We got off the four hour bus to Sayulita, hitchhiked on the back of a truck to the beach, met a surfer named Phillipe. He called his friend who rents out houses for sale until they close. Pancho: He shows up on his motorcycle five minutes later with red basketball shorts, a big red T-shirt, red sneakers, and red sunglasses. Within 20 minutes we were throwing our bags down onto some clean sheets. He’s the local loud motormouth hustler. He’s Childish, hardworking, crude, and a good pal now. It's Tuesday morning, our fifth day here in Sayulita and I just want to quickly remember Sunday night.
Sayulita is a true escape, but that sometimes comes with some proper drunk tourists. Evan and I were drinking coffee in the main square when two girls, wet and sandy, and (hopefully) blind drunk, plopped down next to us trying to make us drink their lipstick-stained mango vodka out of the bottle. It was still the morning. Our table was suddenly smelling of sugary stale mango, booze, and chorizo. They sort of looked like Covid 19 membranes.
Motorcycle drives by, “Pancho!” He thinks we are in heaven, and starts telling them about a pool party, (Supposidy at our place.) We tell him fast this is not happening. He gives us the nod and helps get them off. “Why not!” Hands in the air after they were gone. He's wild.
Half hour later a couple friends see Evan and me at the table and after they sat down and we were playing cards, Pancho rolls by again. He starts telling them about a party, these girls have already been briefed about Pancho and we let him roll. He let me take his motorcycle around town and in ten minutes I got to see more of it than I had in three days. When I came back our friends had gone to dinner, Evan went home with Diarrhea.
We met back up with our friends plus one of their moms and her friend Ricardo for some Dark chocolate lava cake. Then Jensen and I went out for street food. Evan down.
We walked across the river into the more local area after running into a friend we met Saturday who told us where his favorite spot was. His uncle runs a restaurant down the street, but a house ten minutes away selling Gorditas, Dorados and enchiladas is his favorite.
Lost, we went into a tiny liquor store asking for directions. Pancho’s motorcycle rolls by. He struts in with a friend of his, Jacob. Next thing we know we are behind the counter trying Pancho’s signature drink, tequila cheap as dirt, mixed with CocaCola. It was heinous, but with this kind of serendipity, the liquor store owner pouring his own, Jacob and Pancho all smiles… Ey. Guess they are all friends because it was on the house.
Pancho and Jacob hear where we are going, it's their friend's house. Jensen and I hop onto his motorcycle, (probably 150cc’s) my feet dragging and with the rear tire heating up the fender under me we bump along to the house.
Another friend of Pancho’s sat with us. Pancho, Jacob, Roberto, Jensen, and I filled the table with plates.
Gorditas Gorditas Gorditas, Enchiladas, Tacos, Pastor, Carnitas, Salted crumbly Mexican cheese similar to feta everywhere, oily fire-roasted salsa negra poured over it all, habaneros, cilantro, sweat, Pancho’s heinous cocktails, all us boys making fun of each other in our limited bag of Spanish profanities.
Finished, Jensen went inside the house to pee. We all ran behind the house to hide so when Jensen came back outside he thought we’d gone.. Cackling as we all said goodnight, Jensen and I needed to catch the last quarter of the Seahawks Cardinals game. Jacob and Pancho decided to become fans. We found a bar playing it in town. By the end, there were 12 of us at our table, not including the other five or six hawks fans. Incredible game, sad sad end.
