Candice’s Trip Report 2004 – Part 1, La Barra de Potosí
I’m up at 3 a.m. I didn’t sleep more than an hour or so…never do the night before Mexico. Leave a few minutes before 5. The airport is crowded, still trying to make up for the snow delays in Seattle and Portland of the past few days, but our flight from Seattle through Los Angeles via Alaska Air is on-time and uneventful. We had upgraded to first class with our mileage, which always makes a trip more pleasant. About 45 minutes out of Zihuatanejo we begin to notice immense anvil-shaped clouds to the west, clouds so dense and flat on top they looked like the pilot could land the plane on them. Thunderheads, marching in a crooked battalion as far as the eye could see. Hmmm.
The plane bumps its way to a landing. What joy to see the little airport again! More clouds drifting above than usual, and a darkish sky to the north, but the moist heat feels good and familiar as we grin our way down the steps and into the terminal building. Take turns changing into our shorts as we await the baggage. Get the green light at customs, buy a couple of cervezas for the road, and head outside for a taxi. How much to La Barra de Potosí? 330 pesos. The driver asks us which way we want to go, and we indicate the short-cut to the left just outside the airport. He nods, does the U-turn thing, and we soon find ourselves on the bumpy dirt road to La Barra. Twenty minutes later, we are driving up the little dirt street and pulling up at the gates of Casa del Encanto.
Casa del Encanto
Laura comes out to meet us. After hugs all around, we step through the new gate into the little Eden that is her bed-and-breakfast. We ooh and aah over the improvements since our last visit two years ago. There are bricks woven underfoot where once was dirt in the area where the children gathered for our puppet workshop on our last visit. This is the new dining area, with brightly clad tables and cushioned chairs, all under cover, surrounded by a new garden and fountains; and in the far corner, an authentic outdoor Mexican kitchen for Noyo. A curiously wonderful structure stands to the right of the new gate, a house made of sticks like the one in The Three Little Pigs. This is the Tarzan House, where Laura and Noyo live when the main house is full of guests, as it is the weekend we arrive. “Let’s have a tour”, Laura says, “and I’ll show you which room I’ve given you.” We see other changes: the romantic red room, which faces the courtyard, now has an expanded and more private patio area, with hammocks and floor lamps for reading. The charming blue room has its own private patio, too, and an outdoor niche for a table and chairs. The old library is now a guest room (El Nido) with a colorful kitchen and bath, and soon will have a porch beside the street.
Laura, Noyo, and their delightful helper Juani in the patio outside the main kitchen.
Behind Laura is El Nido, the adobe bungalow, which used to house the Children’s Library. The rocking chair and hammock are on the patio of the red room (The Red Mermaid Suite) . Further around the corner to the right is the blue room (aka the Coconut Palm Suite).
I had assumed we would have one of the downstairs rooms…but Laura takes us up the stairs and opens a door. “Will this do?” she asks. I know this is Laura and Noyo’s room off-season and am surprised and overwhelmed. It comprises a main room with mosquito-netted bed, a private bath, a large veranda with table and chairs shaded by a huge and simply amazing palapa roof, another little bed, and a small star-gazing patio. Oh yes…this will do nicely.
The little bed on the veranda, and one of the hammocks.
The main bedroom is to the right through a draped archway. The star porch is to the left. They call this the Gecko Suite.
We happily tote our bags to our new home, then enjoy a nice long chat with Laura, catching up on all the news of the village. Laura has done much of the work, of course, but with the help of volunteers and donors, and with the cooperation of the village leaders, a piece of property across the street has been acquired to house the Children’s Library of La Barra de Potosí. The new structure will have a computer center, a lending library, baños, and space both indoors and out for community projects and meetings. The newly formed civic association intends to hire a local builder as “general contractor” and overseer.
