The solitary hotel we’d noticed earlier was not listed in any travel book/magazine. After we crossed—via planks—two open sewer ditches in the courtyard, the cautious owner put us in the new section, with a minute railing along the three-story open corridor. That added fillip to our stay, as we hugged the wall to prevent any accidental slipping to the hard ground below.
But the dining room was the highlight. A very small room off the kitchen, it was also the office and bar. Card tables, centered with glasses filled with paper napkins, provided the only furnishing. My younger son found a live rooster in the kitchen (things were a bit informal) and ran around with it, through the dining area, out over the two sewer ditches, and back through the kitchen. Two turkeys wandered through the dining room and the handsome rancher seated next to us cheered me up. (It’s better to laugh—and flirt—than to cry.)
The next morning, another decision—return to the “toll bridge” (AAA, how could you?) and hopefully drive on to the two Puertos, or defeated, drive back to Acapulco and Mexico City, or cut across what the map showed as a black line of road to the junction with the Pan American Highway, then go on down to Oaxaca.
Backtracking steps is not my favorite way to travel if there is an alternate route. Pinotepa to Oaxaca it would be.
That decision was problematic. The first few miles were blacktop, made of triangle-shaped metal beams placed alternatively. I failed to see how the tires could ride between the ridges or on top of them. A government truck, the back filled with workers, stopped behind us. The men, rather gleefully, I suspected, urged me on with “pase, pase.” My cheerful spirits hit a rapid low. I yelled back, not diplomatically, “I’m not going to ‘pase’.”
With forced dignity, I climbed down from the VW and walked over to inspect this bridge. The workers jumped from the truck to help, but only succeeded in deepening my embarrassment. I was absolutely terrified to go over the bridge. They were late for work. But I refused to turn back. I looked around the group of men, picked the one who looked the most capable, handed him my keys, and said “you drive it over.” He did. No problem. I had trouble even walking over the metal struts. My 15-year-old son apologized later for not helping me. “You understand, mother, I couldn’t help you in front of all those men.” The macho idea doesn’t take long to pick up.
This all happened about 9 a.m.; by late afternoon, we’d seen exactly three cars. Sometimes, I could only go 8 mph, slipping into ravines, then crawling out, only to find another ravine in a few hundred feet. It was the longest stretch of “bad road” I’d ever driven. And despite having driven the old Alaska Highway and the McKenzie Highway, this one was “difficult.” The Mexican government promised to build a wonderful highway across the stretch. I’ve not gone back to check.
But, as usual, we found fun adventures also. One was to drive into three small villages where women were making attractive colorful long dresses unlike those we’d found anywhere in Mexico. A dress cost about $12 in the villages; later I saw the same dresses in a shop in Mexico city’s Zona Rosa—the dresses were $70. But this drive was a hard way to find a bargain.
There may be a new road by now. If not be certain to get gas in Pinotepa, because there was only one station along the bad road and not one from the Pan-Am junction to Oaxaca. Last word is that the toll bridge on Hwy. 200 is again visible, operative, and all the good words, but prior to leaving Acapulco for the two beautiful, but under-developed ports, be sure to check.
You would prefer NOT to take the road less traveled by.