Coyotes, Lobsters, and a Surfer Named Steve (part 3)

We meet with the Danes that afternoon in the courtyard restaurant of the Alcatraz hotel.

Stine is cherubic looking, with golden hair that hangs in ringlets. She’s getting her nursing credentials and is obviously a compassionate person. She went to Calcutta to work in one of Mother Teresa’s groups but was so depressed by the way orphans are treated in India that she came back after 3 months. Now she will become a nurse in Denmark. She will help new mothers with their babies, a feature of the Danish health system.

Toke is lean, good looking, with black hair, an inquiring mind and a host of questions about everything. He’s studying philosophy in Copenhagen, is 26, and has twinkling eyes and a great sense of humor. They both speak flawless English. They are tuned into each other in a rare way. It’s a synergistic relationship.

OK, Steve says, if you guys help me set up camp, I’ll take you out there for expenses. Deal! 100 pesos each for food, and we’ll split boat and truck expenses.

Peyton, a surfer living in nearby La Purisima, may want to go too. We’ll set off early the next morning.

That night I go with Steve to the “super mercado” and we load up on about $70 worth of food: instant soup, peanut butter, fresh rolls, ham, cheese, tea, tomatoes, onions, avos, etc. As I watch him pick up a package of not exactly great looking Mexican chocolate chip cookies, he sees me looking at them and says, “You may say ‘No’ now, but wait ’till you get out there!”

I stay in a nice 2nd-story room in the hotel. It’s a comfortable place, with palm tree-shaded patio restaurant. I’d been there before, the past September in 100+ degree weather; after 3 nights of sleeplessness on hot full-moon nights on the beach (beautiful, yes, but sleep, no!), I had rented a small air-conditioned room and slept 12 hours.

Steve has loaded the camping gear and food in boxes, and we hop in the truck. Down to an inlet in the mangroves waits the panga. We shove off from the sandy beach and head out through the shallows into Bahia Magdalena. It’s overcast, a bit rough. But the panga cuts through the waters with ease.

In about 30 minutes we arrive at Puerto Magdalena, a cluster of tiny shacks and shanties just back from the beach. It’s at the base of a hill facing the beach, pretty barren, no trees, little vegetation. (It is not a tropical paradise.) Its only connection to the rest of the world is by boat. A few people are wandering around, no one’s in a hurry. There’s a small market, a closed restaurant, a lighthouse, some old military buildings. 20 or so funky trucks.* Fishermen working on lobster pots, kids kicking a soccer ball. One 6-year-old looking boy is wheeling a baby around in a stroller. 5–6 guys sitting around in the shade of a roof on the beach, shooting the breeze. We’re an item of interest. The kids eye us and mill around. The fishermen are glad to see Steve. Maybe 300 people live here. Water distilled from seawater. Electricity on (via generator) 5 to 11 at night. About half the houses have solar panels. Got to run them TVs!

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*“How do they get trucks to the island,” I ask Steve. They lash two pangas together, he says, and bring them into the beach sideways, then use planks for a ramp for the truck to drive down.
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There is actually a restaurant, but it’s closed. I wander over there with Steve while we wait for a truck. He tells me he lived on the island for 2 months once, just took his guitar and surfboard, and hung out. Lived in a small room at the restaurant. The restaurant owner is glad to see him. No, she can’t make us breakfast, but in about 10 minutes comes out with 2 cups of steaming sweetened fresh coffee for us.

Finally we get on a funky (as can only be funky on a Mexican island) truck over to the point. Steve stops to talk to residents at two places on the way out. This is a gringo that makes me proud. The Mexicans love him. He’s open and friendly, he speaks the language, he’s interested in what they are doing . . .