There is still some money to raise. In our ensuing conversations, Laura will tell me about her hopes for additional donations, and the possibility of becoming a beneficiary of a charitable “umbrella” organization in the works through the City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco. She hopes to find the funds to hire a local woman as full-time librarian (at the extravagant salary of 500 pesos a week—that’s $50 U.S.), with the remainder of the staff being village volunteers. She has already had a meeting or two with the village women, with the twofold goal of attracting library helpers and giving the women a forum for discussion of various issues relevant to them, such as health and parenting.
The view over the village from the star patio.
The white building on the right, with the ground in front of it and more ground to the right, is the site of the new Children’s Library and community center. At the far end of the street is the beach and enramada area.
It’s 6:30 by now. Dick and I decide to stroll back down the street to the enramadas. It’s too late for food, as these are daytime places, but we’re hoping for our first shot of Jimador and a couple of cervezas. It’s dark, but we see a light on at one of the enramadas, which are the family-owned, palapa-shaded restaurants that fringe the beach at La Barra. They’re cleaning up and preparing to leave, but gladly serve us two tequilas with a plate of limónes and our beers, which we sip at a table in the sand.
We’re getting a bit hungry now. There are two places to eat the evening meal in La Barra: Doña Olga’s and Doña Emi’s. Doña Olga’s is closed. We select Doña Emi’s.
The Navidad at Doña Emi's. Dick enjoying Emi's
The Navidad shrine is still up at Doña Emi’s, although in the process of being packed away. Those white squares you see behind Dick are reflections from the flash off the old pickup truck parked there.
Doña Emi’s restaurant is right across the road from Laura’s. We walk through the front door past a scantily stocked soda cooler (it’s filled up a few days later) and into a large area that is restaurant, storeroom, garage, and kitchen. Four long picnic tables are covered in brightly flowered oilcloth. On each table are napkins, a water glass of forks, a bottle of commercial salsa, and coarse salt in a shallow bowl. An elderly woman greets us, waving us to whatever table we want. “Are you Doña Emi?” I ask, wanting to be polite and greet the proprietor. She smiles a shy and jagged grin. “No, no.” She gestures toward a young woman standing at the sink in the open kitchen and says something too fast for me to understand. “Are YOU Doña Emi?” I ask. She smiles sweetly and explains that, yes, she is Emi, but not THE Emi. She is Emi the daughter, and, as her mother is not here at the moment, she will cook for us. The menu, she says, is beef tacos and chicken tacos. We ask for an order of each. She goes right to work, patting tortillas from the dough in a towel-covered pan beside the stove, dropping them onto a large flat skillet which sits on a grate above a snapping fire of mesquite logs. In a few moments, our meal sits before us: four small rolled chicken taquitos on a styrofoam plate, and three tiny beef tacos on another.
That bowl with the spoon in it contains one of the best spicy salsa verdes we had ever tasted. Mmmmm. I took this shot with Dick’s hands in it so you could see the size of the tacos. The tortillas were about 3 ½ inches across.
True, we weren’t all that hungry, but we did have another order of beef tacos.
Daughter Emi prepares our tacos…
…over a mesquite flame.
Just as we were paying our bill (a whopping 40 pesos, which included a bottle of mineral water—they serve no alcohol), a gracious and handsome woman came in. Doña Emi, at last. She greeted us warmly and welcomed us to the village. It wasn’t until the next day, in another lengthy conversation with Laura, that we learned that the Doña has put all three of her children through college…and that Emi the daughter, our cook this night, is a lawyer. Another daughter has just returned to become the village kindergarten teacher.
Upon our return to Casa del Encanto, we meet some of our fellow guests: Brad and Claudia from Edmonton; Tess and her son Tim, who has a busy day tomorrow; and Chris and Rema, young medical students from the San Francisco area, who you will meet again at Sunday dinner.
The sky is clear, the stars close enough to touch. Directly overhead is Pleiades, my favorite constellation. We stand on the star patio for a while, looking and listening. The village quiets a bit at a time…music, voices, and dog barks gradually diminish. La Barra de Potosí goes to sleep, and so do we.
