CHAPTER UNO
It had been a few years since my last adventure south of the border. That time, my friend Bob and I had decided to do some in-depth research into the heat to asphalt ratio by hitchhiking and bussing our way through central Baja in July. With the memory of that last adventure to Mulege and back fueling the itch to return I had spent the last five years attempting to convince my wife that her dislike for Mexico was unfounded. She remained unconvinced, but my buddy Chris had become a true believer, completely infected by my stories of the splendors that awaited us just a few latitudes away. As luck would have it, my wife’s distaste for Mexico was exceeded by her desire for a new PT Cruiser and a bargain was struck. She got a new car, and Chris and I got a couple weeks in Mexico. My wife rocks!
Chris and I spent two or three weeks pouring over the guide books and finally settled on a plan. We walked into a travel agency and told the lady we had 300 dollars to spend on round-trip airfare, and we wanted to fly as far into Mexico as that would get us. After sifting through a number of unsatisfactory options departing from San Francisco, we had her check out flights departing from Tijuanna. Acapulco was within our price range. We bought the tickets, flipped a coin to decide whether we would go north or south from there, and our adventure was under way. We wanted to be sure we had a solid plan, so when the coin toss of fate told us to go north, we checked the bus schedules on the internet to see how far we could travel in one day and settled on Manzanillo, a 14 hour bus ride from Acapulco. We figured we would head straight there and then slowly make our way back to Acapulco in time to catch our return flight home. Chris had never been to Mexico before, and I didn’t want to spoil the sense of surprise, so we let the rest of the planning wait until we arrived. Chris and I always felt life was best taken as it comes anyways.
We flew into Acapulco on the 28th of June at about 3:30PM and walked down to the terminal where we were immediately greeted by a feeding frenzy of cabbies and bus drivers. We put on our best savvy traveler looks and set out to make a bargain deal on a ride to the bus station, but apparently our “best look” translated to that "Deer in the headlights look" to the locals. We were picked up by a guy we now lovingly refer to as the TAXI CRIMINAL. After hustling us to two different bus stations, he robbed us of $36.00 U.S. for what should have been a $6.00 ride. Soon we were boarding the bus for Manzanillo. At this point we figured out that we only paid about six times the going taxi fare from the airport. Our bums still hurt!
The bus was pretty nice. It had air conditioning that dripped on our heads off and on, so we would stay damp and not get too hot. That was thoughtful of them. It was a blessing that Chris had the forethought to bring a blanket; it kept us warm through the night. We watched Spiderman (El Hombre del Arachnid) in Spanish on grainy little TV’s and then slept off and on for the next 14 hours as we wound through the mountains and up the coast.
It had been a few years since my last adventure south of the border. That time, my friend Bob and I had decided to do some in-depth research into the heat to asphalt ratio by hitchhiking and bussing our way through central Baja in July. With the memory of that last adventure to Mulege and back fueling the itch to return I had spent the last five years attempting to convince my wife that her dislike for Mexico was unfounded. She remained unconvinced, but my buddy Chris had become a true believer, completely infected by my stories of the splendors that awaited us just a few latitudes away. As luck would have it, my wife’s distaste for Mexico was exceeded by her desire for a new PT Cruiser and a bargain was struck. She got a new car, and Chris and I got a couple weeks in Mexico. My wife rocks!
Chris and I spent two or three weeks pouring over the guide books and finally settled on a plan. We walked into a travel agency and told the lady we had 300 dollars to spend on round-trip airfare, and we wanted to fly as far into Mexico as that would get us. After sifting through a number of unsatisfactory options departing from San Francisco, we had her check out flights departing from Tijuanna. Acapulco was within our price range. We bought the tickets, flipped a coin to decide whether we would go north or south from there, and our adventure was under way. We wanted to be sure we had a solid plan, so when the coin toss of fate told us to go north, we checked the bus schedules on the internet to see how far we could travel in one day and settled on Manzanillo, a 14 hour bus ride from Acapulco. We figured we would head straight there and then slowly make our way back to Acapulco in time to catch our return flight home. Chris had never been to Mexico before, and I didn’t want to spoil the sense of surprise, so we let the rest of the planning wait until we arrived. Chris and I always felt life was best taken as it comes anyways.
We flew into Acapulco on the 28th of June at about 3:30PM and walked down to the terminal where we were immediately greeted by a feeding frenzy of cabbies and bus drivers. We put on our best savvy traveler looks and set out to make a bargain deal on a ride to the bus station, but apparently our “best look” translated to that "Deer in the headlights look" to the locals. We were picked up by a guy we now lovingly refer to as the TAXI CRIMINAL. After hustling us to two different bus stations, he robbed us of $36.00 U.S. for what should have been a $6.00 ride. Soon we were boarding the bus for Manzanillo. At this point we figured out that we only paid about six times the going taxi fare from the airport. Our bums still hurt!
