From the highlands to the lowlands

From the American flavoured cowboy desert states in the north, to the sprawling colonial Mexico City built on Aztec ruins in the mountain heartland, to the nudist wave machine beaches on the Pacific coast. In travelling through Mexico we have experienced the highs and lows both in attitude and altitude.

The most extreme journey, to date, was from Oaxaca city to Zipolite beach. This journey took us from a height of 1,455 metres up to 2,750m and back down to sea level. It is one of the windiest journeys I have ever taken and I now understand why the large coaches take a six hour detour to avoid the route we took. But we opted for the ‘direct‘ route in a minibus along Highway 175.

Highway 175 is a spectacular 245 kilometre stretch of road that takes your stomach and breath away as it chicanes its way up and down forested mountains. The road up from Oaxaca is dry, dusty and flanked by cacti. At the highest settlement, San Jose Del Pacifico, the sun sharply cuts through the cool, crisp, pine scented air to illuminate magnificent valley views. It gets cold up here, or so we surmised, given the number of local women selling thick hand-knittted woolly jumpers, ponchos, hats and socks. As well as being naturally high (2,750m) this village is also known for its natural highs in the form of magic mushrooms.

On the winding descent - more stomach lurching and leg rolling - the slopes became greener, still pine forests but more lush and with undergrowth. Then signs started appearing advertising coconuts for sale and banana plants started to pop up amongst the trees. The further we went down the more tropical it looked. Four hours into our five and a half hour journey the minibus driver turned on the air conditioning.

Down and down we wound until we were dumped in Pochutla. An unremarkable transport hub of a town that links travellers to the beaches. Relieved to be out of the roller coaster minibus, our taxi driver gave us a fairly similar experience. His style was, however, more Grand Prix. He chose not to see corners and bends and speed bumps were considered prime overtaking ground. After ten more minutes of being thrown around in a moving vehicle we spotted our first glimpse of the Pacific since we disembarked from MV Hugo in Long Beach.

We were left on the hot, sweaty, windy (not windy) Playa del Amor in Zipolite. Sea level at last. With cowboy boots and jackets packed away we wandered about dazed for the afternoon. The beach was lined with palm trees, hammocks and thatched cabanas and there were scores of naked people (mainly men), try-hard hippies and Mexican families playing and strolling on the sand. Our hostel was filthy in a seaside manner - sand blasted floors and barnacle encrusted bathroom taps that looked like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean. All very laid back. A far cry from the grid patterned streets, pillars and plazas of Oaxaca with its high society dinner and theatre scene. It all felt very odd indeed.