Escondido Nights

Back by the sea at last, at the south coast beach town of Puerto Escondido.

We're here for a few days R&R, after a week jam packed with magical trips. After the minibus ride from Hell to get here, through four hours of terrifying mountain roads, we need it now more than ever.

Being a tad afraid of heights - and of being dead - I was pretty nervy as soon as the road we were on began to rise up into the mountains.
I told myself of course there's nothing to worry about, and that hundreds of Mexicans make this trip daily. I began to relax, and as I rooted in my bag for my iPod we suddenly came to a halt. I looked up to see a policeman and a large truck winching a car (and most likely it's unfortunate occupants) out of the ravine below. I waited with baited breath to see what was on the other end of the winch, but thankfully after a first unsuccessful attempt, the policeman waved us by.

This front row glimpse of death did nothing to dampen our drivers spirits however. It soon became apparent that despite the unbarriered road hanging precariously over a constant sheer drop, he enjoyed both driving at incredible speeds and overtaking on blind bends - many of said bends decorated with crosses, presumably honoring the roads many victims.

'The Reaper', as I like to call him, also had penchant for driving on the wrong side of the 'road' to avoid the many potholes and cracks, caused by the areas constant siesmic activity. He once drove on the left so long I thought I was back in England. I soon remembered I wasn't though when we drove past 'Sanchez RIP 2009' spray painted in giant letters on a cliff face.

As I sat in terrified silence, crying on the inside so as not to worry Lucy, I noticed almost every car we passed had a wreath or religious icon tied to its front grille. Now there may have been some perfectly innocent reason for this - a recent religious festival for example - but in my eyes it was this overly superstitious country's attempt to get one over on the cold hands of death that clearly like to pluck cars from this road.

Miraculously, after the longest squeaky bum time in recorded history, our coffin on wheels made it to the coast intact. I leapt relieved from the bus, wanting to, but deciding against, kissing the tarmac Pope style.

And don't worry Mum, it's first class buses and nice straight motorways from here on out.