Day 2, Saturday Jan. 10
We come downstairs to coffee, lovely hot water for tea, and a table in the courtyard spread with a perfect breakfast: fresh yogurt, coconut granola, sweet rolls and fruit, including papayas which grow nearly as large as watermelons on Laura’s tree (a tree that planted itself, by the way—“just a weed”, Laura and I laugh). A leisurely morning of conversation and nibbling and another cup of tea or two. Juani and Muñe, the sisters who help with everything, hover softly, making sure there are enough oranges squeezed and water boiled. I am in heaven, having dressed in the only really civilized fashion: a bathing suit and a short pareo tied at my waist—and nothing else. Dick and I have brought something this time that I will never again travel without: 2 tall insulated $1 mugs from the Dollar Tree store. I can wander at will with my hot tea, him with his hot coffee (attention, Travis!). We use these every day of our trip. I brought inexpensive ones figuring we could always leave them behind if we ran out of room.
Dick heads to the beach. Eventually, I follow—I wanted to photograph something I’ll tell you about later. We set up camp at La Condesa, the furthest north enramada, where our waiter today and for the rest of our stay is Francisco. We toss our towels on a couple of chaises, let Francisco know we’ll order a bit later, and pull out our books. I am reading, thanks to amigos Jared and Gretchen, God and Mr. Gomez, the wise and funny story of a California couple building a house on the Baja peninsula under the guidance of the amazing Señor Gomez. Between chuckles, I look up to watch the scene before me. Pelicans, looking in profile like immense hummingbirds (they do, really—check it out next time) amble through the sky, both cumbersome and graceful. Frigate birds wheel high above. Now and then, all the birds in the immediate area congregate over a sparkling patch of sea, diving and calling out their victories. They aren’t the only fishers here, though. I see several men in the water casting nets and lines as the birds dart and weave around them. My attention is caught by a small girl in a pink bikini jumping with glee on the sand, her eyes on a single fisherman standing in the surf. I see now that she is with her mama and her sister: they are a fisher family. The mother stands beside a white utility bucket. Do I see a tail protruding from it? I put down my book and go to look. By the time I reach them, papa has waded to the beach with a gift.
Papa has caught a “’tun chico”, a small tuna he called a barilleta.
I am able to chat a bit with the family. The smaller girl tells me she is eleven, but her sister catches my eye and shakes her head, smiling. “I am eleven,” she says in Spanish. “Not her.” Soon enough the little one admits to being three, holding up three fingers in what apparently is universal child language.
By the time they quit for the day, the family had five barilletas. Each catch was reason enough for all the children in the area to come and watch—the fish are very flippy and strong, with sharp double-pointed tails. The white buckets were filled with bait fish from 3 to 6 inches long in many shapes and colors. The other man appeared to be Little Pinky’s uncle. They combined catches and walked off together. A successful shopping trip, and the fish is sure to be fresh.
Meanwhile, back at La Condesa, we have treated ourselves to 4 cervezas, 3 agua mineráles, 2 Jimador, and a partridge in a pear tree. No no, I mean an order of guacamole and a plate of lightly breaded abalone that makes our excellent Seattle calamari taste like fried rubber bands. Our total bill was 194 pesos. But now it’s time for dinner.
We have hooked up with Brad and Claudia from Edmonton, chatting with them over beer and tequila on the beach, and are going to try Doña Olga’s tonite. ¡Que lástima! Doña Olga’s is closed again. How about Emi’s?
Dick, me, Claudia and Brad at La Condesa.
The menu at Emi’s is different tonight. Beef tacos. And beef tacos. Okay, we’ll have beef tacos! No problema. The chef tonight is a tall and willowy young woman in a full length silver-blue evening gown. We are flummoxed. As she is patting our tortillas, another young woman in a slinky black evening gown—slit up to here, I’m not kidding—appears, accompanied by a nicely dressed young man. This young woman is Emi the daughter, who greets us happily and tells us they are going to a fiesta tonight. Apparently the chef is her sister. I’m sorry I forgot to find out whether this was the kindergarten teacher. If it is, there are going to be some happy little fellas in that class. Soon enough, our tacos are on the table and the girls are outa here. Doña Emi appears and serves us something in styrofoam cups. It is piping hot, dark and clear, with a bit of cilantro and a bit of green onion floating on top. It is the nectar of the goddesses: the consommé in which the beef has boiled all day. I could’ve drunk a gallon of it.
