Declan was up at the crack of dawn and went swimming alone in the surf. I joined him at 07:30 hrs. when the beach was empty apart from a few of the locals, a couple of fanatical surfers and a few mangy dogs, one of which was coughing up blood near our spot on the sand.
The sea was warm even though the sun was only just up. The 40 m (131 ft) lighthouse, built in 1936, on the right extremity of the beach made the whole place very reminiscent of Kovalum Beach in Kerala in Southern India where I had been in December 1983.
Our predawn chorus this morning consisted of a hyperactive cock crowing, several fireworks or gun shots and the improbable sound of a brass band playing in the nearby village. Leaving the beach, we passed a group of contented pigs slumbering in the shade, and Declan accidentally pulled off the end of a lizards tail while endeavouring to hold it still for a photograph.
Declan had bought a Mexican hammock, bartering it down from 20,000 Mexican Pesos to 10,000 Mexican Pesos and back at the hut he was anxious to try it out. The look of comfort given by a hammock is deceptive, something to get used to and a challenge to get in and out of.
We did some laundry and swung lazily about in our respective hammocks for a couple of hours, chatting and snoozing. At 14:00 hrs. we walked into town under a blazing sun in another vain attempt to find a cheap economical restaurant.
We ended up at the top of the town in a moderately priced bar which served “Corona” beer in iced glasses for 1,000 Mexican Pesos a pop. Here we met an American and his bizarre colleagues. The barman cum cook was dressed all in black with a US sailor hat on which made him look like a camp extra in an old Humphrey Bogart film.
The American, Tony, told us of his exploits as a pilot, top business negotiator and professor of literature. He told us of how he was jostled by the Queen of England in Kathmandu and how he had dated the Dutch princesses and secured a 50% share of North Sea Oil for the United States of America.
He was joined later by a gay looking American chum in a Fred Perry polo shirt and a jolly bulbous-nosed Mexican fellow from Vera Cruz, who purported to be the local English professor. They were entertaining company and we ticked up six beers each before leaving at 17:00 hrs. for another doss about. We paid our 12,000 Mexican Pesos to the beautiful girl at the checkout and returned to our cabana where we took to our hammocks once more.
In the evening the son of our host came up to introduce himself. It was difficult to understand his fast Spanish, but we gleaned that he was on leave from the army and wanted us to join him on a night on the town, dancing and drinking.
We said that we would go, but later thought better of it as an expensive way to get into trouble. We sneaked out early, locking our key inside the hut on the way out, so we had to get the host to retrieve it for us before we could escape.
We had red snapper again in a café that appeared to be tentatively balanced on some loose planking above the beach. Christmas decorations were draped about photographs showing off the owner’s prowess as a fisherman and a footballer.
We ate our well fried fish, served only with dry maize pancakes and set off in search of a bar with reasonable prices. The one we chose charged 1,000 Mexican Pesos for tepid “Dos Equis” so we drank one and opted to buy a cold bottle of “Carta Blanca” beer from a supermarket.
We sat in the street opposite some jewellery vendors and drank our beer whilst watching fat Yanks and drunken Europeans on their evening promenades. At 21:00 hrs. everything seemed to shut up shop, so we tottered off back to our hammocks for the night.
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