The bus was pretty nice. It had air conditioning that dripped on our heads off and on, so we would stay damp and not get too hot. That was thoughtful of them. It was a blessing that Chris had the forethought to bring a blanket; it kept us warm through the night. We watched Spiderman (El Hombre del Arachnid) in Spanish on grainy little TV’s and then slept off and on for the next 14 hours as we wound through the mountains and up the coast.
CHAPTER DOS
The boarder check at Michoacan was interesting. We woke at 4:00 AM to find men and a few boys with M-16's looking through our stuff, giving us a new level of respect for the reality that we had checked our civil rights at the big clanging turnstiles at the border crossing. During the encounter I dozed off to the sight of a border guard was digging through our backpacks outside the bus. When I woke, startled to find a large caliber weapon dangling in my face, a young soldier was speaking insistently with a questioning tone. My rusty Spanish skills made out very little but the word “Bolsa,” bag. I nervously wondered what he might have found in my bag that concerned him, or what might have been planted. To my relief, the Mexican man in front of me rose, and pulled down his bag from the compartment above our heads. After a quick look inside, the soldier exited the bus and we were on the road again.
We arrived in Manzanillo at about 6AM and staggered groggily down to the Centro. We ate breakfast and then wandered around shopping for a room. After inquiring at a number of establishments throughout the working-class water front, we managed to secure a room at the Flamingo Hotel, an old three-story building secreted four or five blocks up the hill and down a narrow alleyway. The stairs had dead roaches on them, and the ceiling fan made odd wobbling sounds as we lay on our beds drenched in sweat. Luckily for us Chris figured out how to make it go faster and not sound so much like a honeymoon couple in a squeaky bed. We laughed nervously about the near impossibility of many people negotiating the extremely narrow, mazelike, hallways to the front door in an emergency, but decided if the hotel had real problems, like a fire, we could jump out the window with our mattresses and land on top of a car below without dying. "Banzai!" became the word of the day.
Later that day we strolled along the Commercial docks and down the beach to where a small river ran lazily into the bay. At this point the old, industrial section of town stubbed its toes against a small peninsula which formed the great divide between old Manzanillo and the glitzy new Zona Hotelera for wealthy tourists. We stopped briefly to watch a little Mexican girl frolic in the shallows along the bank of the river while her mom alternately dunked and agitated hulking handfuls of clothing and then laid them on rocks to dry.
After a while we crossed over a little bridge and slipped up a trail to the top of the bluff. There, stretching before us was mile after mile of meticulously manicured resorts. A small inlet opened up to a lagoon with a sandy beach dotted with tourists basking in the sun. A golf course flanked the far side of the resort, and sparkling, white condos climbed the steep hillside above. We strolled leisurely down towards the lagoon, as it was the only way to reach the open beach that swept in a wide crescent along the southern side of Manzanillo Bay. We had read of serene mocha colored sands and gentle surf, and we were in search of the perfect siesta.
If you ever have the chance to visit this particular resort in Manzanillo, we suggest you arrive there as a guest. We made it about twenty feet into the resort before three serious looking guys in blue blazers and mirrored sunglasses appeared out of nowhere and swept along side us. We smiled innocently and assured them that we were harmless sojourners simply passing through. We got kicked out. They didn't even ask if we were staying there, funny. I think it was the three day beards and 14 hour bus-ride smell that gave us away. Of course it could have been because we had backpacks on. We learned our lesson and spent the rest of our time in Manzanillo with the locals where we belonged. You know, there were no other white people on our side of town, but we felt more at home there in a weird kind of way.
After being escorted across the compound and deposited on the beach, we decided to keep to the more obviously public areas of town. All beaches are open to the public by law in Mexico, but not all laws are necessarily applied with impartial consistency. Go figure. We made our way along the shore and finally paid a few pesos for a place in the shade next to a resort palapa selling cold beer and icy margaritas. The waves played beach music softly as the sun moved sleepily across the sky and we basked in its soothing rays. It was definitely worth the pesos. After a time, we wrestled up enough energy to emotionally face the walk back down town, and began to plod back up the beach. That night we feasted on street vendor, carne asada tacos and then wandered around the shipping docks where countless Mexican families loitered, fishing, swimming, or making out in the shadows along the waterfront walkways. Without the distraction that accompanies so much wealth, televisions, VCR’s, countless social engagements, the people actually found time to just be together. It was refreshing.
