better to give

At some point in this month, I will put another click on my life-ometer.


The day does not matter.


Some will say I am a year older.  Maybe they are correct.  But I like to think of it as being just another day or hour older.   These traditional milestones mean little to me.


But I did get two great birthday gifts this week -- both on the mirador above Melaque.


I drove up there to see if it was possible to see the sun set.  A blogger friend told me the sun would set behind a hill, rather than over the ocean.


But it is still early enough in the year (and the sun's path is still far enough south) for the sun not to be too modest as it slips into its bath.

You can see the result.  Not as spectacular as some of our sun sets -- more clouds would have helped.  But it will do.


The second gift was completely unexpected.  While I was waiting for the sun to start performing, I scanned the bay with my binoculars.


Right at the mouth, I could see a disturbance on the surface of the water.


Bait ball?  Dolphin pod?  Both are regular sightings in the bay.


Then I saw it.  A spout.  A broad flat tail.  Another tail.


Whales.  A pod of whales.

Whales visit our bay now and then in the winter.  It is calving time.  But most whales do not come this far south to birth and nurse.


I can't help but wonder if they may be the same whales I saw off the coast of Oregon in October. 


Probably not.  But merely to see them was a delight.  And I wish you could have see in the photograph what I could see with my binoculars.  (You will need to click on the photograph to enlarge it to make any sense of it.)


They cavorted for a full half hour -- until they submerged when a panga filled with tourists intruded on their play.


Two nice gifts.  But I thought I would share them with you.

stuffing my mouth

"And such small portions."


So ends the famous Woody Allen punchline.


But I am learning that life, just like supper, is best appreciated in small portions.  It has taken me some time to realize that little bit of wisdom.


My plans for Wednesday were to get up early, have a nice breakfast on the plaza, visit Colima's two best museums (Museo de Historia and Museo de Culturas del Occidente), and tour two archaeological sites (La Campana in the city limits of Colima, and Tampumachay on the main road back to Manzanillo).


OK.  After my active day on Tuesday, even I knew I was being too ambitious.  And that was before the bells incident.


I told you yesterday I was excited that my balcony looked right out on the cathedral.  Well, picturesque comes with a price.  In this case, a loud price.


The bells in the towers started ringing at 3.  Then at 5.  And again at 7.  They were the type of loud that would raise Elmer Fudd straight out of bed.


My early start turned into a 9 AM departure from the hotel -- without breakfast.  I headed across the jardin de libertad to the Museo de Historica.


Most guide books minimize the limited scope of the museum's exhibits in favor of the far more comprehensive Museo de Culturas del Occidente.  But the historical museum is just that: a place to show the various eras of Colima's history from its earliest days to the present -- through cultural items.  It is the very essence of a popular institution.


I spent the morning there and most of the afternoon at La Campana.  Here are some thoughts are visiting both.


We know little for certain about ancient cultures.  And what we know is always subject to revision.


The silly "Aztecs as Spartans and Mayas as Athenians" analogy is the most obvious and embarrassment.  Or the discovery that the nearly-beatified Anasazi were cannibals.


What we do know about the Indians around Colima is that they had been there at least as early as 1500 BC, and were the oldest civilization in western Mexico.


We also know that the tiny region eventually formed around this early culture and remained fiercely independent politically from its neighbors. 


They also managed to hold off the Spanish in two incursions in 1522.  Only to fall in 1523 -- losing 95% of the population to war and disease.  Ending 3000 years of independence.

What we know about the early centuries of this civilization is through its pottery.


The earliest examples of pottery are quite plain.  Only a few simple designs painted or etched on the surface.  Even so, it is obvious that the potter knew the piece had value beyond a utilitarian vessel.  Otherwise, there was no need for ornamentation.  Some are now almost 4000 years old.


But the pottery soon became far more ornate.  Taking their forms from the vegetables cultivated by the Indians.  In this case, pumpkins.

The Indians quickly learned that obsidian (a plentiful material due to the proximity of two volcanoes) could be chipped and carved into both war and work implements -- in addition to statuary.  Rather sophisticated statuary.


I have often been struck by what appear to be incongruous comparisons between cultures.  But I made my own.  The human figures bear a strange resemblance to Sumerian pottery.  It is the eyes.  The size and shape.


I am not suggesting a connection between the Colima Indians and Sumeria.  Perhaps it is nothing more than the difficulties of carving small eyes in clay.  No matter where artists live.  Mesopotamia or Mesoamerica.