We’re having a blast with Brad and Claudia. He generously offers to pay the tab, which we accept after learning that the entire bill (8 orders of tacos, the consommé which was probably free, and a couple of soft drinks) was 96 pesos. Not bad for dinner for four.
Now I need to back up for a minute. While we were lazing on the beach, a young man named Tim (the son of Tess, who you may know from the old message board) was busy in the village. He is a naturalist with a degree in environmental studies, and he offered to give the children a lesson on the area’s ecology and help them build the village’s first compost bin.
The compost project
The children of the village scattered to gather garbage, while the older ones helped build the bin of sticks and chicken wire. This is more of the new property for the library, by the way. There’s another small building included, just right of the dog.
I especially wanted to mention this because it is such a great example of someone sharing his knowledge for positive impact. Over the next couple of days, all the compostible garbage from Laura’s went into that bin, and we saw several children making deliveries, too. Even the adults of the village were interested in the process, and will probably really pay attention when the first batch of rich compost is finished in about a month.
*****************************************************************************************************
Have I mentioned the roosters yet? La Barra is studded with roosters, each one with a slightly different voice and a slightly different opinion of what time it is. Several of them belong to SLOROSC— the Society for the Liberation of Roosters from the Oppression of Sunrise Crowing. The rooster across the street (directly behind where the compost bin was built) is quite famous. He has a veritable fountain of multi-hued feathers and a strut like Tina Turner. He also has a voice like a train wreck on rusty tracks. And he likes to use it. He is obviously the Boss Rooster, el jefe. It is rumored that he is the survivor of many cock fights, which might explain the barbed wire voice and his control over the rest of the boys. When El Jefe crows, every other cock in town drops whatever he’s doing and clears his throat. Now, this might happen at three in the afternoon, and who among humans would notice? On the other hand, when it happens at 3 in the morning…and again at 3:30…and once again at 3:50…we’re talking dark, here. Pitch black out. Not a glimmer of sunrise anywhere. The sun is still in Africa.
So, Saturday night/Sunday morning around 3:00, El Jefe wakes up bored and decides to see if any of the other fellas want to chat. He cranks up the corroded gears he uses for vocal chords and lets ‘er rip. Now, under normal circumstances, I would likely have slept through this, but what I forgot to tell you is that I was suffering from a nasty head cold that I thought I had licked at home. Until I got on the plane. Anyone who travels by air knows that whatever bug might be languishing quietly in one’s bloodstream, nearly down for the count, miraculously recovers and multiplies when exposed to what passes for air in an airplane. So my head is stuffed, my hand is full of kleenex, and an excess of cold remedy is coursing through my body, all of which interferes with normal sleep patterns. In retrospect, it was probably the antihistamine buzz that caused me to hear what I heard. Everyone knows that American roosters say “cockadoodledoo”. I have read that, in Mexico, roosters are expected to say, “keekeekaree”. But this rooster, I swear it, said “Where’s the BATHroom??” And then he said it again. Then, far across the village, all the way down by the beach, he got an answer. Which only encouraged him, of course. Soon, another of the guys joined in, off to the south. Then another, up to the north a bit. Then another, and another, until a dozen had joined the discussion. I could place them perfectly, how far, what direction. I fell asleep smiling, listening to the echoing chorus of time-impaired poultry.
