CondeNast Traveler: Best Mexico Beaches

The Simple and the Sublime
by Ondine Cohane
CondeNast Traveler and the Seattle Times
August 26, 2006

For 750 miles, Highway 200 in Mexico tracks a coast that mixes great surfing, funky bars, cowboys, mountain towns, and beachside havens of great luxury. Ondine Cohane takes the trip.

Surf etiquette dictates that I shouldn't reveal my exact location, but I am not far from Troncones, a small dusty village on the Pacific coast of Mexico, about half an hour north of Zihuatanejo. You can't get to this break by road, and you would have to search a lot of deserted beaches, board in arms, to find it—unless, that is, you can get Michael Linn, an Oregon native and now resident surfing instructor, to take you there. That is how I have the good fortune to be here on a warm afternoon in January.

The light turns golden as we paddle out in total isolation to the perfect sets that break first left, then right. The early hours of the day usually provide the best conditions for surfing, but today is an exception, the waves worthy of the pursuit. A sea turtle swims alongside for company. I tire before Michael and retreat to the edge of the lagoon as pelicans dive for their evening meal. Three kids fish with hand nets, up to their knees in the clear water. Behind them, the mountains are purple and hazy. An unusual quiet descends on the Pacific at this hour.

If this were merely a surfer's rhapsody, the afternoon would be idyll enough. But it's only one in a series of moments that occur on similar beaches in the course of a 750-mile road trip. Seven years ago, I learned to surf far to the north of here, in a town called Sayulita, which at that time was as quiet as Troncones is now. Along this coast, surfers—as they often do around the world—have played the role of pilot fish, seeking out places of great natural beauty and, unwittingly and often unwillingly, drawing the attention of an industry hungry for the same qualities but with a very different clientele in mind. Inevitably, there is tension between those who want to leave things in their raw, hippie perfection and those who want to endow this coast with Babylonian comforts: private pools, five-star meals, and steep prices. I confess a similar ambivalence: Whatever balance will ultimately be struck between the two camps, change is coming, and I am, I realize, one of its agents.

The inspiration for my journey was the Oscar-nominated Mexican coming-of-age flick Y Tu Mamá También. That very sexy road trip epitomized the special mix of heat and beach and atmosphere that I find a great antidote to a northern winter. Sure, Gael García Bernal and Diego Luna would not be my guides—I'd have to settle for my husband—but I was certain that I, like them, would find my own beach nirvana (or perhaps two). I plotted a course that would take me south along Highway 200 from Puerto Vallarta to Zihuatanejo, with a short detour north.

In 1999, Sayulita was the classic, unspoiled surf town, its name passed along in hushed whispers among adventurous beach lovers. The only people at the break that year were my fellow students from an all-women's surf camp, Las Olas, and a few local teenagers who put our skills to shame. When I turn up now, it's clear that the secret's out. Groups of sunbathing twentysomethings have staked their claim to the once empty stretch of sand, and the old ice-cream shop that doubled as an Internet café has been replaced by a Napa ValleyÐlike fine wine and cheese shop. Where a dozen surfers once bobbed in the water, I now count close to forty. Although the town retains much of its unmanicured charm, especially for the new visitor—the sandy roads remain unpaved, some favorite beachfront bars are intact—it feels decidedly more on the beaten path.

In the evening, we head less than three miles north to San Francisco, affectionately known to locals as San Pancho (Pancho being the nickname for Francisco in Spanish). The sleepy mango-processing village is enclosed by palm-tipped headlands, and the main beachcombers are frigate birds, pelicans, and sea turtles. After visiting a friend's beautiful compound on a bluff overlooking the ocean, miles up a bumpy, dusty road, we eat plates of grilled prawns and tender steak under the candle lanterns of San Francisco's Mar Plata, a new restaurant. We talk about the quiet life our friend has found so close to Puerto Vallarta, and discuss at what moment a hideaway becomes overrun. This subject of development, in various guises, won't leave my mind for most of the drive south.

The next morning, I have arranged to meet Kemi Vernon, a former instructor from my alma mater, Las Olas, who has moved permanently to the nearby town of Punta Mita to open her own surf school with her partner, Josué. Last time, I drove to Punta Mita on a dirt road; now, the local Four Seasons and an enormous neighboring development of private villas have put Punta Mita on the luxury map. There is a new four-lane highway; and a billboard advertising real estate forebodingly announces, BEAUTIFUL TODAY…PERFECT TOMORROW.