La Campana gives us a good idea how the makers of this pottery lived.  The site has been occupied since 1500 BC, but was abandoned prior to the arrival of the Spanish.


There are no massive buildings at La Campana.  But the pyramids, houses, ball courts, and patios show a human scale.  You can easily imagine your neighbors building similar foundations.

And foundations are what has been recovered and reconstructed.  No dressed stones here.  Everything is round rock set in clay mortar.

But we know what it once was -- the largest city in western Mexico.  At its height, the foundations were topped with wooden structures and roofed with palms or grass.  That is why we have nothing left but the foundations.

La Campana also offers a rare attraction: a tomb filled with original objects.  When archaeologists find artifacts on a site, they are usually put in a museum for their protection.


But the curators of this site have left everything in place for public viewing.  Bones.  A pottery mask.  A pottery dog.


The Indians on the west coast buried their dead in shaft tombs.  In the case of Colima, eight foot shafts dug through volcanic rock.  The tomb would then be hollowed out to give the soul a space to begin its journey through the travails of the afterlife.


Only honored classes (warriors or women who died in childbirth) would be automatically admitted to "heaven."  Everyone else could expect a long, tough journey -- no matter how good or evil they were in life.


But two things were required for a successful journey.


We have already looked at the first -- the need for tomb space where the soul could rise from the body.

The second requirement was -- a dog to accompany the soul on its journey.  Professor Jiggs would have appreciated that little bit of canine history.


Without either, the soul would wander aimlessly for eternity.  Like Paris Hilton.


That explains the odd relationship between Indians and their dogs.  There were two distinct types of dogs.


The first, tlachichi, were fat, bald, and short-legged.  They sound like a frankfurter.  And that is exactly what they were.  They were a food source.


The second, xoloitzcuintli, were a noble breed with long legs.  Interestingly, both types of dogs have been preserved in pottery form.  Maybe the dead wanted the option of being guided by a dog from the Donner party.


The pottery dogs were always hollow when placed in a tomb to allow the human soul to take up residence inside.  There is something reassuring to me about a people who saw dogs as friends to assist them in their greatest need.

The museum has a mock tomb that a viewer can compare to the actual tomb at La Campana.  You get an incredibly good feel for what it was like to be down the shaft.


I could easily have spent a full day in the museum.  The exhibits have been chosen carefully to draw a connection between the viewer and Mexicans long -- and more recently -- gone.  Admittedly, there is the usual romantic patina foil hammered over the historical recitals.

The conquest.  How coconut palms came to Mexico and revitalized Colima.  The Independence movement.  Benito Juarez's flight through Colima.  Porfirio Diaz's life-breathing economic policies and soul-sucking politics (though no portrait of the dictator).  The Revolution.  The golden days of Colima.


I will leave the Museo de Culturas de Occidente and Tampumachay for another day.  Because I know I will get back to Colima now and then.


Perhaps on my way to other parts of Mexico.

climbing to Colima

I am on the road again.


This time up in the mountains that provide a backdrop for Manzanillo's beach life.


I planned on venturing into the Sierra Madre Sur the first time I caught a glimpse of Colima's fraternal twin volcanoes on the horizon.  And I finally got my wish on Tuesday morning.


I looked at a map and decided I would spend two days taking the old highway to Colima.  In the process, I would enjoy rustic campgrounds, the urban delights of Colima, and two Indian archaeological sites.


If I had actually planned this trip, I would have realized two days will allow me to only skim the surface.  But I have no moral qualms about indulging in Whitman Sampler style trips -- even though Colima is essentially the Rhode Island of Mexico.


I did not get out of Manzanillo more than a few miles before the road started climbing -- and climbing rapidly.  I would soon pass the 4000 foot mark in what is theoretically the foothills of the Sierra Madre.


One of my neighbors (who comes from a flat Midwestern state that begins with a vowel) told me the road was the most frightening she has ever been on.


For her, that may be true.  For me, I grew up on roads like it.  Anyone who has traveled the coastal mountain roads of southern Oregon or northern California would immediately recognize the topography. 


Except, we have bobcats up there.  Here, we have jaguarundi, and I saw my first one today -- crossing the road.  I suppose, to get to the other side.


My truck was not as forgiving of the road, however.  Rather, its transmission wasn't. 


