Sliding Doors

On two occasions now I have passed Salina Cruz, on the coast of Oaxaca, Mexico, at sunrise. From the window of the bus it appears ethereal, despite the offshore oil rigs; a jagged, undulating town built over rolling sand dunes, edged by white beaches turned pink in the morning light.

When Sacha and I find ourselves in Oaxaca City with no onward destination, an image of Salina Cruz comes to mind. Hours later, we are unceremoniously regurgitated from the night bus, into a station dark with 4am shadows. I pass out face down on the clinically-tiled floor. Wake up to the birds of the tropics.

Salina Cruz, once more at dawn.

We get the first collectivo half an hour out of town, to a highway turnoff that I spotted from the bus window a year ago. Opposite, a hand painted sign points us towards Playa Azul. Site of today's vested hopes for adventure.

Our mystery beach turns out to be an hour's sweat-sodden walk down a sandy track, humming with heat and violated by huge potholes. The weight of our bags draws us from our sleep-deprived stupor. We begin to itch.

The track comes to a dead end in scrubby bush and we wonder if we should start thinking things through a little before we do them. We push on regardless and emerge, steamy hot and mosquito-ravaged, on a deserted beach, edged with palapa huts seemingly abandoned for the season.

An old man with loud dogs melts silently into his small home. A lone woman rakes the sand into parallels. The water swirls with strange currents and the beach aches with emptiness.

We do not quite know what to do.

We survey the silence and decide to sit with the sea for a moment, hoping for a plan.  Although we have not voiced our disappointment, it is clear this beach is not for us.

We sift the sand into piles through our fingers and wait.

A silhouette of a man appears at the top of the beach, close to the woman raking. He does not look like a local. His hands are on his hips and he seems to be watching us.

It occurs to us how strange we must look: two blondes with backpacks and a hula hoop, squatting in the sand at 7am on this deserted shore.

We look at each other and reach for our bags. Any information at this point would be helpful.

We reach the hut just as he disappears, and when we round the edge of the building we see not one but three men of our age, loading belongings into a little red van.

I hear Sacha's voice transmit silently into my brain. "We're going with them." Without looking at her I nod and we drop our bags, smiles spreading wider over our faces. They look vaguely surprised to see us.

The van's sliding door reveals a window into Betty Ford, treasured home of three wandering australianos and rescuing chariot for these lost inglesas.

Right now, this door appears to me like a portal. Somehow more than just a van door.

This little square in the air is a passage into another world, another set of spooling stories and another three faces in an ever-growing cast. It represents a choice to step from this reality to that. A visible reminder of our junction with another path.

I know I am going to step through it before we even exchange names.

As always on these seemingly pre-determined meetings, I am struck with the perfection of life's clockwork. I think about the first time I saw the sign for Playa Azul, all those months ago, and I remember the little jump in my heart that accompanied the fleeting vision. I wonder for how long my subconscious has known of this conjunction of lives.

We have no idea who they are or where they are going, but we climb in anyway. Playa Azul has served its purpose. The back windows are partially obscured and as we drive away I do not look back.