Down at the break, Kemi waits with her board. She is the person who first had me standing up on a wave, and I am eager to show some progress since we last met. Her timing is still impeccable, and she gets me into the rhythm of these quicker waves with steady commands.

After this refresher clinic, it's time to start the long drive south toward Zihuatanejo. First, we have to get through Puerto Vallarta on a Sunday. But only forty minutes beyond the last Señor Frog's franchise (a margarita mecca for sunburned tourists), we are in remote countryside and the road heads inland, away from a large peninsula accessible only by boat. Crests in the road allow a glimpse of the mountains between us and the ocean. Small ranches begin to pop up every few miles, and cowboys make their way home on horseback. Languid cows and donkeys, skinny horses, and the ubiquitous scrappy mutts make frequent appearances. Highway 200 stretches all the way to the southernmost point in Mexico, but in many places it deserves the more humble designation of country road. Well-tended roadside shrines provide a constant reminder of the poor souls who pursued the local custom of taking mountain curves at great speeds.

It's approaching sunset when we head off the highway toward La Cruz de Loreto. In town, a few horses are tied up outside a bar. Farther on, past a dry creek and up a dusty road, lies the Hotelito Desconocido eco-resort. Set between the Sierra Madre and Mismaloya Beach, this extremely secluded property borders one of the most important bird and turtle sanctuaries in Mexico. It has no electricity: Lanterns line the paths, and the bar is illuminated by hundreds of votive candles. The simple beachfront palafitos (or stilted bungalows) across the lagoon are accessible only by rowboat—which is devastatingly romantic as well as practical: The sound of a motor would disturb the sanctuary's main residents. Our winged neighbors don't return the favor. In the morning, the estuary is the avian equivalent of JFK on the day before Thanksgiving. More than 150 species pass through here, among them eared grebes, American oystercatchers, great and snowy egrets, roseate spoonbills, yellow-crowned night herons, and spotted sandpipers. It's not just the number of species but the sheer number of birds that's astounding.

Apart from a few hotel rooms, the turtle sanctuary is the only habitation on a miles-long isolated and pristine stretch of beach. Starting in July, sea turtles make their way there to lay eggs. Biologists patrol for poachers, collect the eggs, which they then bury in an area protected from predators, and allow safe passage to the females as they head back to the ocean.

When we arrive, the hatchling season is almost over, but about fifty from the latest batch are still awaiting release. Guests are invited to participate, so I join others looking into a big bucket of tiny squirming sea turtles, their dark bodies only a tenth their eventual size, lines etched into their soft backs where their shells will later harden. We deposit them gently on the sand at the water's edge, then witness a pitiless demonstration of the survival of the fittest: Although thousands of hatchlings will be released back into the sea, only about one percent will survive the journey. Most will become a meal for a pelican or will be scooped up in the nets of the nearby shrimp boats. Nonetheless, getting them this far has been an achievement for local conservationists.

Instead of heading directly back to Highway 200, we decide to keep to the country roads that meander between little villages. We drive past a turnoff that I recognize—the road to Las Alamandas, a resort where I spent a happy secluded weekend a few years back. The owner, Isabel Goldsmith—daughter of the late British billionaire Jimmy Goldsmith—was a pioneer of the ecologically sensitive hotel development that characterizes this stretch of Costa Careyes—part of the Costa Alegre. A few miles farther along, we stop for lunch on the tranquil white sand beach of Bahía Chamela, where tiny lush islands dot the Pacific and the occasional whale makes an appearance. To reach the bay, we fearlessly take exactly the type of overgrown track I promised the nice Hertz rental agent that I—of course—had no intention of risking. There are four sleepy palapa restaurants—nothing but wood poles pushed into the sand to support a thatched roof, plastic tables and chairs, and an open kitchen. At one, Doña Diana's, I eat a starter of melt-in-your-mouth seviche and just-caught grilled red snapper with tortillas. There's no one else around.

