Everything I Learned on Mexico's New Highway Connecting Oaxaca City to the Coast
This new infrastructure is poised to transform the region—for better or worse.
Our rental car pulled off the unblemished, cliff-flanked highway and followed a winding exit toward a compact field of agave tucked amidst the lush Oaxaqueña mountain landscape. Walking along the road was a young woman dressed like an early Bob Dylan—leather boots, heavy Earth-tone trousers, a well-worn work shirt, brimmed hat trimmed with a feather. I slowed the car beside her and my partner inquired in Spanish whether we were on the right path for the town and what it was called. The woman grinned and nodded and drew herself up in a sort of proud way, momentarily taking on the air of a welcoming dignitary.
“San Pablo Coatlán,” she said, gesturing to continue down the hill.
The Barranca Larga-Ventanilla Highway had opened mere days earlier, connecting Oaxaca City to the coastal hub of Puerto Escondido, and it’s already poised to transform the region and how people visit it. Not only does it slash the previous drive time between city and coast from some eight hours of notoriously nausea-inspiring curves to a scenic (and relatively easy-going) two-and-a-half, but it opens up access to previously hard-to-reach towns and villages through the state’s interior. From a visitor’s perspective, the upshot to the new highway seems clear. Some local community members, however, have concerns.
“This brings people from the coast closer to the city, giving them the possibility of having access to better hospitals and other resources that are more limited on the coast,” says Andrea Esquerra, founder of the community action group SOS Puerto. But she and others in Puerto Escondido also worry that the town lacks the infrastructure to handle tourism flowing the other direction, noting the already strained garbage and water treatment facilities.
As we drove into San Pablo Coatlán and parked our dusty rental by the mural-covered central plaza, small groups of locals looked on with curiosity. We’d flown into Oaxaca from Mexico City earlier that day. At just shy of a mile high, Oaxaca sits on a flat stretch atop the sierra, the highway outside the city passing through an expanse of rolling dust plains and scrub brush punctuated by the odd dome-hill protrusion. As we made our way south along the previously existing highway that terminated further down the coast, the towns, comedors, and mezcalerias became fewer and farther between, and then we broke southwest onto the fresh asphalt of the new highway. For a good long while the road served as the only sign of civilization.
Jungle and gorge, bluff and ravine—floral and geographic features reign there. Plunges of green sprawl to the horizon, unbroken by anything but the highway, which curves its way at a relatively lazy pace through the range. I say “relatively” because the old highway connecting the two cities was famous for its passage via vomit van—a moniker bestowed on the local transport services that were not shy with sharp turns. But the new route is loping and leisurely—though we did encounter a freshly flipped work truck, its four passengers crawling from the windows shaken but uninjured.
At some point the Pacific emerged into view, and I suddenly realized that I knew where we were. We’d spent two years living in Puerto Escondido, and back in 2020 when the highway became a pet project of the presidential administration, I would drive my motorbike up to follow its progress. And now here it was, more or less finished. After a series of delays, the looming election had accelerated construction—now it was at least most of a highway. The toll station was still going up and a few elements were rough around the edges here and there; at least one bridge seemed like it already had sunk several inches. Still, for all practical purposes it gets you from point ‘A’ to point ‘B’ better than any previous path.
Down and through the mountains we hastened in our no-frills, adequate rental from locally owned agency Los Tres Reyes. Beach beckoning, we initially passed by San Pablo Coatlán and the other villages along the highway with the intention of a more gradual examination upon our return. For now it was a pleasure drive through the jungle. During this particular visit we stayed at Casa TO, an outright gorgeous work of brutalist architecture with a superb pool area, excellent restaurant, and romantic suites boasting private jungle balconies. We hit up breakfast at Mercado Benito Juarez (word to the wise: mole) and a family-owned beachside joint in La Punta called Morris Café (the health-inclined will appreciate their smoothie bowls), and ended the weekend at a live show at Juana Mezcala where it’s easy to get into conversation with people from all over the world and the house cocktails are tasty and the band was playing classic rock.
I was appropriately afflicted with la cruda—hangover—the following morning, but a cure awaited in San Pablo Coatlán.
The village is about 90 minutes up the road and is, as far as we could tell, the largest along the new highway with a population of roughly 4,000. Its compact centro area was decorated by colorful flags and murals and had a welcoming atmosphere, but besides the school, corner store, sprawl of residences, and gorgeous ruin of a colonial-era cathedral, there didn’t appear to be much in the way of food offerings, which my rickety condition necessitated.
A passerby grinned at us and we asked if there was a restaurant in town. He considered for a moment then told us there was a comedor that might still feed us even though the hour was off, and directed us through a door that led to a narrow, winding alleyway.
This brought us to Calle Reforma #3, the home and comedor of Luisa Jimenez, who also happens to dabble in producing medicinal mezcal on the side. She didn’t seem to be serving food when we arrived, but she kicked her stovetop into overdrive nevertheless, rapidly whipping up two plates of tasajo—thin cuts of dried then cooked beef—with rice and beans. And then upon learning of my tormented stomach and head, she proposed I sample her curative mezcal, the unlabeled bottles of which lined the shelves, their liquids ranging from clear to a murky amber. I’m typically leery of purchasing let alone consuming unmarked, unregulated spirits with what appear to be bits of herb and twig floating around the bottom, but in this case, it turned out to be a good idea.
As we ate, Jimenez told us that while the town had seen a trickle of visitors over the years—noting that she had more than once accommodated cyclists passing through the mountains—she was vaguely uneasy over how the introduction of new, unfamiliar values could alter the local culture. Overall, however, her outlook was optimistic; an influx would be good for both her business and the prospects of younger residents.
In any case, after a decidedly pleasant meal from this pleasantly loquacious woman, we ended up leaving with a plastic water bottle of the ocher-colored liquor, which would prove a handy recuperative come another rough morning in Oaxaca a few days hence.
Thus fortified, we elected to explore the crumbling cathedral—the Temple of the Apostle San Pablo—which was constructed in the 16th century and is nothing short of a dilapidated masterpiece of colonial architecture. Today it watches over the local ball field, and our arrival momentarily stalled soccer practice as the kids gave us an investigative once-over before returning to their scrimmage. A recently hung banner explained that the state had just allocated several million pesos to the cathedral’s restoration—part of a wider effort to renovate historic sites across the region— and one can foresee how it may one day be a high-draw attraction.
And then we were back on the road, blasting back up the sierra. Soon the jungle was behind us and as we drove back through the high mountain plains the sky erupted with a bubblegum-hued sunset. We pulled off to pass through a number of towns along the way, but the return hour for our rental was impending and we wanted to avoid late fees, so these were cursory explorations. Besides—I was eager to see the city. For all the time I’d spent in Puerto Escondido, this was in fact my first visit to Oaxaca itself due to the previous lack of highway.
Overall, the new road presents obvious opportunities, but it’s also not difficult to see why many who live along its route express apprehension. As Esquerra explains, while there are theoretical benefits to the rise in tourism the highway will bring, a certain kind of tourist can do more harm than good. She urges visitors to do their part to offset potential detriment by reducing their waste, helping to keep trash off the beach, using reef-safe sunscreen, and booking environmentally conscious and responsible accommodations.
“And always respect the environment and the local people,” she pressed.
For Oaxaca, the times are a-changin'. Will the new highway be a boon to the residents of the state’s costa chica or will Puerto Escondido be ravaged by slash-and-burn tourism like Tulum? That, according to locals, will be decided to a large degree by the attitudes and actions of those who make the trip.