CHAPTER TRES
The next morning we made our way to the bus station and secured seats on a bus headed inland to the city of Colima, nestled in tropical mountains, the most prominent of which was Vulcan de Fuego, an active volcano that continually puffs smoke and ash into the air in a dramatic column. The ride took us out through stubby banana orchards and huge stands of coconut trees in the process of being harvested. Muddy rivers swept, swollen from the daily thunder showers, underneath cement bridges, and countless small, run-down ranches dotted the landscape. After about two and a half hours we finally rounded a curve and the mountains began to open up into a wide valley back dropped by the smoking mountain we had journeyed here to see. The bus spat us out at the station west of town and we shouldered our backpacks and walked to a main road where we could catch a cambi bus on into the center of Colima, about five miles away.
We stayed at the Hotel Colonial in Colima, and it was great. 150 pesos a night comes with a secluded courtyard, an owner who spoke English, and a two block walk to the main square, Plaza Principal. Colima is a college town, so there were lots of young educated people around. The main square is beautiful, with lots of colonial architecture and lush tree lined walkways. At night an orchestra from the University would play in the large gazebo at the center of the plaza and townsfolk would dance and socialize in the coolness of the mountain breeze. We ate sopas at a little street-side café and relaxed from the rather hurried pace we had been setting up to this point. Later that night we played Rummy at a little table in the court yard of the hotel and tried to watch a little bit of what appeared to be a Mexican version of “Big Brother,” or “Real World” on television.
The next day we decided to head up to see the volcano. We took a cambi bus that rattled up winding, cobblestone roads, hung a left at the end of the earth, bounced another ten miles or so over narrow dirt roads, and eventually dropped us off by a little dirt trail at Pueblo San Antonio. There was no town that we could see, but the nice driver assured us that was where we were. He told us to walk up the road until we found a place called Laguna Maria and that the soldiers could point us to the mountain. He promised to return to pick us back up at 5:30 PM... RIGHT!
We walked leisurely up the road lined by dense undergrowth except for little pastures cleared for emaciated cattle that chewed their cud and stared at us as we passed. Ominous thunder heads rumbled across the sky pausing over the smoking peak of Vulcan del Fuego and then churning off to the south. The air was thick and ripe with moisture and pungent aromas from the leafy vegetation surrounding us.
We stopped in a large clearing to get a few photos of the mountain in between obscuring waves of cloud, and then the skies began to weep. Torrential cascades of water literally poured forth from the clouds in a waterfall of warm rain. We shouldered our packs and continued through the downpour towards our goal. About ten minutes later, the cloudburst had passed and we found ourselves at the entrance to Laguna Maria, a lake resort that appeared to be nearly vacant except for a pleasant young Mexican man who had been educated in the U.S. and was now spending his summers working for the Ministry of Tourism. He sold us a couple cold sodas and informed us that the climb to the top of the Volcano was not advisable with the weather we were having. Chris and I have been know for bouts of poorly placed optimism, but as we gazed upward at the almost apocryphal display of lightening and sulfurous volcanic smoke surrounding the peak of Del Fuego, even we had to give in to common sense. We would have to settle for exploring the picturesque lake here at the base of the mountain, and then make our way back to the crossroads to catch the bus back to Colima.
At 7:30 we decided he wasn't coming back and began walking in the general direction of anywhere but here. Eventually the post rain silence gave way to a distant droning of an automotive engine and our hopes began to rise. After a ride down the mountain in the back of a Datsun Pickup with some other locals, we were let off at the road to Comala, a town large enough to actually have some inhabited structures and cobble stone streets. We walked from there for a while and then ran into a nicely dressed man who worked for the tourist ministry designing billboards. He offered to drive us back to Colima. After running off the road into the weeds at 70 kilometers per hour, whatever that is, he regained his composure and asked us if we were gay. We told him no, and he informed us that he was. Chris was kinda happy he was in the back seat and I was in the front. After a few awkward moments, our conversation turned to less uncomfortable matters such as the beauty of the surrounding countryside and the location of exciting nightclubs in Colima. Chris and I both made mental notes to avoid the clubs, just on the off chance they might be populated with girls tougher than we were and guys who wouldn’t approve of our wardrobe. He dropped us off without our sacrificing any dignity, though, so it ended up ok.
