What happens to a small Mexican town after a surfing contest has sawn through it? Charlie Smith investigates the after-effects of the 2006 Rip Curl Pro…
I fucking hate the life-or-death protection of secret spots . I also fucking hate people who cart their pasty asses halfway around the world to pollute them. I hate soul, Sean Collins, Google earth , Patagonia , surf camps , The Indies Trader , Lance ’s Right , the word ‘feral’, economic impact , ecological footprint and respect /disrespect of exposing local joints . I hate every fucking element remotely related this isue . I want to cut Dave Rastovich ’s head off on You Tube.
SOMEWHERE UP YOUR BUTT AND AROUND THE CORNER
In 2005, Rip Curl held their annual WCT event in the small sub-tropical island of Reunion. It was deemed “most excellent” by all. Mammoth barrels kept contestants out of the equatorial sun. French toast, French fries and French kisses flowed like ice-cold Evian. Rumour even had it that li’l Brucey Irons lost his virginity to a sweet Marie Antoinette look-a-like. Though SL8R hoisted the trophy at the end, everyone felt like winners (except those who got equal 33rds).
With such good memories, the pros fully expected to be back surfing St Leu the next year, but those dastardly devils in Torquay had other plans. Rip Curl actually has a “floating license” from the WCT, meaning they can move their event wherever they want. Toward the end of ’05, mainland/Pacific
Mexico was a-calling. Everybody know s that Puerto “The Mexican Pipeline” Escondido is a HUGE, amazing, bonecrushing wave. It’s probably Mexico’s best-known, regularly featured break and would have been an easy place to host a world-class WCT event. BUT, Rip wanted something sexier, something “secreter”, so they pushed south, past Puerto, and stumbled upon an absolute gem.
The 2006 Rip Curl Pro contest, “Somewhere in Mexico” was considered the “best ever” by insiders and outsiders alike. Macking 60-second tubes opened into freight-train faces. Six foot punts ended with cerveza-soaked beach blanket mayhem. Bruce Irons lost his second virginity to a deadringer
for Frida Kahlo. It was soooooo seriously good that billions of people logged off work and onto live web casts, virtually shutting down the world’s economy. Jaws hit the floor from New York t Newcastle as this wave -- this long, perfect right-hander -- peeled and peeled and peeled straight into
everyone’s cerebral cortex. Remember, though, this spot was secret S-E-C-R-E-T and Rip Curl wanted to respect its purity -- its soul -- so they made up a name and called it “La Jolla.”
“La Jolla” and here’s the question, baby. If an epic wave breaks in the woods and everybody sees it on the Internet, but nobody knows its name, will they still be able to find the thing? More importantly, what’s my fucking vital-to-all opinion on the matter?
The nearest flight I could find to el spoto secreto de Mexico was Puerto Escondido. The aforementioned. The Mexican Pipeline. Driving into town for the first time, I was stoked to see sixfoot death barrels pluming and preening in a warm, palm-filtered breeze. I was bummed as fucking hell to see the town was more or less OWNED by hippie pieces of motherfucking patchouli-soaked shit. Pierced noses, vacant eyeholes, mildewed boardies, hatred of hygiene, rope jewellery, and blackened spread-out toes from not owning one pair of decent shoes. These douches are not content to be a total fucking drain on the local economy, either. They pass on their hideous fashion to locals and have the audacity -- THE AUDACITY -- to think they are the tops of the hideous fucking renaissance food chain.
Luckily, this is Mexico, and Mexico has a history of brutality. I’m going to co-opt that RIGHT FUCKING NOW!
MEXICAN HISTORY FOR ASPIRING SURF CONQUISTADORS
Back in the 1500s, Spain was the world’s toughest dude. That was before anybody had discovered Enrique Iglesias or homosexuality. The Spainiards would sail around – mostly South/Central America -- killing, raping, stealing, grooming neatly-trimmed goatees, killing, wiping out native social structures, bringing disease and killing. It was awesome.
So, Mexico has this blood-drenched history, and I thought (as I ambled along Zicatela’s waterfront looking into the coloured hair-braid storefronts at henna tattoo posters) that it’s time to bring it all back. Fourteenth century cultural genocide. This time around, however, those on the receiving end, will be fetid fucking 21st century flower children. Surf conquistadors, unite! We will sail in on business class Mexicana flights. Tanned, showered, cologned and covered in hand-basted Hedi Slimane. AIDS-juice infested blankets will be given to boho douche-bags. Poisoned wheat grass shots free-poured liberally. Those who don’t die on the spot will either be kicked repeatedly in the balls with Gucci loafers or pressed into slavery at one of the many new and necessary dry-cleaners. Join up, kids. Flip your mag around, get some foppish ideas, and prepare to kick mother hippie fucking ass.
Once we sweep their wretched lack-of-underpants-wearing bones from the streets, the Mexican locals will shower us with tacos and tequila.
