My last day in Puerto Escondido was spent cruising around the lagoons of Chacahua on a little boat with a bunch of crazy Canadians and their chihuahua Jorge. There were a buttload of mangroves and birds, and the sense of remoteness was very soothing.
Before I could get too relaxed, the matriarch of the Canadian family began recounting some bone-chilling tales about “the real Puerto”. Covered in tattoos and proudly sporting a healthy appetite for weed, she lived in Puerto for many years, next to a police station. She told tale after tale of police corruption, drug cartels, buffets of cocaine, child abduction, beheadings and organ harvesting.
As Jorge shivered away next to me I began to feel glad I wasn’t scratching too far below the surface in Puerto. We tucked into a feast on the big, empty beach and I watched perfect waves roll in, wishing I had my board.
As we zipped back home, the moon appeared in front, dusky pink, while behind us the sun set and large black birds wheeled and screeched. It was a weird, magic day.