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A few years ago I came across a Surfer Magazine in a bookstore near my house inOklahoma City. I did not realize how much time had passed and how much had changed sincemy surfing days. It had been over 20 years since the last time I had paddled out or opened a surf magazine. I felt like a character in a movie that had been cryogenically frozen then thawed outmany decades in the future. All the familiar names and faces were gone. No mention of Cheyne,Buttons, Richards, Rabbit, or Tompson. Thank goodness for Mark Occhilupo. He was the sixteenyear old surfing prodigy from Australia. Now he's the old man of the ASP tour. I also read aboutthe latest developments of tow-in surfing, Kelly Slater's world championships, the Irons brothers,and much more. Even the surf culture had changed. Surfing movies are now for sale on DVD.Back then you could not watch a surf movie in the comfort of your own home. You had to wait for one to be shown in your area. Then you'd have to squeeze into a room full of surfers in a locallibrary or cafeteria somewhere. We would all hoop and holler at the screen as Jerry Lopez soularched his way through giant Pipeline barrels.As I continued to read on, something suddenly struck me like a bolt of lightning! I couldn'tbelieve my eyes! It was a picture of Puerto Escondido in an advertisement for beach wear! Whatthe Hey?!? Are you serious? Then I ran across several other pictures and mentions of Puertothroughout the magazine. Could this be true? Has Puerto Escondido become mainstream likeBanzai or Bell's? That’s sure as hell not how I left it so many years ago. It was anything butmainstream. It was underground, very underground. It had only appeared in magazines a handfulof times. And it was usually referred to as some far off secret spot. There were no advertised surf villas or online travel packages. Hell, there wasn't even an airport. Don't get me wrong, surfersdid travel from all over the world to get there, but in much smaller numbers. You really had towork to get there.In 1985 I had just graduated from Corpus Christi State University. While my fellowgraduates were preparing for their professional futures, I was preparing for my 1st trip to PuertoEscondido. I had been hearing the tales of freight train barrels and spitting tubes for years. I wasready to take my shot at it. Puerto Escondido had long been a poor man's surf trip for Gulf Coastsurfers, as long as you were willing to make the journey. All you really needed was a smallamount of money, a big wave board, and persistence. You needed at least a 7 foot big wave gunand enough money to get there and back. However, big wave boards did not grow on trees inCorpus Christi, Texas. I found my board almost by accident. A friend of a friend's older brother had it stored in his garage. It was not seven feet but a 6'10” pintail Town & Country. It wasshaped and signed by someone named Jesus in Hawaii. It was a little undersized yet built for speed and stability. It was an amazing board. I had no idea how it ended up in Corpus Christi butit was mine. After buying my board, I had exactly $250 left to get to Puerto, stay about a month,and then get back again. It seems impossible now, but the exchange rate was ridiculously lowand every thing there was dirt cheap.Our journey began in Corpus Christi, Texas and ended at the southern tip of Mexico. Iwas traveling with three of my surfing buddies from Corpus Christi; Todd, Conrad, and Alberto. Iwas the only Puerto virgin. They had all been at least one or more times. Alberto's family wasfrom Spain. He spoke fluent Castillian Spanish, which is a much different than the Spanish dialectspoken in Mexico. The people there loved his European Spanish accent and treated him likeroyalty. Todd and Conrad were both blond haired-blue eyed surfers that stuck out like a soar thumb. Not ideal for blending in when traveling across Mexico. My dark hair and brown eyeswere a little less conspicuous.We drove to the border town of Nuevo Laredo in Todd's '72 Ford Mustang. We parkedthe Mustang in a church parking lot where Alberto claimed his family knew the preacher. Thepreacher was nowhere to be found so we left a note on the windshield saying we would be backin about 4 to 6 weeks. (ARE YOU SERIOUS?!? I get on to my kids if they leave their coat at afriend’s house.) From there we headed on foot to the border; four travelers with four duffel bagsand six surfboards. We went through customs where we showed them our travel visas. They dugaround in our bags a bit then sent us through into Mexico.Border towns on the U.S. side of the border give you a very strong taste of Mexico.However, it’s not quite the same as once you actually cross the border. It hits you all at once. Thesights, sounds, and smells are unique only to Mexico. Everything there runs on diesel fuel. Thatsmell is always in the air along with fresh tortillas and other aromatic foods being cooked by the
 