Wait…
Where was I?
I’m sorry; I have gone a bit far down the peyote-lined rabbit hole. Well, I’m sorry and it’s time to return to the formation of my all-singing, all-dancing, all-important OPINION (re: the exposure of secret spots, in case you’ve forgotten).
Walking around Puerto, I was scared that the hippie plague would have extended out to “La Jolla.” I could imagine Rasta sitting by his Xavier Rudd-stickered computer and watching last year’s Rip Curl Pro.
“Bro, check that wave out! It’s sooooo spiritual! All I wanna do is, seriously, smoke one more
bowl… then live at that wave forever…”
I had no idea how I was going to get myself out there. The cab driver from the airport let me know that it would cost a small fortune in US dollars because it was “pretty far away, hommie.” I was mulling over my options during breakfast when I noticed a mustachioed 65-year-old. He looked at me and asked what my plans for the day were. I told him, “Gots to gets to __________, man.” He paused, pregnantly, before saying, “I was thinking about taking a day-trip. I’ll take you.”
Now, I could have taken this fortuitous turn as my impeding rape-in-the-desert-doom… but I decided that the opinion gods were smiling down, so I accepted his offer. “All I ask”, he said, “Is that you tell me about Egypt.”
Done and done.
SOUTH OF PUERTO
We quickly packed up his 2007 Chevy Suburban and hit the road. This guy was something special for sure. Over the course of our southern drive I deduced that he either runs drugs or works for the CIA, and I ain’t just being a conspiratorial retard. Note the facts: He has multiple houses in the United States and multiple farms in Chiapas (Mexico). He was recently in Pakistan/Afghanistan. He is a pilot. He claims he started (and runs) a small non-profit public health thing, but would not tell me the name because, “the point is to draw attention to the work, not the organisation…” He had a whole floor of the hotel crammed with computer crap. And he drives a brand new Chevy Suburban with satellite radio and smooooooth air-conditioning in Southern Mexico. Mmmmmmhmmm. That’s all I’m going to say about that.
He also brought along a Zapatista colleague. Zapatistas are an olde school guns, bandoleros and balaclavas Marxist revolutionary army in Southern Mexico. They fight for peasant’s rights and independence from Mexico’s version of the Man (or Hombre). Zach de la Rocha is a big fan. So, there we were, driving to secret wave extraordinaire. A CIA/drug something, a Zapatista and me.
As you turn off the main north/south road from Puerto Escondido it’s paved at first. The farms surrounding the town roll out to meet you. Simple and pastoral. Scrubby trees and whatnot. After a few kilometres the main town kicks in. Standard Mexican ramshackle. Lowslung cement brick houses/business laid out in a random Mexican way. Political campaign posters and surf stickers everywhere. Iron pull-shade covered mini-stores or super-minis or super-super minis. There is no real “town centre” as far as I could tell… just, you know, stuff. I am hideous with numbers but
I’d guess the there are less than 1,000 peeps. The whole deal is situated in a gully and surrounded by rolling hills. By now the streets are dirt and the flies are bizzzzy. Oh yeah, there are also some cabanas for rent near a field on the outer edge.
As you head out of town the main road leads up a small hill and a few kilometres later hits the gate and the gate-troll. From here it’s a mere hop, skip and a jump to the wave. There’s a small carpark at the sandline, right behind the beer-selling joint. The wave itself is off to the right, maybe one hundred yards away. The sandstone point juts into the sea and there’s the wave and the ghost of Andy Irons busting sick airs.
Off to the right is nothing. Sand and surf and nothing. There’s a nice new sign pointing the way down a cruddy dirt road that leads to a cruddy old village. As the road veers off toward the beach, a hasty gate had been slapped up. There was an honest-to-goodness troll collecting “seisente pesos.” This creature had bulbous misdirected eyes and a year-old Rip Curl hat perched on his misshapen head. I paid the fee (graaaciasssth) and in we went. To the most secretest wave EVER and my BRAND SPAKIN’ NEW OPINION!
Ok, ok, ok. Quick aside. If I were a serious, scholarly journalist, I would have spent a month at the beach, carefully documenting the comings and goings and various nationalities of the study group. I would have had controls, statistics, interviews, plus or minus 3%...
Serious journalists make me vomit.
My plan was to spend two hours on the beach and extrapolate an extreme, all-encompassing opinion from that..
The first thing I saw as I stepped out of the air-conditioned drug/spy running Suburban, was the rock. That very specific sandstone point jutting right out into the ocean.
This was it: Somewhere. In. Mexico.
As I walked closer, I took careful note of the absolute nothing on the beach. No ancient judging scaffolding or half-buried competitors tent or fossilised Pancho Sullivan. Nothing but sand and sun. Quite bleak. The wave itself looked like it was suffering from high-tide disease. There was definitely something there, though. A mushy five-footish right and one lone guy trying desperately to scrape in over the edge. I watched for a while then turned around to… POW! How did I not see that before? Somehow I had missed a giant grass hut sheltering a population of nine surf males and one surf female. All white. I meandered over and, getting closer, I could hear the unmistakable, undeniable “Aaaah yeah, mate…no worries…” Could it be? Could they be?