The next morning we made our way to the bus station and secured seats on a bus headed inland to the city of Colima, nestled in tropical mountains, the most prominent of which was Vulcan de Fuego, an active volcano that continually puffs smoke and ash into the air in a dramatic column. The ride took us out through stubby banana orchards and huge stands of coconut trees in the process of being harvested. Muddy rivers swept, swollen from the daily thunder showers, underneath cement bridges, and countless small, run-down ranches dotted the landscape. After about two and a half hours we finally rounded a curve and the mountains began to open up into a wide valley back dropped by the smoking mountain we had journeyed here to see. The bus spat us out at the station west of town and we shouldered our backpacks and walked to a main road where we could catch a cambi bus on into the center of Colima, about five miles away.
We stayed at the Hotel Colonial in Colima, and it was great. 150 pesos a night comes with a secluded courtyard, an owner who spoke English, and a two block walk to the main square, Plaza Principal. Colima is a college town, so there were lots of young educated people around. The main square is beautiful, with lots of colonial architecture and lush tree lined walkways. At night an orchestra from the University would play in the large gazebo at the center of the plaza and townsfolk would dance and socialize in the coolness of the mountain breeze. We ate sopas at a little street-side café and relaxed from the rather hurried pace we had been setting up to this point. Later that night we played Rummy at a little table in the court yard of the hotel and tried to watch a little bit of what appeared to be a Mexican version of “Big Brother,” or “Real World” on television.
The next day we decided to head up to see the volcano. We took a cambi bus that rattled up winding, cobblestone roads, hung a left at the end of the earth, bounced another ten miles or so over narrow dirt roads, and eventually dropped us off by a little dirt trail at Pueblo San Antonio. There was no town that we could see, but the nice driver assured us that was where we were. He told us to walk up the road until we found a place called Laguna Maria and that the soldiers could point us to the mountain. He promised to return to pick us back up at 5:30 PM... RIGHT!
We walked leisurely up the road lined by dense undergrowth except for little pastures cleared for emaciated cattle that chewed their cud and stared at us as we passed. Ominous thunder heads rumbled across the sky pausing over the smoking peak of Vulcan del Fuego and then churning off to the south. The air was thick and ripe with moisture and pungent aromas from the leafy vegetation surrounding us.
We stopped in a large clearing to get a few photos of the mountain in between obscuring waves of cloud, and then the skies began to weep. Torrential cascades of water literally poured forth from the clouds in a waterfall of warm rain. We shouldered our packs and continued through the downpour towards our goal. About ten minutes later, the cloudburst had passed and we found ourselves at the entrance to Laguna Maria, a lake resort that appeared to be nearly vacant except for a pleasant young Mexican man who had been educated in the U.S. and was now spending his summers working for the Ministry of Tourism. He sold us a couple cold sodas and informed us that the climb to the top of the Volcano was not advisable with the weather we were having. Chris and I have been know for bouts of poorly placed optimism, but as we gazed upward at the almost apocryphal display of lightening and sulfurous volcanic smoke surrounding the peak of Del Fuego, even we had to give in to common sense. We would have to settle for exploring the picturesque lake here at the base of the mountain, and then make our way back to the crossroads to catch the bus back to Colima.
At 7:30 we decided he wasn't coming back and began walking in the general direction of anywhere but here. Eventually the post rain silence gave way to a distant droning of an automotive engine and our hopes began to rise. After a ride down the mountain in the back of a Datsun Pickup with some other locals, we were let off at the road to Comala, a town large enough to actually have some inhabited structures and cobble stone streets. We walked from there for a while and then ran into a nicely dressed man who worked for the tourist ministry designing billboards. He offered to drive us back to Colima. After running off the road into the weeds at 70 kilometers per hour, whatever that is, he regained his composure and asked us if we were gay. We told him no, and he informed us that he was. Chris was kinda happy he was in the back seat and I was in the front. After a few awkward moments, our conversation turned to less uncomfortable matters such as the beauty of the surrounding countryside and the location of exciting nightclubs in Colima. Chris and I both made mental notes to avoid the clubs, just on the off chance they might be populated with girls tougher than we were and guys who wouldn’t approve of our wardrobe. He dropped us off without our sacrificing any dignity, though, so it ended up ok.
CHAPTER CUATRO
After another night in beautiful Colima we headed by bus to Lazaro Cardenas, a busy port city in the middle of the crossroads of southern Mexico. The trip was long, and hot. Our bus driver did his best to get us there in record time, however, setting off the red warning buzzer that signals speed in excess of 90 kilometers per hour, and offers you a chance to kiss your loved ones one last time before the fiery bus crash. I thought of one of my favorite sayings, “When I die, I want to go peacefully in my sleep like grandpa, not yelling and screaming like everybody else in the car with him.” Our angels flew hard and fast along side us, I guess, keeping the careening torpedo of tin on the road, and we soon hoisted ourselves up on wobbly legs and staggered off the bus onto the streets of Lazaro Cardenas. Our guide book advised avoiding overnight stays here, but we figured it was written for your run of the mill tourists, not seasoned adventure travelers like us, so we scrunched our noses against the putrid smell of industrial waste, automobile exhaust, and decaying flesh and headed into the city.
