The Bull of Utu

An uncertainty of distance or time, with every individual we asked giving us a number different from one another we bit down and drove as far north from Tapachula as we could. Mazunte was calling our hearts, and at sundown on the second day after leaving Guatemala we saw the western coast line for the first time in months: minuscule and glazed with shades of cool from atop the highway cliffside bends. Certain that we had several hours to go at midnight we parked on the side of a road and tried to sleep. The buzzing of mosquitoes, May's southern Mexico humidity and five sweating bodies sprawled out in the van, it only took about twenty minutes before a simultaneous halt was put to the torture and a decision was made to drive through the night. 

A confirmation that no one in Mexico quite knows the true road distance between towns we made it to Mazunte by one that same morning. Running straight to the beach, barefoot and clueless of the barricades put up to protect the villagers from the monster waves that a few short days ago crashed into the town, destroying many beachside hostels. We slept on a platform on the sand, rising with the sun. That sight will remain with me always: the ballooning southern sun illuminating the most beautiful beach that I have ever layed eyes on. Sand infused with shades of pale pink and orange, smoothed like a silken sheet. Water like liquid smithsonite, it's roar gargantuan, I could do nothing but surrender. I climbed a jagged rock formation and stood atop it, chanting seed syllables, sending out an offering of sound, tuning to this natural kingdom's salt speckled vortex.

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