Las Gatas
We are approached by Diego in the Zihuatanejo marina. He offers us an excursion. A little fishing, a little snorkelling, early lunch at Las Gatas and back by shortly after noon. We all liked him right away and make a plan to meet back here at 8 am tomorrow. We stroll through the market and the kids buy some tchatchkas and we hop in a collectivo back to our hood.
We spend the evening down on the beach, walking the length of La Ropa, soaking in the little vignettes of Mexican families on holiday. Wheelchairs pulled in to the waves, abuelas rocking & singing lullabies for their grandbabies, kids plastered head to toe in sand, boys pulling little sand slugs out of the shallows.
We sit down at a restaurant and order some drinks and ceviche. Just as the sun goes down three men with guitars wander toward us. This kind of situation used to make me so uncomfortable — not knowing how much to pay for a song, feeling awkward about asking but i took courage from the dozens of families we saw in the Mexico City’s Plaza Garibaldi taking such joy in the private concert. I asked how much for a song and they tell me 100 pesos (about 7$). Can you sing something with harmonies?, I ask. They confer for a second and then play us a beautiful song. Suddenly I can’t even remember why I found this so discomfiting in the past. Pure joy. They finish. I pay them. A simple, tidy exchange. They wander through the restaurant looking for another commission and when they don’t find it I feel compelled to ask them to come back for another.
We head back to our place but the kids head back into town to soak up a bit of the nightlife. I lie down and get bedspins for the first time in forever. Ah, tequila…
Our adventure with Diego was heaven. We met at the far side of the marina. What is just a collection of very large colourful boxes under palm trees in the evening is a hive of activity in the morning. All the fishermen have their catch laid out for the cooks and restaurant owners to choose from. Lots and lots of shiny bonito, a silver fish about a foot and half long, related to tuna and mackerel, and oysters (ostiones) on display. We pick up some ice and drinks and then walk down to the pier where Diego picks us up in his bright, white lancha. We head straight out toward some rocky outcropping and he sets the lines on three rods. We trawl around for a while and don’t even get a nibble. He switches out the lures for ones that look like tiny octopi and the fish start biting. Henri reels in the first one. It’s hard work as the bonito really put up a fight (my vegetarian heart is actively suppressing the guilt of taking this animal’s life for lunch). The occasional dolphin fin breaks the surface of the water nearby. The next time two reels go at the same time. Wil and Alice start cranking. Suddenly there’s no resistance on Wil’s line. Delfin, says Diego. What? Sure enough, when Wil pulls in the fish only the head is left on the hook, everything behind the gills has been bitten clean off by a dolphin. We lose a couple more to the dolphin but we still manage to pull eight bonitos into the boat. Is this a good day’s catch?, we ask Diego. Very good, he says.
He brings us over to a little bay and we jump in the water with the snorkel gear he’s rented for us. He crumbles a few saltines in the water and there’s a flurry of fish around us. Bright, flashes of colour. Schools of tiny little colourful fish, skimming just beneath the surface. Big blue grey fish with long, wavy fins, tiny little bright purples, little blue ones with fluorescent spots that make them look like they’re illuminated from the inside. I can’t understand why, as a race, we spend so much money jetting off to other planets when there is so much of the ocean and so much of the ocean that isn’t understood.
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of floating effortlessly and seeing a whole universe unfold beneath you. Watching the fish fiercely defend their little parcel of coral reflects what’s happening in the world these days. Afterward, Diego brings us to Las Gatas, a little strip of beach across the bay from Zihuatanejo. From about 10 am on, there is an endless stream of little boats bringing families across to spend the day here. There’s the pier and around the corner a long strip of family restaurants, thatch roofs or parasols with clusters of plastic tables and chairs beneath. Some of the restaurants will allow you to bring your own food if you spend at least 250 pesos. As there isn’t much beach between the tables and the water’s edge, the options are a restaurant table or the water. We arrive around 11 and it’s hopping. The first stop after the pier is a little cluster of people standing over the ubiquitous coloured plastic pails. They are shucking massive, gnarled oysters non-stop. The beach is shielded by a reef so the water is as calm as can be and only about waist deep. Kids in floaties, grannies bob on their backs in life jackets, a few impromptu father-son swimming lessons and the occasional teenager out a little further doing a very ungainly crawl.
Diego carries four of the fish through to the kitchen where they get to work, the rest he will bring home to eat. He sits and chats with us for a couple of beers before excusing himself. He explains that THIS (and Semana Santa, the week around Easter) are the two weeks to make the year’s money so he will spend the hour and a half that we’re eating ferrying people over at 10 pesos a pop.
The kitchen brings us a cooler of beers, a plate of bonito sashimi with capers, red onions and lime juice, another plate of cubed ceviche with tomatoes, onions & lime and finally a platter of pan-fried bonito with a big dollop of rice and some cooked zucchini, carrot and beans. And, of course, the pile of warm tortillas, selection of hot sauces and lime wedges. The fish is delicious but incredibly rich. We can’t finish but are happy to leave with a doggy bag for Diego.
As we’re finishing up a nearby table suddenly begins wailing. Someone must have received a call. Everyone is in tears, clutching each other but the granny is loudest, shouting “No, mi niño (my boy). No.” and a teenage boy is obviously completely overcome. I ask the restaurant owner what’s up and he says “Le mataron.” They killed him. With the murder rate in Mexico over 30,000 last year, it’s pretty brutal to think of so many extended families suffering the way this one is. So heavy.
When Diego picks us up I ask him about violence in Zihua. “There’s no more than anywhere else, he says. They respect what tourism brings. Thankfully, they mostly kill each other,” he says.
We jump on the collectivo back home. A collectivo is the perfect place to soak up all the best parts of Mexico. These little white buses, the size of a VW van with a bench up front and all the seats replaced by red benches that line the sides and back. The door is right behind the front passenger seat, a sliding door that is long gone. The point of departure and the destination are written in big white letters on the windshield. You wave down the one you want and find a spot. As you enter, you say a general Buenos dias or Buenas tardes or buenas noches, depending on the hour and most passengers respond in kind. You tell the driver what your destination is as it nears and he lets you off, you then reach into the passenger window to hand over your 10 pesos per person. It’s an incredibly efficient system. You never wait more than a few minutes for a bus and it really offers up a slice of life you can not see anywhere else. Giggling teenagers, elderly cowboy drifting off, chambermaids in uniform on their way to work, couples hauling groceries home, lots of squeezing in between sweaty strangers. There are pipes that run along the ceiling for hand holds but standing is only really possible if you’re shorter than 5’4” without having to bend over completely. I got up for a pregnant lady with her two kids and one of the giggling teenagers then got up for me. You’re making me feel old, I tell her. No, she said good-naturedly, you are just taller than me.
I love this place.
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