Several times I heard a grating that sounded like bolts being shaken on a silver tray.  Accompanied by a rather disconcert jerking motion.


Now, there are those amongst you who suppose I spent the rest of the day waiting by the road for a tow truck.  But you would be wrong.  Instead, I am sitting in a Colima hotel and my truck is resting in the parking lot.


There were several sights I wanted to see on this trip.  And, here, I should note that when you are driving alone in a truck on a winding mountain road, you tend to miss a lot of scenery.  But I had my small list.


The first was a sight along the road.  I had read there is a huge iron ore mine visible from the road.  A mountain is essentially being dismantled and shipped by conveyor belt to Manzanillo for processing.

 

And there it was as I came around a curve: the Peña Colorado mine.  My green gene should have been appalled.  But my guy gene took over, instead.  It is an amazing engineering feat.  And beautiful in its own way.

 

To make amends, my next stop was about as green as you can get in Mexico.  El Salto is an odd mix of water park, picnic area, and scenic wonder.  As if Seven Flags had been taken over by Teddy Roosevelt.


There are two areas in the park.  The new area is the picnic-water park combination.  There are slides and fountains that dump young children into shallow concrete ponds.  All surrounded by picnic tables.


When I was there, several families were spending a fun day together.  Fires were burning.  Meat was charring.  Kids were laughing and playing.


And, best of all, the place was spotless.  There were plenty of garbage cans, and everyone seemed to be using them.

 

The scenic wonder portion of the park is the older section.  At the end of a cobblestone descent, is a 30-foot waterfall.  It is not the greatest fall I have seen.  


But it is one of the most peaceful areas I have encountered in Mexico.  The pool at the bottom is crystal clear.


I had considered camping there for the night.  It would have been a perfect setup.  But it was too early to get ready for bedding down.  Instead, I decided to head on to Colima -- after stopping at Minatitlán on the way.

 

Minatitlán is not a big tourist stop.  But it is one of those little towns in the highlands that has retained a portion of its colonial heritage. 


What impressed me most was the manner in which the church has been decked out.  It appeared as if some sort of fiesta was about to begin.  But my Spanish failed me in talking with some of the residents.


And then I was off to Colima.  Just as I came out of the mountains, I got my first close-up views of Colima's volcanoes -- Nevado de Colima (the quiet one) and Volcán de Fuego (its much more violent and smoking brother). 


A haze obscured the view.  But it was exciting to see both of them that close.

 

Lots of visitors come to Colima to see Volcán de Fuego.  But I doubt that was the reason for all the traffic around town.  I had almost forgotten what it was like to drive in even a medium-sized city.


I quickly got situated -- without the help of my GPS -- in what the locals refer to as one of Colima's nicest hotels.  Hotel Ceballos.  On Colima's main plaza.


And pleasant the hotel was.  It is Hispanic writ large.  With open courtyards surrounded by chairs for conversation.  One of the many cultural positives the Spanish left behind.


I had a balcony with a great view of the cathedral.  The only drawback was the bed that seemed to have been left over from the Torquemada collection -- one of the cultural bequests the Spanish should have taken back to the Iberian peninsula.


Colima's main square is Jardin de Libertad.  If you did not know Colima was a colonial city, the arrangement of the plaza would give it away.

 

The plaza has a landscaped square in the center -- gazebo, trees, geometrically bisected.  And surrounded by four almost identical buildings on each side -- in Neo-Classic style.  The governor's palace, a museum, my hotel, and, of course, the cathedral.


The governor's palace is open to the public, and, somewhat surprisingly, has minimal security.  But the politics of the place is not its draw.  It is a beautiful building on its own. 


Its staircase has a mural honoring the Mexican Independence movement -- painted in 1953 by Jorge Chaves Carrillo.


I know quite a few figures in the mural.  The usual cast of characters is there.  But there are also several symbols I cannot identify.

 

Is this sprawled figure a symbol of the fallen monarchy -- or does it represent the Napoleonic overthrow of the Borbones that precipated the war of independence?  I have no idea.


But it is a compelling piece of art.


As is the next door Catedral San Felipe de Jesús.  Built in 1894 by the same architect who designed the other buildings on the square -- even though a cathedral has stood on that spot since 1527. 


The proximity of the volcanoes explains one reason for the urban renewal projects.  Earthquakes are a common phenomenon here.


The current cathedral is worthy of a city the size of Colima.  It is tasteful, in its style.  It could have been built in Salzburg -- but without all of the rococo business.


