The Palm-fringed Mexican Fishing Village

 As we approach the season that provides the reason for heading south, I’m recalling that last year my husband Jim and I discovered that the line between paradise and purgatory is a thin and blurry one.

We straddled that line after perusing a map of Mexico while camped in Puerto Penasco, just south of Yuma, Arizona, a favorite destination for Okanaganites. Looking for a quieter, less touristy place our eyes fell upon a dot marked El Disembarque, on the coast of the Sea of Cortez less than 200 kilometres south, at the end of a secondary road.

We easily zigzagged our mini-van out of Puerto Penasco, which is not always the case in Mexico where signage is limited. After a junction at the tiny town of San Francisco the road deteriorated and that increased our excitement about going to a spot where big motorhomes daren’t venture, cruise ships don’t dock and the Cancun crowd doesn’t congregate.

Our destination provided no welcome sign: instead we were greeted by a garbage dump where every plastic bottle and bag known to mankind decorated the road and countless hectares of desert like a displaced snow storm. The road became a sandy track as we entered El Disembarque and then blended into a beautiful beach that stretched to infinity both north and south and was a full 100 metres wide. Children played in the surf and a dozen fishing boats sat on the shore waiting for high tide. We drove along the beach, as did many others on this Sunday afternoon. People waved, the palms swayed and we stopped for a swim in shallow water that was nearly 21 degrees in January.

There was no campground and no other tourists in town so we looked for a spot on the beach, well above the high tide line, to camp for the night. No hawkers of souvenirs, blankets or tamales came to our van door, but we did have a visitor who spoke the only English we were to hear during our stay. He begged for money and said he had a terrible hangover and badly needed a drink. We would have loved to learn about the town from him; however he was insistent and somewhat incoherent so we sent him on his way, empty-handed, despite the integrity of his plea.

The sunset was spectacular and we enjoyed the sound of small waves soothing a submissive beach, however we didn’t feel entirely comfortable. There were loud, angry voices in the distance and the dozens of snarling dogs looked like they would enjoy a piece of us if we wandered out at night. We have free-camped in about 60 different countries and have developed a keen sense of what feels safe and what doesn’t, thus we checked into the only accommodation in town, a clean motel overlooking the sea that cost a surprising $50 (before bargaining) for a sparse room with no amenities whatsoever. We were the only guests. Following my best bargaining the price was $50.

The next day we walked through the town where garbage and rubble pushed against what was quaint and charming the night before. The dirt streets hosted three dilapidated dogs for every human. A misstep onto someone’s property resulted in being surrounded by a pack of yapping, snapping curs that had not had a good meal in a month. For every three dogs one lucky cat sprinted between immobile cars. Most of the fishing boats where holed and filled with sand.

This village of no more than a few hundred inhabitants housed more dead cars, trucks, boats, tractors and fridges than a scrap yard would normally accommodate. The mostly unfinished houses were tin, concrete or cardboard and their yards were tangles of junk.

As we strolled, waves of stench from dead fish, dead birds and dead cats assailed us but we were greeted with smiles, waves of hands and had a feeling of being welcome. We saw no other outsiders.

We decided we shouldn’t give up on this potential paradise at the end of the road so we stayed a second night and after more intense bargaining got the room for $50. At 4 a.m. we were jarred awake by banging noises that got louder and louder until there was a whack of a stick, or a big fist, on our door. Then came a similar loud whack on the door next to us and then the door after that. We dared not open our portal, but peered through a crack in the curtains and a shadowy shape rushed past. We heard voices, dogs started barking and then it was quiet. Sleep did not resume until the sky lightened.

At checkout I asked, in bad Spanish, about the noise in the night but the clerk claimed no knowledge and indicated she slept soundly. We will never know.

As we pulled out we reflected on finding every traveler’s dream — a tiny fishing village at the end of the road on a sandy, palm-fringed shore. We speculated that a corporation may soon buy up this land, wall it off, build a giant time-share condo and RV park, improve the road, clean up the dump and scoop up all the junk and dead critters. Then tourists, much like ourselves, will roll into town and remark, as we did in Puerto Penasco, what a shame it is that the land has been taken from the locals and they have to practically leave town just to get onto their beach.