I was awakened a while later by activity in our room. I tried to stay asleep, until I noticed that Dick was out of bed, scurrying about in a highly unusual fashion, and the mosquito netting over my head was billowing, somewhat. I sat up and noticed that everything in the room was billowing, and not only somewhat. Helpmate that I am, I leapt from bed and began dragging things in from the verandas, stowing them under the cover of the “real” ceiling above the main sleeping area. A rumble of thunder reinforced the urgency of our task. Now fully awake, I began to notice the flashes of lightning on the horizons. I wrapped myself in a lovely pareo—they are so versatile, and quite fashionable in the middle of the night—and stepped out onto the star patio, where I distinctly felt moisture in the wind. Pleiades was no longer visible overhead.
Suddenly I remembered the books. I had brought Laura a big stack of them for the library, and I knew right where they were: downstairs, outside on the kitchen patio. I slipped out our door, barefoot, onto the landing. The candles lighting the stairwell flickered madly in the swirling wind. My pareo fluttered attractively. Pity there was no one there to see it. I reached the lower floor in the nick of time—one of the storybooks had blown off the stack, and the others were feeling damp and threatened. I rescued them in two armloads, placing them safely on the kitchen table. Whew. I looked around for other things to save, but Noyo had already pulled the chairs in and doubled the oilcloth around the table settings, so I climbed the stairs again, being careful not to set myself on fire by allowing my graceful pareo to drag through flaming candle wax. I switched off the ceiling fan, which had become superfluous. I ducked back under the mosquito netting and lay there listening to the clatter of the palms, the whoosh of the wind beneath the palapa roof, and thunder like dragons roaring in the distance. The roosters made not a peep.
Day 3, Sunday January 11
In the morning, the power is out, but we still come downstairs to hot coffee and lovely hot water for tea, thanks to the gas cook top, French press coffeemaker, and teakettle. Juani and Muñe bustle about, all smiles. Was everyone all right? Apparently, no catastrophes besides a little leak in the Tarzan House due to a blown away tile. The guests downstairs slept through it all! The rain and wind have stopped. The sky is lightly overcast.
We bid farewell to Brad and Claudia as their taxi pulls up outside the gate, hurriedly exchanging email addresses and book titles. A long lazy talking-breakfast, then down the road again to La Condesa, past the school, the mini-mini-mini-mart, the mini-mini-mart, and the mini-mart. Past the arcade. Arcade? What arcade? you ask. And your question gives me a chance to mention one of my favorite things about Mexico: everyone, it seems, has a sideline, a small business, a way to make a few pesos. A three-table restaurant. A tiny grocery with a flat of eggs, a few onions, a rack of chips and candy. A sewing machine and seamstress for hire. A Coke dispenser. Or an arcade, like the one in a small gated side yard on the way to the beach. It boasts 3 or 4 machines—not new, but not ancient, either. After school, the bigger children are there in their uniforms, backpacks still appended, playing a game or two.
I have heard that taxes in Mexico are punishing. I have no personal knowledge of whether these enterprises are, shall we say “tax exempt”. I hope they are. No doubt necessity is the mother of these ventures, but to me they are also evidence of a valiant and entrepreneurial spirit.
A little after one o’clock, I leave Dick reading on a La Condesa chaise, surrounded by bathing beauties:
I return to the house. The long dining tables have been cleared, and Juani is busy setting out clay pots of water and bringing out extra chairs. I fetch from our room several sacks of watercolor and tempera sets, packages of paint brushes and a stack of paper. I have arranged with Laura to lead a small watercolor workshop for the children. Given that our puppet workshop attracted 60 of the village children, and that Laura and I are hoping for something a little mellower this time, she has mentioned this to only a few: we expect 10 or 12, but judging from the activity on the other side of the fence as we finish setting up, the word has spread. We hear them laughing and playing games as they wait. At 2:00, she goes out and they gather around her. She is telling them that this is a quiet workshop, like school. (Laura is not feeling perfectly well, and her back is hurting again.) She has put on the CD player a soft and ballady Willie Nelson album to set the tone. We laughed when she told me she had considered an album of Gregorian chants. Nevertheless, the excitement is palpable, and I see some of the kids peeking around her skirts at me, waving and sparkling. We need more chairs: there are 22 children.
For two hours, we painted.
