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Barely a mile west of Mazunte, however, at Playa Ventanilla, a cooperative of 25 families has proved that sustainable tourism can be a blast. Their central mission is to protect and repopulate turtles and crocodiles — and best of all, you get to canoe through a lagoon that's home to some 800 crocs. My guide, Mateo, leads the exploration with a passion and an intellectual curiosity which suggest that every trip here is an adventure for him — except that he knows every square inch of these mangroved waters.

Without an engine, we're able to get up close and personal with the crocodiles, which can grow to 21 feet in length. Mateo talks about them as if they were family — the biggest he's seen are 13 feet long, the oldest is 35 years old, and so on. About 20 feet away, I spot a sliver of scale emerging, and then a head. "That one," I ask, pointing, "how long is that?"

Without missing a beat, he fires back: "Three point eight two meters. I know because I measured him last November."

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Mateo also shows me tropical birds amid the mangroves and deer on an island reserve. The conversation inevitably returns to turtles — which now nest here in the millions, although their survival rates remain alarmingly low. Out of 25,000 eggs, sometimes not a single turtle survives. Despite the hunting ban, turtles are still killed for their meat, skin, and eggs (a delicacy believed to have aphrodisiacal powers), and are openly sold in markets across Oaxaca. The week of my visit, police confiscated 57,000 eggs from a band of turtle smugglers. And every night, La Ventanilla's conservation team scours the beach for eggs so they can relocate them to a protected enclosure before the poachers arrive.

"It's really just a game of cat and mouse," Mateo says. "It all depends on who finds them first.

Turtle tourism has brought visitors and paved the way for low-impact lodgings that embrace the topography. Perched on a steep bluff between Mazunte and neighboring San Agustinillo is Casa Pan de Miel, a five-room designer retreat with an infinity pool hovering over the ocean. Back at sea level, La Posada del Arquitecto is carved right into the rocks on Playa Rinconcito. Its catacomb of rooms feature hanging beds, a shower built into a tree trunk, and thick window shutters — all constructed with wooden nails to counter the oxidizing sea. Like private clubs savoring their anonymity, several hideaways have no road sign, no address, no announcement to the outside world. Rancho Cerro Largo, up a bumpy hill from an unmarked dirt road, is one such lodge, frequented by well-heeled weekenders from Mexico City — even though it has no Web site or phone number.

Image: Posada del Arquitecto
CondeNast Traveler
Posada del Arquitecto is set on the rocks above Playa Rinconcito, in Mazunte. Guests overnight in beach-front cabanas or hammocks.

"We want to keep this secret," says Mario Corella, as we drink a ginger-and-hibiscus tea on his main terrace. One of the first non-locals to build a new life in San Agustinillo, he came here 24 years ago "a blind man without a path." He now presides over a scattering of rustic villas that cascade down the jungled mountainside toward the sea. The largest villa is a yoga studio open to the elements. The cook makes only vegetarian dishes. And the hotel's neighbor is a massage therapist renowned for her techniques rooted in native healing practices.

Cerro Largo is not, as Mario loves to playfully point out, for everyone. "It's dark, there's no running water, you bathe with a gourd cup. There are no pictures on the walls, there are snakes and spiders, scorpions and raccoons, wasps and mosquitoes."

I ask him why people come here.

"For the dream," Mario says.

He doesn't elaborate — he doesn't need to. Like his runaway compadres — and like me (at least for the past ten days) — he's found his dream of another Mexico.

© 2009 Condé Nast Traveler


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