We stay and play in Chamela for 3 days swimming and dinghying and walking the beach. Fresh provisions are low so a walk into town (just a block from the beach) is on the agenda .
Choosing the hottest afternoon (or so it seems) to turn ourselves toward town we venture away from the beach. Up over the sloping embankment a sandy pathway takes us to the main road which looks completely deserted. Of course the Mexicans are smart enough to not be out walking on the scorching pavement at mid day.
We've heard that there is internet access at the hotel and turn right as we were instructed and trudge in the oppressive heat a block to the closed doors of the hotel. We knock and the door is answered by a young woman who speeks only Spanish. In our best Spanish we eventually make her understand that we are looking for internet. She informs us with much head shaking and pointing that the only person who knows how to do the computer stuff is in Guadalajara and will be back late in the day. (at least that's what I think she said). So much for e-mailing our families to let them know we're safe.
Still trudging down the dusty road about a block farther on our left is a little tienda (store). No fresh provisions but they do have a cooler of blessedly cold water. We've walked the equivalent of two blocks and each of us drains a litre . And if a little of the chilly water dribbles down our chins and shirt fronts, so much the better.
Seven blocks further down the road we find the tiny butcher store and purchase a roasting chicken, all cleaned and pimply.
Making our way back toward the beach and our dinghy we stop at various tienda's and purchase limes a pineapple, potatoes and salad vegetables. Oh yeah, and beer.
All the provisions fit neatly in the backpack which is slung over Joe's back. Thankfully the road we've been on runs parallel with the beach. We take the beach route back and cool our steamy feet in the ankle deep water. The sea breeze makes the going easier and the pineapple top poking out of the backpack sways rhythmically as Joe gains speed. The promise of a cold beer under the shady palapa awaits.
The stagnant heat of the street is almost forgotten as we squeeze a juicy lime into our frosty beer. From here we can pursue one of our favourite passtimes. Watching Pacific Jade as she rests at anchor in the bay. No time to dawdle though, we must get our provisions home.
Cooler now, we push the dinghy off the shore execute a perfect launch into the surf and head home . We're learning.
I just have one question. What do you do with the chicken feet?
Choosing the hottest afternoon (or so it seems) to turn ourselves toward town we venture away from the beach. Up over the sloping embankment a sandy pathway takes us to the main road which looks completely deserted. Of course the Mexicans are smart enough to not be out walking on the scorching pavement at mid day.
We've heard that there is internet access at the hotel and turn right as we were instructed and trudge in the oppressive heat a block to the closed doors of the hotel. We knock and the door is answered by a young woman who speeks only Spanish. In our best Spanish we eventually make her understand that we are looking for internet. She informs us with much head shaking and pointing that the only person who knows how to do the computer stuff is in Guadalajara and will be back late in the day. (at least that's what I think she said). So much for e-mailing our families to let them know we're safe.
Still trudging down the dusty road about a block farther on our left is a little tienda (store). No fresh provisions but they do have a cooler of blessedly cold water. We've walked the equivalent of two blocks and each of us drains a litre . And if a little of the chilly water dribbles down our chins and shirt fronts, so much the better.
Seven blocks further down the road we find the tiny butcher store and purchase a roasting chicken, all cleaned and pimply.
Making our way back toward the beach and our dinghy we stop at various tienda's and purchase limes a pineapple, potatoes and salad vegetables. Oh yeah, and beer.
All the provisions fit neatly in the backpack which is slung over Joe's back. Thankfully the road we've been on runs parallel with the beach. We take the beach route back and cool our steamy feet in the ankle deep water. The sea breeze makes the going easier and the pineapple top poking out of the backpack sways rhythmically as Joe gains speed. The promise of a cold beer under the shady palapa awaits.
The stagnant heat of the street is almost forgotten as we squeeze a juicy lime into our frosty beer. From here we can pursue one of our favourite passtimes. Watching Pacific Jade as she rests at anchor in the bay. No time to dawdle though, we must get our provisions home.
Cooler now, we push the dinghy off the shore execute a perfect launch into the surf and head home . We're learning.
I just have one question. What do you do with the chicken feet?
posted by Debra Anderson at 10:16 AM
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