Paradise

“If paradise were realizable, […], it would no longer be paradise.” After winding about through the Oaxaqueño mountains dodging burros, potholes and the ubiquitous Mexican topes, getting thrown from one side of the colectivo to the other in our ride from Oaxaca City to Puerto Escondido, a pirate town full of bandits and teenie-bopper discotecas made famous amongst surfers a long time ago, and then another ride in a beachcombing colectivo with lime vendors and families going to the beach from there to Pochutla, a sweaty market town far enough away from the coast for business to be done, and then a quick ride to Puerto Angel, we found a mosquito-ridden rustic tree house nestled in the trees upon a steep hill from the beach equipped with a mosquito net and a small fan to ward away the small beasts and the stifling heat. We then meandered down to the local beach with clean water inundated by fisherman in small lanchas fishing large tuna out of the water with their bare hands cut up to shreds by the speedy beasts of the deep blue. The waves gently pull in and under our beach chairs refreshing our feet. We sip on Coronas and nibble on ceviche and fruit cocktail. Is this paradise?, we ask with our feet later devoured bby sandflies and our bodies branded with a gigantic uneven red stamp of stinging pain. Or maybe when we carefully climb–so as to avoid the scorpions potentially lurking in the wood works, the dark spaces of the room and our luggage–in to our fort the sanctuary created by the pink mosquito net the fan blowing on us cooling down our sticky hot skin. A strange tropical bird screams outside as we reflect an afternoon of watching sea turtles having sex (an all day affair), dolphins skip out of the water, a sailfish spins around chasing flying fish with its sleek sail skimming out of the water. We’re hungry but the dusk’s warm rainfall has begun. It’s the rainy season here. We delay our departure for food. If we had the number, we could have tacos delivered. Is this paradise?