The children of La Barra de Potosí
A final gift for me…to add to all the gifts of this day.
***********************************************************************************************************************************
Here’s a question: How much joy can one person hold in a single day? Because something more is to happen before this one ends. Shortly after the workshop is cleaned up, a taxi pulls up the dirt street and delivers to Casa del Encanto…my brother Greg! who had decided, only a day or so before we left Seattle, to join us for five days of our trip. I encouraged him to join us in La Barra, to give him some much needed wind-down time from a huge building/remodel job he is doing in Kirkland. Unfortunately, having hustled down to the beach to alert a watch-less Dick to Greg’s imminent arrival, I missed the whole thing, and could only wave to Alejandro, his taxi driver, as he pulled away. By the time we walk through the gate, Greg is being greeted by Laura and Noyo. He turns to me with a grin the size of a slice of La Barra papaya. “So?” I say. “This’ll do,” he replies. His grin grows as we gleefully give him the tour. He chooses the corner blue room and settles in. We must show him the enramadas before dark: dancing through the dust, I lead the way. He has had nothing but peanuts on the long flight from Seattle, so orders a plate of guacamole. Noyo has made him promise not to eat too much, because—special treat!—Noyo is cooking dinner for us tonight. We sit and sip and watch the sun go down, then return to the house to rest a while and clean up for dinner. We will be seven: us three, Laura and Noyo, and Chris and Rema, the medical students.
At 8:00, the group congregates. Muñe has set a lovely table. Candles are lit all around the gardens, softly illuminating palm leaves, fountains, bougainvillea. Noyo has shopped in town, and is preparing the entire meal in his outdoor kitchen. We begin with a soup made from zucchini, or calabacita, as Noyo calls it—a soft and creamy concoction, perfectly seasoned. Next is a salad of crisp romaine lettuce, in an intense garlic dressing that is so good I keep going back for more. Now, the main course: Spanish mackerel steaks, seasoned with black pepper and cooked perfectly over a mesquite fire, accompanied by a medley of sautéed vegetables. The conversation is vivid and compelling and wanders from subject to subject at the speed of light, often returning to the food, of course. After everyone has seconds of everything they want, Noyo brings out a butterscotch flan and tiny pottery cups of an after-dinner liqueur of his own making. Rema asks for everyone’s attention and announces that earlier today, she had accepted Chris’s marriage proposal, at which point Muñe enters the patio with a huge white frosted cake! There are toasts and congratulations galore, but alas, we are all too full to eat the cake, so we agree to save it for tomorrow. We do, however, each dip into the cake for a finger full of frosting and make another sugary toast to the happy couple, who from now on are known among us simply as “los novios”.
The sky is clear again, Pleiades back where she belongs. Dick and Greg and I adjourn to our veranda. Music and the cracking of billiard balls carry to us on the breeze from what must be a cantina on the next street. Dick lights a cigar, and the three of us talk long into the night. All in all, not a bad day.
Day 4, Monday January 12
The roosters announce another morning…several times, actually, the third or fourth one being humanly recognizable as time to get up. After another delightful breakfast, I give los novios a peek at our room. Chris notices the stairway that rises up still further on the other side of a curtain on our veranda. “What’s up there?” he asks. “The roof!” I reply. “You really should see it.” We climb together to the flat rooftop where Juani and Muñe hang the clothes to dry, examining the construction of the huge palapa and the stairs as we climb. “Did you ever read the book Swiss Family Robinson?” Chris asks. “Read it? I lived in it,” I reply, which perhaps explains some of my pleasure in living, if only for a few days, in a palm roofed house in the treetops. Chris and I wonder for a moment at the existence of a flush toilet, which appears to be plumbed, sitting on the roof, but we forget to ask anyone about it.
Dick and Greg and I decide, what the heck, how about La Condesa? We laze and read, and I buy a few more things from the beach vendors. We have found that the prices here are very good…often better than in Zihua.