We were running behind on cash flow so we were trying to save a few pesos, and then we saw this sign half way down this kinda dirty but somehow quaint little street. It said "Hotel California." How could we pass that up? A room with two beds was only 80 pesos at the famous Hotel California! It seemed like a great idea at the time. We were led up a couple flights of stairs, down a urine scented hallway past a menacing hombre with as many scars as tattoos and into a sparse cement room with two rickety beds and a beat up nightstand. A dim light bulb cast its gloomy glow across stained blankets, and something scurried into the bathroom and disappeared through a crack in the grout at the base of an open shower stall. Cockroaches! The room was a bit less than the Ritz, but we figured it was pretty good for 80 pesos (U.S. $8.80).
Too bad for us that it wasn't until we came back from dinner around 9 PM that we realized the kinda scary guy in the room across from us was a pimp who ran about three REALLY scary prostitutes out of the room next to ours, yeah the room that had about an 8 inch gap at the top of the wall between it and us. We stashed our cash in hiding places, pulled the night stand in front of our door and nervously eyed the missing bars on our window, but decided that we needed air more than the added safety of closing it. It only got really ugly around 1AM when the guy was yelling at one of his ladies to go back out and it sounded like she didn't want to comply. 'Livin it up at the Hotel California, such a lovely place -- you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.” We made an early departure and skulked out around 6 AM. For the record, there is a bottom limit to where we will go, we just weren’t sure what it was until then. Remember kids, Mexican brothels are no place to spend your vacation.
After another night in beautiful Colima we headed by bus to Lazaro Cardenas, a busy port city in the middle of the crossroads of southern Mexico. The trip was long, and hot. Our bus driver did his best to get us there in record time, however, setting off the red warning buzzer that signals speed in excess of 90 kilometers per hour, and offers you a chance to kiss your loved ones one last time before the fiery bus crash. I thought of one of my favorite sayings, “When I die, I want to go peacefully in my sleep like grandpa, not yelling and screaming like everybody else in the car with him.” Our angels flew hard and fast along side us, I guess, keeping the careening torpedo of tin on the road, and we soon hoisted ourselves up on wobbly legs and staggered off the bus onto the streets of Lazaro Cardenas. Our guide book advised avoiding overnight stays here, but we figured it was written for your run of the mill tourists, not seasoned adventure travelers like us, so we scrunched our noses against the putrid smell of industrial waste, automobile exhaust, and decaying flesh and headed into the city.
We were running behind on cash flow so we were trying to save a few pesos, and then we saw this sign half way down this kinda dirty but somehow quaint little street. It said "Hotel California." How could we pass that up? A room with two beds was only 80 pesos at the famous Hotel California! It seemed like a great idea at the time. We were led up a couple flights of stairs, down a urine scented hallway past a menacing hombre with as many scars as tattoos and into a sparse cement room with two rickety beds and a beat up nightstand. A dim light bulb cast its gloomy glow across stained blankets, and something scurried into the bathroom and disappeared through a crack in the grout at the base of an open shower stall. Cockroaches! The room was a bit less than the Ritz, but we figured it was pretty good for 80 pesos (U.S. $8.80).
Too bad for us that it wasn't until we came back from dinner around 9 PM that we realized the kinda scary guy in the room across from us was a pimp who ran about three REALLY scary prostitutes out of the room next to ours, yeah the room that had about an 8 inch gap at the top of the wall between it and us. We stashed our cash in hiding places, pulled the night stand in front of our door and nervously eyed the missing bars on our window, but decided that we needed air more than the added safety of closing it. It only got really ugly around 1AM when the guy was yelling at one of his ladies to go back out and it sounded like she didn't want to comply. 'Livin it up at the Hotel California, such a lovely place -- you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.” We made an early departure and skulked out around 6 AM. For the record, there is a bottom limit to where we will go, we just weren’t sure what it was until then. Remember kids, Mexican brothels are no place to spend your vacation.
CHAPTER CINCO
Seven hours by bus later (we took the kind that stops at every farm house to pick up chickens or drop off ice or stuff) we arrived in Ziuatenejao, and now enjoyed quite a contrast. This was paradise. We found a little guy who has five rooms for rent in his hold-out home right on the beach. Our room was about thirty yards from the gently lapping waves of the bay and we had a small, gated courtyard where we could lay in hammocks and watch the other poor losers who rented expensive rooms up in the city walk by. 180 pesos a night! That’s only about 18 or 19 bucks for a slice of heaven. We did have to buy our own hammocks, but we talked a little vender kid down from 180 pesos a piece to two for 200, so we just skipped lunch and dinner one day and bought them.