Cuixmala—where Jimmy Goldsmith once feted the likes of Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, and untold numbers of movie stars—sprawls over 2,000 lush acres and is part of the 32,000-acre Chamela-Cuixmala Biosphere Reserve. This ecological preserve is on land that the tycoon bought and later donated to an environmental foundation run by his family and the University of Mexico. The villas, so well guarded that guidebooks barely mention them, have been open only to family and friends until recently, so I am extremely curious to see the compound. Another of Goldsmith's daughters, Alix, and her husband, Goffredo Marcaccini, have given it a new life as an exclusive eco-resort and organic farm. Goldsmith's crash pad, La Loma, is a huge pale amalgam of Istanbul's Hagia Sophia and Las Vegas's Venetian, topped with a blue and gold citadel and framed by huge bronze statues of a giant rhinoceros and a gorilla. This extraordinary pile sits on a bluff at the ocean's edge and provides a Big Brother view over more discreet parts of the property and the jungle—appropriate for a man who in his later years was a strange mix of political megalomaniac and recluse.

Remnants from Goldsmith's eccentric days include crocodiles lazing by the lagoon and a herd of cheerfully plump zebras and antelope. Although recent guests have included Madonna and Mick Jagger, the place has a low-key feel. The undeveloped surroundings protect a formidable biodiversity—at last count, 77 species of mammals, 270 of birds, 140 of reptiles and amphibians, and 1,200 of plants and trees. In a delightfully quiet electric boat, we navigate the inner lagoon at dusk. The lotuses dotting the water have closed for the night. Swifts sweep overhead. A crocodile drifts by. Zebras look up from their feeding as one of the owners' teenage daughters canters past on horseback, waving to us. Along the overgrown canals, I hear smaller animals running into the underbrush.

After sleeping in a stylish new casita, we drive through miles of forest and past herds of deer to a tiny white sand cove protected by outcroppings and lined with perfectly placed palm trees. We have come to Caleta Blanca, one of the private beaches, for a picnic. A covered area with long tables is set up for lunch, and kayaks, two boats, and a trampoline are the only diversions. It's a setting not unlike the previous day's at Bahía Chamela, and the menu is exactly the same—although you could eat for a month at Doña Diana's for what it costs to spend one night at Cuixmala. Such are the extremes of this coast that most guests at Caleta Blanca will never venture to a place like Doña Diana's, and few of Diana's patrons will ever enjoy a private picnic here. Yet they are separated by only five miles, and each is sublime in its own way. Caleta Blanca has an assured future, while Bahía Chamela is vulnerable to the forces of development that may or may not hit as they have elsewhere.

Money is the key. Even communities with strong conservation tendencies and a vocal ejido (cooperative of local people) are not in a position to cordon off tracts of land and ward off development without serious funding. The low-density approach of places such as the Hotelito Desconocido, Las Alamandas, and Cuixmala, and their upkeep, call for large personal—and often foreign—fortunes and almost ludicrously high room rates.

Back on the road, we hear a hiss as we leave Cuixmala, and discover that the jeep has a flat. Thus, we find ourselves in the nearby small town of Emillano Zapata, in a shop that sells gasoline from unmarked bottles, as well as wine, beer, and tequila—which I suspect taste similar to what is being sold as gas. The town's mechanic, who wears a greasy beard and cutoffs and looks permanently oil-stained, fixes a couple of bikes for kids on their way to school. After attending to their plight, he turns to ours, while a trio of iguanas drowse on a pile of sun-warmed rocks. Mexico's roads, apparently, constantly produce flats, so almost every tiny town has a repair shop. An hour later and only $2.50 poorer—with the spare checked and refilled—we meander south on Highway 200, stopping at Tenacatita, a town that made headlines when it curbed hotel development. For now, a few foreigners sit alongside Mexican families on a wide stretch of calm beach. A little farther down the road lies Barra de Navidad—bigger and equally charming, yet contained and easy to explore on foot, with bustling little arts shops and restaurants. Barra's main claim to fame is its fishing—yellowfin tuna and marlin are abundant—but the surf is excellent, especially the break north of town, which I test out before lunch.

After Barra, we're inspired to make a detour inland and up toward the mountains. I have heard that Colima is a pretty town with a colonial feel and good food. Other travelers have described a dramatic approach featuring twin peaks, but it's too cloudy to see them. We spend the night at the Hotel Ceballos, the former governor's house. Though much of Colima's original sixteenth-century architecture has disappeared—as a result of earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and the revolution of 1910Ð17, the central part of the city, near the Jardín de Libertad, does have a colonial ambience, as advertised. A marching band plays in the central bandstand, and plastic chairs have been set up for the congregating families. A few couples do the fox-trot and the tango, while a Mexican Woody Allen look-alike dances with a much younger and taller woman. Later, at an outdoor table adjoining the Church of San José, we—the only tourists—feel like unexpected extras in a surreal 1960s Mexican film. In the morning, the smog has cleared and suddenly, as we leave, I see the legendary volcanoes in sharp relief.

