Dear bon vivant,

If you’ll excuse me, I would like to say we are now drinking piña colada and comparing our suntanned skins while sitting on the coast of Pacific. Fikret argues piña colada with cinnamon is no different than watered down boza, while Metin argues that the superior race Laz people are sun proof. The so-called Swiss hippies sitting behind us play bad mandolin and get to our nerves.

We are in coastal town Zipolite. Here is a white sanded holiday resort, and it’s not much different from its many counterparts with its naked Australians and contented locals. A standard conversation doesn’t go any further than “Where are you from, my fella? Since when have been travelling? Have you been to the last Rainbow?”

In theory, we should have gone up to a village near Oaxaca and met the daughter of the shaman, whose father allegedly inspired John Lennon, Bob Dylan, etc… Then we realized the village was five hours away and radically off our route. We gave up and headed to the coast.

If it weren’t for the peasants who sell gasoline in containers, we would be stranded in the middle of the winding Mexican roads. Well, we didn’t. And moreover, we found a griller called Rosticeria and filled our stomachs.

The griller lady nearly adopted me, and gave Metin and Fikret a piece of her mind. “These are good boys but man cannot be a Mexican without eating meat (Metin) and cheese (Fikret).” Although they didn’t get the approval of señora, our lads have a dazzling inclination for becoming Mexicans. They make contacts perfectly by talking in Turkish.

Example 1:

Metin: (In Turkish) How do you squeeze that orange, lady?

Señora: (In Spanish) I squeeze it with a machine, son.

Example 2:

Metin: We should stop here and buy some water.

Fikret: You say “Agua”, and then “Por favour”, and you make eye contact.

We stop and buy water.

Fikret: Muchas gracias (and then in Turkish) sir, have a nice working day.

Sir: (In Spanish) Thank you son, you have a nice trip.

At one point, I stopped opening the window and asking directions to truck drivers during the lapses of reason our GPS Juan Carlos – whose brain is not bigger than a dry bean – constantly had. Metin directly speaks his mind with Turkish gestures by using his hands and arms. And in contrast with our worries, we haven’t seen any bandits that block the roads. There are very helpful, smiling people. The only problem is that it is not possible to find proper coffee when the driver gets sleepy.

At our last stop, an ocean viewed mountain village, Fikret and I asked for hot chocolate. They brought us a plate full of bread, and a spoon and a hot chocolate in a bowl. Metin, who was waiting for his filter coffee, amused himself by mocking us. Then he received the same serving with one gram coffee inside the bowl. He had nothing else to do but to dip his bread into the coffee. He convinced himself that he wasn’t sleepy anymore and we were back on the endlessly winding road.

The curves are alright, but we couldn’t get used to the speed bumps in every five kilometers. Every time we bounce we turn into a chorus cursing those “vibradores” and their constructors like İstanbul’s taxi drivers would do. After we overcame the mountains and the speed bumps, and arrived in Zipolite, the first thing we did was to throw ourselves into a lodge. Then we filled ourselves one “double” glass of rakı.

As I hadn’t been to a place that is below 3000 metres in the last three months, I am very happy with where we are now. I am hopping around with the joy of wearing slippers and being under the sun. Yet these criticising lads keep grumbling. Fikret is insistent that “this in not Mexico.” Metin’s belief that he is in Goa, India, is unshakeable. He says “rupi” instead of peso, “chapathi” instead of tortilla, and calls the motorcycle cabs “riksha.” And when we received an invitation for a Goa trance party, the picture was completed.

Of course, they both stopped grumbling once they lied on the hammocks and started reading their books.

When we had enough of laziness, we jumped right into the sea, relying on the yellow flag that indicated the risk of getting drowned.

The flags on the beach mean the same as the traffic lights. Red: “You will certainly get drowned so stick with your hammock.” Yellow: “Risk of getting drowned: be careful.” Green: “Swim, in anyway you like.” Yet, it turned out the yellow flag should be taken seriously. Metin’s argument “I am Laz and I cannot get drowned” was discredited when he had a few involuntary somersaults and swallowed a bunch of water.

Our intention after this touristic day is to spend a quiet evening and hit the road early in the morning.

Edited after drinking rakı: on our last night in Zipolite we came in terms with the fact there were no Mexicans around, and adapted ourselves to the international social scene.

We played and sang on the beach and got into the party mood. It got even better when we told our friends to leave their beers aside because we had “something miraculous.”

Everyone, either El Salvadorian or French, immediately embraced rakı. And we surrendered to the backpacker conversation. At one point I was reading poem to Steve from the States and it went like:

“Rakı with ice,

Goes down very nice.

When you put it in your glass,

You feel first class.”

But we had to flee the scene when the bottle was finished and people started asking for another one. Sharing is always nice, but we have a long way to drink ahead.

Hopefully we’ll be back in Mexico tomorrow. We’ll let you know when we get there.

Greetings and love,

Nur.