Each day began with the sun lazily wandering over the horizon and peeling back the darkness to expose our personal version of Margaritaville. We’d flop out of bed around 9 AM and wander down to a small paneria to buy Mexican sweet rolls and then walk to a place called Café Ziuateneo and get coffee grown organically in the mountains outside of town. The lady who owned and operated it was the wife of a local coffee grower. After breakfast, it was back to our court yard to sit and play rummy and watch the waves roll in. Small crabs scurried about in the shade and time hovered aimlessly through the mid-morning.
After a few rounds of cards, we set out about the town to explore its narrow, winding streets, pick up a bottle of water, and stretch our legs a bit. It was a hectic pace, but somebody had to do it. The Mercado lay along the north edge of town and we killed an afternoon ambling in and out of the various stalls full of local handicrafts and souvenirs. One of the things that caught our interest most was the numerous vendors selling “Hand Painted pottery.” Chris and I engaged in robust debate as to the veracity of their claims to have actually painted the plates and bowls from scratch. I maintained that there was no way they could be painting so many similar patterns. I figured they must get pottery that had the basic designs outlined, and then color them in. Chris, the naïve traveler that he is, was sure they were actually painting them from scratch. As the day wore on, and we studied more and more of these colorful artifacts, we began to pick up slight differences of style, and notice unique qualities in the pottery of each vendor. I began to question my superiority of insight. The final, humbling blow came as we wandered out back of a stall and found a little man seated beside boxes of plain, brown pottery, carefully creating his own, unique piece of art. Chris was victorious, a point he reminded me of over the next few days as we continued to examine local pottery and become experts in the detection of artistic differences. Though the basic theme of the artwork was the same, each artist had his own trademark qualities which made his work his own.
Seven hours by bus later (we took the kind that stops at every farm house to pick up chickens or drop off ice or stuff) we arrived in Ziuatenejao, and now enjoyed quite a contrast. This was paradise. We found a little guy who has five rooms for rent in his hold-out home right on the beach. Our room was about thirty yards from the gently lapping waves of the bay and we had a small, gated courtyard where we could lay in hammocks and watch the other poor losers who rented expensive rooms up in the city walk by. 180 pesos a night! That’s only about 18 or 19 bucks for a slice of heaven. We did have to buy our own hammocks, but we talked a little vender kid down from 180 pesos a piece to two for 200, so we just skipped lunch and dinner one day and bought them.
Each day began with the sun lazily wandering over the horizon and peeling back the darkness to expose our personal version of Margaritaville. We’d flop out of bed around 9 AM and wander down to a small paneria to buy Mexican sweet rolls and then walk to a place called Café Ziuateneo and get coffee grown organically in the mountains outside of town. The lady who owned and operated it was the wife of a local coffee grower. After breakfast, it was back to our court yard to sit and play rummy and watch the waves roll in. Small crabs scurried about in the shade and time hovered aimlessly through the mid-morning.
After a few rounds of cards, we set out about the town to explore its narrow, winding streets, pick up a bottle of water, and stretch our legs a bit. It was a hectic pace, but somebody had to do it. The Mercado lay along the north edge of town and we killed an afternoon ambling in and out of the various stalls full of local handicrafts and souvenirs. One of the things that caught our interest most was the numerous vendors selling “Hand Painted pottery.” Chris and I engaged in robust debate as to the veracity of their claims to have actually painted the plates and bowls from scratch. I maintained that there was no way they could be painting so many similar patterns. I figured they must get pottery that had the basic designs outlined, and then color them in. Chris, the naïve traveler that he is, was sure they were actually painting them from scratch. As the day wore on, and we studied more and more of these colorful artifacts, we began to pick up slight differences of style, and notice unique qualities in the pottery of each vendor. I began to question my superiority of insight. The final, humbling blow came as we wandered out back of a stall and found a little man seated beside boxes of plain, brown pottery, carefully creating his own, unique piece of art. Chris was victorious, a point he reminded me of over the next few days as we continued to examine local pottery and become experts in the detection of artistic differences. Though the basic theme of the artwork was the same, each artist had his own trademark qualities which made his work his own.