Me: I’m sorry to bother you fellas, but are you Australian?
Them: Yeah, mate.
How perfect is that? I asked them how they found the place etc. etc. They were a little standoffish at first, like they had been busted jacking-off to a 1985 Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition feat. Elle MacPherson, but as cold Sol cervezas flowed they opened right up. One was a li’l blonde pro-grom who had come to get famous. Another was a surf mag photog who was there to insure that he got famous. Two had just come from the cricket world championships in Jamaica. They were still a little red from inter-over rum and cokes and might have been responsible for Bob Woolmer’s demise. The guy sitting nearest me had full-sleeve tattoos and would glare over from time to time… mistrustful in a good way. And there was this cute-as-a-button girl in a red bikini. She was really thirsty and kept asking the guys to buy her water but they insisted there was more water in beer and force-fed her icy bottle after icy bottle. I told them I wrote for Stab, and they universally agreed that Derek was a “cool guy” but Sam was “an arrogant prick.”
Good people. They had all met up in Puerto and planned to stay at “La Jolla” for a week. A monster swell was rumoured to be around the corner and these dudes were going to be all over it. The photog had the biggest camera I’d ever seen and Jamie Sterling was coming in and everything was jussssst riiight.
While waiting for the high tide to drop, they swilled their amber and squeezed limejuice into each other’s eyes. Mellow and happy… and the best part? Not a hint of fucking hippie ass shit. I mean, one guy had dreads but he was also a ginger-head so he’s forgiven because what would you do if you had red hair?
Great people. They had money, were buying gallons upon gallons of beer, brought clean, white boards, smelled normal, wore new boardies, threw a little bad attitude…
Epic people. Possible surf conquistadors. Very possible. After an hour I bid them adieu with tears streaming down my face. Advance, Australia Fair.
It was time to go. The two hours were up. I hopped back in the black-market Suburban and we edged into town. Like I said Mexico is an anarchistic free for all. You can do anything you want as long as you have enough green to pay the piper.
Another quick aside… I spoke with a drug dealer in Puerto and asked him where he got his goods. He told me from the “federales” or police. Delicious. He then told me which drugs travelling surfers preferred and said he would take me to a marijuana plantation close to town. I tried to poison
his mushroom supply.
…And one of the little joys is drinking and driving. I asked Drugspy if he wouldn’t mind pulling over so I could get a few beers for the road. The store we parked in front of was the same as all the others in town: small, dirty and plastered with surf posters. I questioned the lady working the counter about the big contest. Had she liked the high-velocity rippage and had it increased traffic/ money-flow through town? She glared at me through Oakley Thumps and curtly said “No.” Wow, why the cranky? Porque estas enojada? She said the contest was ok but there were too many people. Now there are too few people. Make up your mind, baby.
She called her son over, a teenage nerdowell with a Volcom belt. He proceeded to inform me about all the troubles in the capital of Oaxaca, also conveniently called Oaxaca. There had been strikes, police shootings and the threat of all out war. Some big governmental-corruption-violentradical-
burning-the-flag type of thing with no end in sight. He said that it was scaring away tourists. I told him I didn’t care and that he was a stupid savage and his mum was a grumpy whore. Just kidding. I tried to sympathise but civil unrest should not be considered a problem, as far as I’m concerned, so I guess I came across as very much the dickhead.
Even before the Oaxacan Stand-off, though, there had been no real spike in surf tourism. I mean, governmental problems in Mexico are eternal. Without end… so that ain’t what’s keeping the surf hordes away. This precious wave, this “La Jolla,” is simply too far away for most people to travel, including bitch-ass fuckhead hippies. They’d probably have to busk one million “Free Bird” covers to afford the cab fare, and there ain’t no drum circle when they finally do arrive. It’s a hassle to get out there, and most folks (hippie or not) don’t go in for hassles. It’s a shithole, baby, with fairly crabby surf-garbed locals. No doubt the wave is epic. But as far as I can tell, there will always be only about 10 cool surf conquistador Aussies sipping ice-cold beer and buying some for you too.
Mission accomplished, then. Driving north to Puerto Escondido. A CIA/drug something, a Zapatista, some cold beers, me, and my humungous, new, all-important OPINION. And here it is: secret spot exposure arguments are the gayest thing ever! It doesn’t matter if you beat kooks who dare peak at your private peak or if you hold weekly massive blow-out contests. The same people will go to the same places and nothing affects anything and it’s a made up shitty issue intended to… wait. Wasn’t that already my opinion?
Posts: 13
Reply #13 on : Fri November 21, 2008, 02:45:11