And that was my day.  A full one.


Tomorrow will be devoted to archaeology.  With a short stop at Sam's Club -- if time permits.  I doubt I will take photographs there.

forbidden fruit

So, there I was in my truck.  On my way over the hill from Melaque to visit the beach at Cuastecomates.


I don't get over there very often -- even though it is a short drive.  I used to take Jiggs over because the waves were easier on his aged legs.  Now, I need to have the same concern for myself.


On each drive over, I noticed a small dirt road that leads off into the hills toward the west end of Melaque's beaches.  I knew there was a view point up there somewhere.  I have seen the photographs.


But, in the two years I have lived here, I have never searched out the road.  On that day, it was calling my name.


There was no sign.  And nothing about the road distinguished it from a small logging road or the driveway to a farm house.


If I have learned anything in life, though, it is to not prejudge an adventure by its beginnings.  Robert Frost's well-traveled couplet is true for all road warriors: "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--/I took the one less traveled by".


My guess about the road's destination was correct.  Not that you would know it for the first kilometer or so.


I knew I was climbing because of the grade of the road.  Gentle, but definitely climbing.  As if I were gaining altitude from a Laredo airfield. 


But how high I was, I had no idea.  There was a narrow fringe of jungle on the down side of the hill that obscured the view.


And then, in one flash, it was there.  All of Melaque.  Stretched out from the west end beach to the laguna on the east.

 

This may be a good opportunity to talk about my current home town a little.


Melaque is actually three villages in one.  Melaque on the west (residential, but with most of the palapa beach restaurants), San Patricio in the center (the business district), and Villa Obregon (my village -- almost entirely residential).


And you can get a feel of the difference in the beaches that stretch around the bay.  The beach at the bottom of the photograph is commonly known as Chicken Beach.  The waves are gentle.  It is where most of the waders spend their time.


As the beach curves around the bay, the nature of the surf changes drastically.  Not gentle swirls there.  The surf slams on the sand hard enough to be called Beach of the Drums.  If you need several layers of skin sandblasted off of your body, this is the place to go.

 

With my binoculars, I could pick out landmarks that I see daily.  Including the Greek Revival house I thought of renting last year.  Before my sense of good taste recovered. 


I could just imagine kidnappers sitting up on the hill picking out a house whose resident might have something worthwhile to offer up in ransom.


Or I could simply replay the Scarface clip that Felipe sent me as a perfect match for the house that was not to be.

 

But the view point was a great spot to see for miles.  I imagine the sunsets up there are spectacular. 

If you walk to the other side of the large parking area, you get a panoramic view over the Pacific.  Just the place to take a loved one for a romantic evening watching the colors of the sunset.


From the number of empty beer cans and used condoms littering the area, I would guess it is used regularly for that purpose.


For some reason, I thought the road would end at the view point.  But it continued down the other side of the hill.


Then I remembered, there is a small beach at the end of the road Playa Cuastecomatito.  It can be reached either by the road or by boat.  Or, as I was to be reminded, only by boat.


Someone has started constructing houses in the hills.  The road is well-graded with a stone drain.  You can see a photograph of the improvement at the top of the post.  (I know that should be a photograph of the road up the hill to the view point.  But it served its purpose.)


Well, someone was constructing houses.  It appears the whole thing is now on hold. 

 

There is a large gate across the road to the beach and there is a similar gate that leads to a hill top lot.  Both gates indicate the property is protected by dogs -- dogs that apparently were napping for my visit.


Both main gates, a side gate, and the locks for each of the gates have been posted with stickers.  The construction is closed because the proper permits were not obtained from the municipality.


I asked around to see if anyone knew the details.  No one seems to know why the project was closed down.  But the consensus is that the dispute will be resolved with the exchange of an adequate number of pesos.


Even so, I would like to see the beach.  It now has the smell of forbidden fruit.


And, like most forbidden fruit, the getting will undoubtedly be less satisfying than the wanting.  I hear the beach has only one redeeming quality -- it is remote.  There is no shade, and what you want to have, you must bring in.


Even so, I would like to see what is there.


And that is the spirit I am trying to develop.  If I want to get out to see Mexico, I need to start looking around my own back yard (or Melaque's back yard) for adventure.


My trip up the hill was a perfect example of rubies to be found in the saddle bags of donkeys.

fatal attractions

La Manzanilla has a new attraction.  Or, at least an old attraction with a new twist.


