Zihua
Back to my favourite activity: chatting with taxi drivers. Miguel brings us to the airport for our short hop to Zihuatanejo. He tells us about his family’s Christmas traditions, pork and spices, punch, 11 o’clock mass followed by a feast and presents and a toast given by the eldest person in the family. He says that sadly no one he knows takes holidays anymore. Everyone just works the whole time because of an economy that he blames on the president.
We’d planned on driving as the roads are so beautiful here but a little miscalculation and the distance was suddenly not so manageable in one day. The last thing we need is a super stressful day of driving to bring back bad memories of our 2010 van saga so we jump on a little prop plane. There is a mix up with the seats as Aeromar has issued four tickets for two seats. We wait somewhat anxiously for everyone to sit and they eventually find a spot for the girls up front. The breadth of Mexico City from the sky is impressive. It just goes on and on, one and two story buildings that stretch as far as the eye can see. A milky blanket of smog hangs above it. I suppose its location in a bowl surrounded by mountains means it’s hard for the wind to shift the noxious air. The landscape beyond is beautiful. Crazy to think of how many visitors to this country only ever see a tiny fraction of what this nation of natural wonders has to offer. Hanging out in oh-so-urban Mexico City, or in a resort, one would never guess at the drama and the variety of the topography. Colourful little pueblos nestled in valleys dot the countryside. In almost no time the Pacific comes into view, we come down the far side of the rugged Sierra Madres del Sur and plop down on the tarmac. We step off the plane into a wall of heat and humidity. The sun is scorching. It’s heaven.
After setting up at our new home, we stroll a few blocks down to La Ropa beach. Ivan tells us it got its name (the Clothes) from a shipwreck that left broken luggage and clothes floating in the bay for ages. The quiet of our compound is very misleading as the beach is positively chock-a-block. The very mellow sea laps the pale sand and the shallows are full of happy families bobbing in the water. No one is in past shoulder depth as very few people know how to swim. Many wade in in t-shirts and shorts. Just a little deeper, motor boats blast along pulling floating bananas of young adults hanging on for dear life. The shore is lined with restaurants jammed with plastic tables full of extended families sharing a meal. Every few minutes a parasailer is launched off the beach. When it’s time to go up, the person is strapped in and held aloft by two young guys as the boat gains speed. The rope that snakes its way from the parachute to the boat through masses of beachgoers doesn’t seem to worry anyone other than me. When it’s time to come down, a guy waves a colourful flag on the crowded beach to indicate to the boat driver where to aim for. At the last second the signaler drops the flag to race to catch the person plunging in at breakneck speed. Let’s just say they’d be doing less than half the business in Canada as the clients would spend more time filling out waivers than they’d spend in the air.
We stop for a snack, ducking under parasols to find an available spot to sit. A trio of heavily-tattooed, elderly American tourists sits nearby. They argue loudly over the rules of cribbage and have brought their own little speaker to listen to country music. Their soundtrack adds to at least three other kinds of music playing; the banda music (heavy on the brass country) coming from the restaurant next door, the more mellow Mexican rock coming from ours and a massive speaker perched on another table nearby with a whole Mexican family sitting in a semi-circle around it as they chow down on lunch. Under normal circumstances my brain cannot process more than one song at a time. It is among the things that I find impossibly irritating at home. Here, it’s just another ingredient in the delicious sauce.
We head into Zihuatanejo to find some dinner. The taxi driver drops us off in front of a packed, little family restaurant that he recommends. They eventually find room for us and we down a pitcher of deep red agua de jamaica (sweet water flavoured with hibiscus). A colourful selection of sauces hangs on a little tree on every table. Tomatillo salsa verde, a smoky red salsa, a more traditional red salsa, pico de gallo and little lime wedges. The meal is amazing. Chiles rellenos (a poblano pepper stuffed with cheese, dipped in egg white and fried and smothered in tomato sauce), amazing french fries, yummy hanger steak, terrific shrimp tacos, accompanied by a container of warm tortillas. It all appears through a tiny little window in the wall. By the time we’ve finished our meal, every table in the restaurant has turned and we are all stuffed and happy.
The town is absolutely jam packed. People step down into the slow-moving traffic to make room for each other on the sidewalks. The zocalo is ablaze with blinding Christmas lights. A band enveloped in fake smoke plays dance tunes as a big crowd looks on. A dozen or so couples scattered around the dance floor beneath the stage shuffle back and forth to the beat. It’s hot and the air is quite still but all the men are in long pants. Parents chase their toddlers down. Little food stands sell everything from tortas (sandwiches) to tacos to helado (ice cream). Everyone who has wares to sell has laid them out on little blankets on the pavement. Every single business is hustling. Our waiter at lunch tells us that they do 80% of their annual business between the 25th of December and the 2nd of January. The taxi driver is a little less keen as the crowds are “all Mexican tourists who arrive by the busload, stay in the little hotels downtown and never ever take taxis.” Unlike our driver, we are thrilled to be lost in a sea of Mexicans. We pile into a car and head back over the hill to our quiet little compound for the night.
Comments