. They have settled in a campground near Lake Chapala where more Americans and Canadians have settled than s us here else in Mexico. That will be a new experience for us. Our friends are from Lichtenstein and got jobs at an RV park run by a Swiss owner ( Switzerland and Lichtenstein ate next door) so I’m looking forward to their perspective. 

Meanwhile we sleep without air conditioning, we lounge and drive through our kindle libraries, we walk a reluctant dog into town and we swim. This is one of those pauses on the road that need to be fully embraced because it won’t always be this luxurious or easy. I do know that. 

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.