I am not talking about the on-going project to cobble the dust out of the business district.  Even though it is a great idea, and seems to be working nicely.


This post is not about streets.  It is about La Manzanilla's new wildlife viewing area.


The wildlife we are discussing, as you probably have already guessed, are La Manzanilla's famous crocodiles in the mangrove swamp at he edge of the village.


There have been crocodiles in the swamp long before humans made it to the Mexico coast.  But they were one of the factors that almost made me decide to make La Manzanilla my home.  They are fascinating creatures.


The edge of their swamp home migrates according to the amount of rsain that swells its streams.  And, just like a crocodile RV, when their home moves, they move right along with it.

When I first came to La Manzanilla in 2007, the swamp had almost joined the ocean. 


And several crocodiles had almost joined tourists eating their lunch on the beach.  Crocodiles were also known to wander the streets around the swamp.


After a few Canadian and American fluffies ended their pampered canine lives as crocodile snacks, the ejido decided to fence in the entire swamp.  At least, the crocodiles were in their natural environment.


But the ejido went one step further by constructing a viewing platform along the edge of the swamp.

Here's the drill.  First, pay 5 pesos to a bored young girl.


Then cross a suspension bridge over the edge of the swamp -- a bridge that would feel at home in any Indiana Jones movie. 


I discovered my right ankle has not quite gained the balance I thought it should have.  Any policeman would have had probable cause to doubt my sobriety on that bridge.  (Some would say "sanity.")

At the most unstable portion of the bridge, a rather large broad-headed crocodile was waiting below.  Perhaps, he had less faith in Mexican engineering than the tourists.

If Disney had designed the place, the bridge would have teetered dangerously close to the crocodile.  But, in Disneyland, the animations usually do not eat the tourists.  This big guy might have.

You then wander through a bit of mangrove swamp -- where you can see how the mangroves are rooted in the swamp.  And how the mangrove canopy provides a habitat for birds and iguanas.


The path then leads up to one of the truly sad sights of this attraction.

There are about a half dozen crocodiles imprisoned in a small concrete pond. 


The type of animal penitentiary that were once the norm for zoos a century ago.  I could not understand the purpose of the tank -- nor are there any signs that attempt to satisfy curiosity. 


The swamp is filled with crocodiles.  What is this bunch doing in prison?  Are they former narco leaders?  I guess I will never know.


I am not a crocodile expert, but they did not all seem to be the same species.  They may simply have been different sexes and ages -- for all I know.


After the holding tank, the trail turns into an elevated boardwalk above the swamp -- leading to a raised viewing platform.  Someone obviously put a lot of thought into the platform because it opens on a broad panorama of the swamp -- with large nesting birds at eye level.

What did not seem to receive a lot of thought was the engineering of the platform.  The floor boards seem a bit too thin to bear the weight of an average tourist.  I had visions of crashing through the Acme floor into the swamp -- just like Wile E. Coyote.


I was chuckling at my paranoia when two couples from Ontario showed up and made me feel a lot better. 


They refused to climb the stairs to the platform because the handrail was inadequate.  And then they muttered that a Mexican inspector should shut the place down until the owners installed an adequate guard rail.


I suspect they were completely oblivious to the fact that the people who built the viewing platform employ the inspectors.


Ironically, the critical couples got me to thinking about what I do not like about the new fence and restricted viewing area.  They attempt to suck the danger out of watching the crocodiles.


Now, I am not talking about getting in the water and swimming with them.  But there was a certain exhilaration of sharing the same space -- at a distance -- with a wild creature that could easily maim (if not kill) you.  The potential for being known as Stubby for the rest of your life helps to center your focus.


I come from a society where bicycle-riding children are ensconced in enough safety equipment that they could probably survive a direct asteroid strike.


And, as a result, they are doomed to miss the privilege of learning about life from making mistakes.  They live in the mirage of shells rather than learning the true security of self-assurance.


If you have not yet seen the crocodiles of La Manzanilla, get it on your list.  Before too long, they may be reduced to "It's a Croc World After All."

whacking the piñata

Saturday was fiesta day in Villa Pinal -- a small village about two or so miles north of Melaque.


The church I attend (San Patricio by the Sea) has formed a relationship with the village school (highs and lows).  Each Christmas for the past three years, some of the congregants have put together a late Christmas party for the children. 


