Beach Bum

Time for a holiday... I decided to spend my last weekend here at the beach, soaking up the sun and relaxed atmosphere before heading back to the real world.

Fluidly meandering round bends like oxbow lakes in a minibus, the soothing scent of pine and fir forests blasting through the windows in the sticky, warm night air, I did start to feel that holiday feeling of emptying your mind (as much as possible when being thrown from side to side in a dizzying bus ride). We arrived late at night, no sight of the sea, not a speck of sand or grain of salt on the skin, but definitely beach temperature at 20 degrees at 10pm. We were thankful of the pool for a midnight swim.

I slept like a baby, despite or perhaps because of the gentle hum of the fan as it blew slighter cooler air around my bare feet. Flinging the balcony door open, I was suffused in the seaside: bright sunbeams reflecting off giant curling waves glimsed between the palm-thatched huts on the surfers' beach of Puerto Escondido, keen guys already out trying to catch the waves. The town itself a strip of the usual suspects: bar, postcard seller, restaurant, beach ball shop, surf shop, bar, tourist tat, bar. Mikey and I set off in a peeling paint fishing boat, the proud captain prodigiously protruding his tanned, rounded belly as we bounced and ricocheted over the jostling, choppy waves on the hunt for turtles. Not a real hunt, which was banned here only recently, an interesting Centro Mexicana de Tortuga in Mazunte extenuating their cause.

You can't swim at the beach here as the undertow is deadly, ripping your feet from under you as the tide pulls back into the vast powerful ocean, so I sunbathed before washing off the sand then enjoying barbequed dorada (with chilli, of course) on the beach as a golden fireball moon rose steadily over the rocky outcrop edging the bay, casting a weird red light over the ink black sea like a swathe of oil bursting into flame. We spent the night on the beach with Margaritas, fire dances and midnight snacks of fresh fish tacos.

The next morning I needed a swim, so headed off on my own whilst the others surfed to find a quiet, secluded bay nestled into the jagged coastline like an azure jewel hiding in the rocks and glittering in the midday sun. I swam, snorkelled, people watched from behind my sunglasses. Even though sunbathing is a solitary pursuit, I did start to feel lonely - in big crowds, single people blend in, assimilate themselves, don't feel so isolated, but on this tiny beach with scattered families and groups of friends I wanted to be swimming like the shoals of fish, with others. As the sun cooled in the late afternoon haze, I wandered back towards Escondido, stopping off at another beach crowded densely with holidaying Mexicans (avoiding the gringos). They know how to do a beach - huge groups splashed about in the water, refreshing themselves at one of the many plastic-chaired cafes shaded along the beach, every speck of sand taken up with 'Sol' emblazoned umbrellas and picknicking people.

Hitching a lift in a camioneta further down the coast on Sunday, I got soaked as the skies opened in an ear-splitting thunderous outpour. Hair clinging to my face, I steamed dry as I looked around for a place to stay in the tiny, undeveloped town of Zipolite, finding a beautifully simple cabana with a low bed covered by flimsy mosquito net with a hammock swinging outside right on the beach. The sand swathed around the bay for miles, craggy rock formations providing the backdrop. I sat listening to the roar of the frothing waves crashing onto the rocks and the wind blasting off the salty sea in to my air-dried tangled hair. The skies clouded and darkened in the atmospheric evening, the half-hidden moon making the waves seem even more fearsome and powerful. The explosive storm kept me awake half the night, the sky ripped open by streaks of lightning, a gaping hole through which great lion roars of thunder and bulbous, leaden drops of rain pelted through, shaking my little cabana. It was so loud it blocked out the hum of the fan rapidly rotating above my head, even muffled the sound of the waves crashing on the sand metres down the beach. I lay in the dark, hoping I would weather the storm...

I did, and I got up to pick my way through the puddles to visit a local organisation for rural indigenous people with severe disabilities. Pina Palmera has existed here, almost in the middle of nowhere, for 20 years, caring for people who would not have a chance otherwise. A friendly man with severly bowed legs gave me a tour of the centre, starting at the kitchen where volunteers were patiently helping semi-paralysed children to have their breakfast. There was a physiotherapy room, a speech therapy centre, an arts and crafts room, a doctors' office, a social area and a small ward for the four permanent residents. I was amazed at the service they were providing, giving a way of life and stimulation for disabled people and their families that would simply not be possible in their own isolated rural villages, both at the centre and on home visits. It made me realise that it is possible to provide medical and social care and attention anywhere, with a little hard work and ingenuity. Ok, they did not have lifting equipment or manual handling training, and moved the paralysed children about wrapped up in white sheets, they did not have specialised wheelchairs and bumped over the sandy paths in salt-rusted devices, they didn't have life-changing expensive medications but had carers and volunteers that were committed and hard-working in the face of any difficulties. As a completely paralysed young man stared up at me, arms and legs contorted with spasticity, his only movement a flicker of the eyes, I wondered what he must be thinking as I tried to think of something to say to him in my faltering Spanish.

To be trapped inside ourselves is surely a fear of everyone in this world, no matter where, something that no special equipment or no words or actions can reconcile. And this can happen when we are perfectly healthy physically, regressing into our own minds, mentally isolated. Loneliness is not about being physically alone; we may be surrounded by others and feel alone in this world (as I did on the beach of families); if we cannot communicate what we feel, cannot reconcile what we are thinking with others or ourselves, we are lonely. The human spirit is healed by sharing, helping us to weather any storm hurled our way.