CHAPTER SEIS
Each night the sky over Ziuateneo erupted in a dazzling display of lightning, zigzagging across the horizon in brilliant reds and yellows. We had never seen red lightning before, and it was spectacular. Sitting on the soft sand, about twenty yards from the water’s edge, we picked up small pebbles or shells and began competing to see who could be the first to hit a washed up fish head half way between us and the sea. The mariachi band played happily in the courtyard behind us and life slowed to a glorious bore. If you haven’t tried it, by the way, pitching stones at dead fish to a mariachi soundtrack beats the heck out of prime time T.V. back home.
On our third day, we took a lancha (boat) to Playa Las Gatas and snorkeled all day. Las Gatas is a laid back beach on the far southern arc of the bay. There are little cabanas that sell sodas and snacks, and a few deck chairs on the sand. The water is crystal clear, and a rocky shelf lies five or ten feet under the surface and extends from one end of the beach about two hundred yards out into the bay. It makes a great habitat for schools of bright fish and little scurrying crabs and other sea creatures. Apparently my pasty white gringo skin needed more than the one coat of sun screen I applied at 9 that morning. I was so sunburned by evening that we could boil coffee on my back. Even lying in the hammock was painful. It was fun though.
The next few days were a pleasant wash of lazy games of rummy, and quiet explorations around town.
Well wastin’ away in the hammock all day
Boats bob at anchor in the calm crescent bay
Maybe play some cards or maybe stroll on the sand
The day-planner’s dusty, aint’ life grand
chorus
Take me away ---- to Ziuateneo
To that sleepy old bay ---- Ziuateneo
Where, the waves kiss the shore
And life’s a glorious bore, ----- Ziuateneo
Don’t see much of daybreak, but we watch the sun set
Café Ziuatneo makes the best java yet
Walk to the paneria, buy us some bread
It’s not so much your belly, but your soul that get fed
In Ziuateneo.
Each night the sky over Ziuateneo erupted in a dazzling display of lightning, zigzagging across the horizon in brilliant reds and yellows. We had never seen red lightning before, and it was spectacular. Sitting on the soft sand, about twenty yards from the water’s edge, we picked up small pebbles or shells and began competing to see who could be the first to hit a washed up fish head half way between us and the sea. The mariachi band played happily in the courtyard behind us and life slowed to a glorious bore. If you haven’t tried it, by the way, pitching stones at dead fish to a mariachi soundtrack beats the heck out of prime time T.V. back home.
On our third day, we took a lancha (boat) to Playa Las Gatas and snorkeled all day. Las Gatas is a laid back beach on the far southern arc of the bay. There are little cabanas that sell sodas and snacks, and a few deck chairs on the sand. The water is crystal clear, and a rocky shelf lies five or ten feet under the surface and extends from one end of the beach about two hundred yards out into the bay. It makes a great habitat for schools of bright fish and little scurrying crabs and other sea creatures. Apparently my pasty white gringo skin needed more than the one coat of sun screen I applied at 9 that morning. I was so sunburned by evening that we could boil coffee on my back. Even lying in the hammock was painful. It was fun though.
The next few days were a pleasant wash of lazy games of rummy, and quiet explorations around town.
Well wastin’ away in the hammock all day
Boats bob at anchor in the calm crescent bay
Maybe play some cards or maybe stroll on the sand
The day-planner’s dusty, aint’ life grand
chorus
Take me away ---- to Ziuateneo
To that sleepy old bay ---- Ziuateneo
Where, the waves kiss the shore
And life’s a glorious bore, ----- Ziuateneo
Don’t see much of daybreak, but we watch the sun set
Café Ziuatneo makes the best java yet
Walk to the paneria, buy us some bread
It’s not so much your belly, but your soul that get fed
In Ziuateneo.
CHAPTER SIETE
July eighth found us boarding a bus for Acapulco again. We slowly made our way back down the coast to the gaudy discothèques and tourist traps. Tonight we would be staying at a nice hotel my mom had booked for us through her resort club. The bus let us off somewhere about ten blocks up from the resort-lined beach, and we walked on down to the main drag. Our hearts sank a little as we began to grasp the reality of just how immense the hotel zone of Alcapulco is. There are miles and miles of hotels, one right after another, all fairly similar in basic design.
We had the name of our hotel, but no address or phone number to check. Chris and I figured we could ask a cab driver or local merchant if they knew where it was, but even if we did get lucky enough to run across someone who knew the location of the resort, it could be miles away. As luck would have it, there was an information booth on the street right where we finally hit the hotel zone. We carefully crossed the busy, six-lane street, gracefully dodging multi-colored buses and VW Bug cabs and made our way to the booth. I asked if the lady knew where our hotel was located, and was met with a puzzled smile. I wasn’t sure at first if our broken Spanish had translated into something humorous, or if she was flirting with us. Then the humor of the situation presented itself as Chris glanced directly behind the information booth at the huge sign for our hotel.