Greg wants to try that abalone, so when lunchtime arrives, he orders one of the most divine dishes we tasted on our trip: abalone ala diabla, tender morsels cooked oh so gently in a killer red chile coating. Dick and I order one of our favorites, huachinango al ajillo, the whole fish split, coated with garlic and paper thin red pepper rings and grilled to perfection. We all share, eating this freshest of seafood with corn tortillas, guacamole and salsa. We hear later, from several sources, that La Barra, perhaps especially La Condesa, is famous for its abalone.
Entering La Condesa from the “street side”.
Straight ahead, the sand begins. Hammocks hang between the rows of tables. You can (we did) spend whole days here with the gentlest of service, ordering food and drink a little at a time throughout the day.
The time comes to say goodbye to our fine waiter, Francisco. We tip him well and I thank him for the beer-stocking he has given me in response to my “cerveza muy fria, por favor”s. We return to the house to pack: we leave this afternoon for Zihuatanejo.
As I’m digging through our bags, making sure everything that wants to stay in La Barra does stay in La Barra, Laura is taking Greg and Dick on a short walk to a house just down the street. Greg had mentioned at breakfast that he wanted to buy a hammock while here. Laura takes him into the home of a village woman whose brother lives in the mountains, and is dying of a brain tumor. He makes hand-tied hammocks, which his sister sells for him. Here, Greg chooses his hammock, the largest one she had. He pays 750 pesos for it, more than one might pay from a beach vendor or the mercado, but this is a special hammock, beautiful and strong and intricately woven. It is a hammock with a story.
Big enough for one, big enough for two…a hammock with a heart.
What have I forgotten to tell you, before we leave here? There is the feeling of hot dust on our feet, the sound of joyous Mexican music blaring from an old truck parked in a yard. There are the smiles and waves of the children each time we pass by. They are learning some English from Laura. Here is a typical conversation: Me—“Hello, how are you?” Child—“Hello, how are you?” Me—“I’m fine, thank you.” Child—“I’m fine, thank you.” Me—“What are you doing?” Child—“What are you doing?” after which we all dissolve into hysterical laughter. But they are learning, and often greeted us in English. They are candid and innocent, eager and curious, creative and expressive, affectionate and playful and funny, these bright and beautiful children. As for the adults of the village, they are reticent as we pass by, but one “Hola” or “Buenos dias” from us never failed to elicit a smile and a cordial greeting returned.
On the wall beside the bed in our room are a dozen or more slightly faded Valentines, each one different and charming. Last February, Maxine K. visited there, taking with her a suitcase of paper, ribbons, doilies, sequins and other fancy things. She and a friend made Valentines with the children. Laura told me that the parents came up to her for weeks afterward, delighted at having received their very first Valentines—from their children.
The village is changing. There are economic and ecological questions begging for immediate answers. The new civic association and community center will give the people a forum, a place to meet and discuss and learn. More money is owed on the new building, and it will cost to remodel it. There are two coconut plantations on either side of the village that are for sale. Laura speaks of contacting The Nature Conservancy or Habitat for Humanity to help acquire these properties to satisfy the need for more housing on one side, to protect the integrity of the lagoon on the other. She is doing so much, but she is seldom fully healthy, and anyway, there’s only so much one person can do by herself. They are hoping to be able to pay for a satellite connection in the next few months so that she can work at the computer at home, instead of having to drive into town in order to communicate. There are many ways to contribute: money, of course, but also time, talent, supplies, care.
Here is Laura Kelly’s website: http://www.casadelencanto.com/index.html
Juani has phoned Alejandro, Greg’s taxi driver from the airport, to pick us up at 3:00. We give gifts and tips to Juani and Muñe, those gracious and invincible sisters, who hug me well and wish us a speedy return. We have said our farewells to Laura and Noyo, who have driven into town to shop and check emails. Alejandro arrives promptly at 3, helps us load our luggage, and Dick and Greg and I wave goodbye, for now, to La Barra. Next stop, Zihuatanejo.
Copyright Candice Fulton 2004
