The bougainvillaea is in bloom and we pass field after field of mango, avocado and coconut trees on the hot road south to Saladita. The steep hills are dotted with papaya and behind the distant mountains a fire rages, staining the sky orange and acrid brown.
Off the main drag and we bounce down the cobbled track to the sea. Old men with torn shirts sit under palapas and nod as we pass. At the beach, young travellers with torn shorts laze in hammocks. My friends from New Zealand; Walt, Tui and Brad, some Australians and the usual weather-beaten Americans. They drop place names like poker chips, tokens of endeavour, or escape; Oaxaca, Baja, Michoacán.
The ocean is iridescent, purple almost. Pelican troops swoop and the waves are average. A man sells horchata beneath an umbrella on the beach.
I’m on the road to the Mexilogfest, a passenger of Israel Preciado, the contest founder. It’s a trip we’ve done several times before and one I love. I have a magazine to edit and rural Mexico is a place of scarce internet. I’m not too worried at the moment. The tequila is smooth and life is good.
📸 Matty Snelling
If you’ve not already read it cover to cover, there’s still time to pick up Mike’s previous volume of Wavelength; decked out with the stories of twelve custodians of surfing from different corners of the globe. Get yours here.