street vendors and cantinas. The language, clothing, colors, and culture hit you all at once;bombarding your senses from 1,000 different directionsOnce we crossed the border our first stop was the train station. Train stations in Mexicoare much different than those in the states. They are very big and very old with lots of elaborateold world architecture and design. But most of all they're busy. People don't travel as much bycars or plane. They go by train or bus. They also travel in large groups with aunts, uncles,cousins, nephews, and grandparents. When they have layovers or delays they do not go tomotels or to the movies. They stay at the train station. They sleep, eat, bathe, and whatever elsein the train station. It’s quite a place.My friends had been grilling me on my Spanish for several weeks. "Learn your numbers,foods, and directions." they had instructed me. “Do not waste your time with conversationalSpanish 101.” Numbers, food, and directions will get you a lot further than "como usta usted"or "Llamo es Ricardo". This was the first test of my Spanish training at the ticket window. I hadstudied and knew my numbers and directions fairly well. However, when they started coming atme rapid fire for the first time it was a bit much. Luckily, Alberto was there to bail me out. So withtickets in hand and about two hours to burn we headed to the cantina for tacos and cervezas. Itwasn't long before the tacos and cervezas turned into tequila and lemon slices.The train to Mexico City must have been about 12 or 13 cars long. The last two cars of the train were the private sleepers that were staying in. They were just like the ones you see inold movies. It had bunk beds on the right and a bench bed on the left. It had a tiny bathroom witha toilet and sink. I thought we were roughing it until I saw the 10 or so cars in front of us. Theywere like cattle cars. They were wooden cars with slats and no air conditioning. They had 100's oMexicans packed together like sardines on wooden benches. We were traveling like kings.One thing you become familiar with while traveling through Mexico in the rainy season ismudslides. We encountered our first mudslide about 1/2 way to Mexico City. So there we sat,stuck in the middle of the desert in the middle of summer in the middle of nowhere. So, we didwhat any group of young red blooded American surfers would do. We drank tequila. All Iremember of that was Conrad standing on a hill in front of the train extremely drunk waving theempty bottle of tequila over his head yelling "Gringo el loco! Gringo el loco!" After about 6 hoursof waiting, we got great news! A crew of workers was on its way to move the mudslide. Finally,we were saved! We pictured a line of earth moving equipment speeding its way toward us to digus out. About two hours later a small single platform car with a small electric engine cameputtering up the tracks. On it was about 15 Mexican men with shovels and pick axes. Moretequila! Somewhere in the middle of the night the train began to move and we were on our wayagain. Next stop: Mexico City.If you've never been to Mexico City or don't know much about it there's one thing youshould know. At this time it was the most populated city in the world. THE MOST POPULATEDCITY IN THE WORLD!! As you come in from the north you are coming in around the base of amountain. You are elevated so you get somewhat of a birds eye view as you come in around themountain. My God! Extreme poverty spread out in every direction as far as the eye can see! I hadno idea. Just on ocean of poverty beyond anything that I could imagine. As you get closer to thedowntown train station conditions actually get a little better. Mexico City is old, old, old. The trainstation there is also quite old and 10 times busier than the last station. We bought our tickets fromMexico City to Oaxaca. With about 6 hours to burn we decided to explore some of Mexico City. Icould write a whole separate story just on the sights and sounds of Mexico City. I'll just say this,very old, very busy, and the smell of diesel fuel is stronger than ever.The next stop on our journey was Oaxaca. (Or so we thought)The train makes occasionalpit stops in tiny little towns that sell cold soda, food, and yes, tequila. As we go further south theterrain suddenly changes from desert to mountains and jungle. There were long tunnels throughthe mountains. The tunnels were crazy. Pitch black; you could not see your hand in front of your face. The holes did not look big enough for the train to fit through. To this day, I swear the top of the train was hitting the sides of the tunnel as it swayed.By the time we hit our third mudslide we were deep in the mountains. There was nothingbut jungle and mountains for miles. There was no telling how long we'd be stuck here. It was latein the afternoon and the sun was going down. Sooo what to do? Well we had just gotten a fullbottle of tequila at the last stop, so we drank and we drank and then we drank some more. The
 