We grinned sheepishly as she pointed behind her and we headed for the lobby. It was somewhere between the big, gold-edged, glass doors and the sweeping marble concierge desk that I began to notice we were different from the other hotel guests in the lobby. We tried to ignore the uncomfortable stares and strolled up to the main desk and dropped our crumpled, sweat stained backpacks to the floor. A more managerial looking gentleman hurried down the counter and dismissed the young attendant who was manning the desk. Our bearded faces and disheveled clothing had to scream homeless and out of place. We assured the gentleman that we did in fact have a reservation and gave him the confirmation number. After checking the computer he reluctantly issued us key cards and directions to our room on the fourteenth floor.
Soon we were on the elevator with four or five unlucky sunbathers returning from the pool. Their suntan lotion still wasn’t powerful enough to cover the stench of two guys who had been traveling by bus for a couple weeks. We entered the room, and row sham bowed for who would get to hit the showers first. Chris chose paper to my rock and headed for the bathroom. I drifted out to the balcony and stared down fourteen stories to the pool, two big ovals connected in the middle with a swim-up bar. I couldn’t help laughing out loud. From this altitude and vantage point, it looked like a big butt.
CHAPTER OCHO
Showered and refreshed, we now decided to head out on the town to discover the real Acapulco. We wandered down the beach full of hucksters and black market entrepreneurs plying their various trades throughout a maze of bronze skinned tourists sprawled across the sand. Waves crashed heavily down on the steep beach, and bulbous clouds punctuated the otherwise blue sky overhead. We eventually gave in to the pleadings of the sea, stripped down to our shorts, and ran headlong into its tumultuous surf. Three or four strides into the water the shore plunged down at a steep angle and we found ourselves suddenly, feet flailing, at the mercy of the powerful waves. Unlike the long, rolling surf we were used to in California that swept you along in a smooth rush, these waves preferred yanking you off your feet, flipping you upside-down, and slamming you promptly back on the beach where its retreating frenzy filled your shorts with sand. It was awesome! I looked over at Chris, coughed up some sea water that had found its way into my lungs, and tried to get my bearings. Off to my left, Chris was laughing hysterically and trying to pull his shorts up from around his knees. Then, as quickly as it had spat us out upon the sand, the sea gobbled us up and drug us out again. This process continued in rapid succession for the next half hour or so until we both crawled sputtering and gasping for breath up onto warm dry sand out of reach of the hungry sea. We lay there in exhausted joy and let the sun bake a million particles of sand until they became one with our flesh. It was a good tired.
Once we had sufficiently rested from our play time in the waves, we pulled shirts back over crusty shoulders, shook as much sand from our hair as possible and cruised on up the beach to where lively music drifted out of a beach-front disco. Far above, tourists plunged from a platform attached to bungee cords and dipped their hands into a deep pool underneath. It looked like fun, but was way more money than we were willing to part with. We wandered instead back up to the street and made our way back toward the hotel as clubs began to switch on the neon and start the music bumping. Before long the streets would begin to glow, and by ten o’clock or so the hotels would spew out a steady steam of young, supple bodies in search of too much booze and the transient thrill of pheromone induced attraction. We swam against the flow and made a run for the solitude of our room. The street was alive with taxis and evening traffic, all the more reason to escape.
CHAPTER NUEVE
Back at the Hotel, we entered the elevator and Chris punched number fourteen. To our surprise, the floor sank beneath our feet, rather than rising, and a few seconds later the doors opened to reveal the service area of the basement. We pushed the close door key and then number fourteen again. This time the elevator began to rise and continued doing so until it reached the sixteenth floor. We decided to try one more time, but I reached out and lit up the number twelve and the number fifteen as well as our destination. This time our ride took us to the lobby where the open doors let in a crowd of guests just returning from dinner. Unfortunately for all involved, I had just wiped my hand across the key pad lighting the entire thing up like a Christmas tree. Apparently this fixed whatever was wrong with the elevator, because it now stopped dutifully at each floor as we inched our way up, something Chris and I found much more humorous than the rest of the passengers did.
The following morning began our retreat from paradise back to the reality of everyday life. We caught a bus to the airport, boarded our plane and winged it back to Tijuana. Outside the airport, we shared a cab with a local headed for the San Isidro Crossing and spent the next two hours in line for customs. By evening we were resting at our friend, Shawn’s house and wishing we were still in Z-wat. Another adventure was now just a warm-wind memory in the passage of life.