The next stage of our drive passes through the state of Michoacán, reputedly the wildest and most beautiful stretch of Pacific coast. Back at Tecomán, on Highway 200, we top off the tank—there won't be another gas station for almost a hundred miles. The road grows rougher, bordered by unruly bushes abloom with pink and yellow flowers. We pass only one other car and see but a solitary tourist—a barefoot surfer carrying a board down a dirt road toward the beach near San Juan de Alima. Roughly every mile or so, we spy another of these roads leading to a deserted beach. There are plenty of great surf breaks, but those near towns are safest because they ensure at least a few companions in the water. One such enclave is La Ticla, which Kemi and Josué told me has some of the best surfing around. Compared with Sayulita, this feels like a wild new frontier, with a handful of surfers sleeping in tents right on the beach. Just one small restaurant is open, and the water is incredibly clear.

Then comes Faro de Bucerías, a beautiful crescent beach with equally clear water nestled between two bluffs, excellent for diving and snorkeling. A lighthouse sits atop the rocks at one end, a palapa restaurant beneath it. For refreshment, a group of men cut open coconuts and pour vodka into them. One of the men is already slightly inebriated, tottering down to the shoreline. A few fishing boats come in and out of the cove. The eco-friendly commitment is very strong here—and also at nearby Playa Maruata, a small community where the ejido owners who once fished for turtles now maintain a turtle sanctuary, using their boats for tours instead of on hunting trips. After these beaches, the coast stretches on with unreachable, deserted coves, windswept beaches dotted with driftwood and backed by sheer cliffs. There are even fewer cars, and just an occasional saddled donkey. Miles from the last town, we hear an unmistakable hissing sound and discover that another tire is losing air. We decide not to worry—despite the isolation—and about half an hour later our faith is justified. Tiny villages appear down in the valley. And as the tire begins to feel seriously floppy, we spy a shack with piles of radials and an air hose. A young girl has been left in charge of the operation, and together we assess that if we refill the tire, we can just make it through the next day. When we try to pay her, she waves us off.

Approaching Barra de Nexpa in the late afternoon, we find cowboys sitting with their wives in the shade of a cinder block church. Here, twenty bucks gets you a large beachfront bungalow for the night and the company of a handful of other travelers sitting by bonfires in the sand, swapping surf stories. At sunrise, about twenty surfers are already catching the long rolling waves that Nexpa is known for. I join them for a few sets before we begin the final leg to Zihuatanejo.

In the state of Guerrero, there is more traffic and the landscape grows tamer. About fifty miles from Zihuatanejo, barely visible wire fences appear at regular intervals along the side of the road, marking plots that have been zoned for sale. We have one more stop to make: Troncones. The town is everything that Sayulita once was—just a few surf shops and small bodegas along the main dirt road—but upscale development is on the rise: There are chic little hotels with their own slivers of beach, and expats are beginning to build secluded compounds. We check into the Eden Beach Hacienda, a beautiful spot that the young owners bought seven years ago. Places such as Troncones and Sayulita, with their airport proximity, real estate opportunities, and good infrastructure, are on the front lines of growth and development. Change will come more slowly to isolated spots like El Faro and La Ticla. Mexico's extensive Pacific coastline has an enduring ability to be different things to different visitors, or even the same visitor at different times—as it has been for me.

As we stroll up to the jeep for our drive back to the world of luxury at Zihuatanejo's Amuleto hotel, I can't believe my eyes. Another flat. The nearest town is a mile and a half away, it's Sunday, and the sun is setting. This being a trip inspired by a movie, of course it has a cinematic ending. Emerging from a trail, a young cowboy rides up, jumps off his horse, spurs jingling, and changes the tire in less time than it would have taken my husband to find the jack. Then he jumps back in the saddle, the horse rears, and they canter off.

The 750-mile coastline between Puerto Vallarta and Zihuatanejo is peppered with locales that cater to a wide range of expectations—from high-rolling bigwigs to backpacking surfer dudes. Four-wheel drive is essential for a survey of Highway 200's transitional terrain (don't drive off without a solid spare tire or two). You'll encounter quiet towns known only to locals and hippie surf worshippers, and others that have already been detected by the radar of developers eager to cash in on the next hot spot. But for now, there are still plenty of unspoiled enclaves where the only sense of anticipation is for the approaching sunset.