next morning at the crack of dawn we heard a lot of commotion outside the train. Outside our window we saw a long line of Mexican people going away from the train straight into the jungle.They looked like a line of ants heading off into the foliage. Alberto asked them what was going on.They told him it was going to be several days before help could get to us. They also told us therewas a road just through these woods where we could catch rides to Oaxaca. So hear it was--Decision time--Stay or go? Without hesitation we all said “go.” We figured whatever was out therecould not be any worse than waiting here for untold days."How far to the road?" we asked. We got several vague answers, such as "just ahead"and "not far". All relative terms coming from people who live in these mountains and don't owncars. Just standing up was difficult as I looked down at the empty bottle we had finished just a fewshort hours ago. So once again we gathered our bags and surfboards and headed off on foot.Only this time we were headed into the jungle in the middle of summer with a mammothhangover. (But it’s okay ‘cause the roads just ahead).Three hours later in the heat of the day deeper and deeper into the jungle we went.Severely dehydrated from puking tequila and what little body fluids I had left. I deeply regrettedour decision to leave the train. The only comforting part was, the people we were following didn'tseem to be the least bit concerned. It’s hard to imagine how this large group of people, includingkids and old women, just headed out into the woods without even a second thought.We finally made it to the road. Pavement sweet pavement! It wasn’t much of a road, butit was definitely a paved road. Some of the people had been telling us about a town with a storeat the paths end. So where was the town and where was the store? It turns out the store was thetown and the store looked more like an outhouse. But as soon as we stepped in the door, rightthere in front of us was the most beautiful sight. A pop machine completely filled with semi-coldsodas. After downing several bottles of semi-cold soda and eating some crackers, we were readyfor our next move. Our next move turned out to be, standing by the road and waiting for a ride.We were waiting for farm trucks traveling through to stop and give us rides. We waitedpatiently as several groups of people were loaded onto trucks before us. Apparently it was apopular road for farm trucks. We didn't have to wait long until it was our turn. The truck driver'swere charging people a few pesos each for their rides. He charged us 300 pesos each becausewe had luggage, surfboards, and we were from the United States.We had about 18 to 20 people, 6 surfboards, and a fair amount of luggage crammed intothe back of the farm truck. As we traveled through the winding mountain road, there was muchsilence and a lot of blank stares. These people were different than most of the people we hadencountered before them. They had much sharper facial features. They were darker skinned andlooked more Indian. We started to realize we were probably the first white people they had ever seen. For about the first hour or so not a word was spoken. The silence was finally broken whensome of the smaller children started to make funny faces at Conrad. Of course Conrad being amaster of goofy faces began to contort his mug into a series of wild maniacal faces. He was ableto answer every wild expression they gave him with one of his own. The children laugheduncontrollably. Suddenly the stoic stone like expressions on some of the adults turned into smilesand eventually laughter. It was so ridiculous it was impossible not to laugh. The ice had beenbroken. Soon Alberto was translating back and forth in his Castilian Spanish. We learned thatmost of them were mountain farmers and lived in the area. They were very curious about thestrange contraptions we were carrying with us. They had no idea what a surfboard was. Weexplained that we were headed to the ocean to ride these boards on the ocean waves. Well, wemight as well have had antennas sticking out of our heads. The next few hours actually went byrather quickly as we talked and joked with our new friends and their kids.It was late in the day when we arrived in Oaxaca. We said good bye to our newest friendsand headed straight for the market. The Oaxacan market is one of the most famous markets inthe world. Tales of the market go back centuries. Exotic fruits and vegetables, hand wovenblankets, garments, hammocks, sandals, hats and hundreds of other items were all available. Allwere handmade with the highest quality. It was late and some of the vendors were alreadyshutting down. We quickly made our way through the market and found what we were looking for;hammocks and sandals--in that order.I had been schooled on the importance of getting a good hammock and the importance of bartering or haggling the price. I was ready for both. I knew it as soon as I saw it; the perfect
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