It probably should be re-branded as an el dia de reyes party because it is always close to Epiphany.

All of the ingredients for a great Mexican party were there.  Music.  Cookies.  Punch.  Piñatas.  Gifts.  Opportunities to dance with a real Disney princess.


The street in front of the school was blocked off.  The village organizers set up chairs and tables.  And the children and mothers started flooding in.


The main event was the piñata -- or, I should say piñatas.  When it was broken open, it was followed by two more in succession. 


North of the border, we tend to think of busting the piñata as an individual accomplishment.  But it is a true community event down here.  The batsman often provides the group with candy -- and ends up empty handed for the effort.

The young children took their whacks first.  Batting rather ineffectively. 


Even though a few well-placed hits knocked off decorative symbolic cones.  But the candy-filled body remained generally intact. 


The youngsters played the role of picadors against their quarry.  Just doing enough damage to pique the interest of the crowd.  Enough wounds to promise something good was in store.

Several older boys waited patiently in line.  Eyeing the bouncing piñata.  Looking every bit like ball players just waiting to get into the batter's box. 


A couple of teenage girls showed they had good mettle.  But it was the boys who had the courage to look foolish in the quest for a moment of glory.  And glory they got. 


They flailed and bashed until candy rained down on their fellow celebrants.  More than one child ended up with a whacked noggin by rushing in too quickly to claim ill-gotten gain.


The fiesta warmed my small town heart.  This is the type of event I remember fondly while growing up in the coastal mountains of southern Oregon.  Whenever there was some event, the entire town turned out to make it something special.

After dispatching all three piñatas and distributing the candy according to Ayn Rand principles, the children lined up to receive gift bags.


"Lined up" is not an attempt at irony or sarcasm.  They really lined up as if they had been attending a German school.  Their teacher divided them by age and sex, and they filed by their respective tables to pick up their bags.

Volunteers at the church spent a couple of hours on Wednesday packing bags for 325 children -- with notebooks, crayons, pencils, coloring books, balloons, candy, tooth brushes, and too paste, note book paper, and other age-appropriate gifts.


Once the loot was distributed, the children started wandering off to their homes.  The fiesta was over.


There were no effusive Anglo-Saxon affectations of gratitude.  An occasional gracias.  But no "Oh, you shouldn't have."


We talked about what we could expect to hear during Bible study on Thursday evening.  And about the purpose of sponsoring the party.


We were not there to earn God's love.  (Jesus warned against any such motivation in Matthew 6:1-2).  We were not there to save the villagers from their poverty.


We were there to share a fun moment with them -- a moment that came directly from our heart to theirs.


The smiles were thanks enough.

little cat feet on the sand

Mama Nature tries to be a good mother.  But she doesn't always get things quite right.


Take Friday morning.


Winter weather on Mexico's Pacific coast can be a bit boring.  Warm days.  Blue skies.  Pleasant humidity.  Day -- after day. 


Not that I am complaining.  There is something comforting in knowing that winter weather can be so predictable.  Some people would love to be cursed with such an affliction.


Mother Nature must have thought I was getting bored, though.  When I got out on Friday, the ocean looked as if a bit of the Oregon coast had been transported south.


Fog.  Overcast.  Gray.  Just about what I would expect if I had been in Pacific City in early January.


But like most unsolicited gifts, it was not quite right.  All the visual cues were there.  But the temperature (low 70s) and humidity (high 70%) made the mask transparent.


It was not Oregon.  Just Mexico in a false mustache.


And that was fine with me.  I did not need any foggy days in the 40s.  Friday was my art at the beach day in La Manzanilla.

I have written about La Manzanilla before (tripping with steve, love amongst the palms, starting the journey).  Its beach and bay are what originally drew me to this part of Mexico.  For that reason, it will always be a special place to me.


It is about a half hour drive north of Melaque.  But the drive is not like the drive to Manzanillo -- the Manzanillo drive is no more challenging than driving across southern Illinois.  Mainly flat.  A bit on the ordinary side.

The drive to La Manzanilla is closer to driving through the hills of West Virginia.


Two lanes.  No shoulders.  Steep hills with more ascents and descents than a Salieri aria.  Breathtaking drop offs.  And enough scenery to make any crash a cinematic spectacular.

And it is the scenery that makes the area unique.  So unique that I was almost a home owner in La Manzanilla. 


Had it not been for the dodgy land titles.  You can never be quite certain what you have bought once the transaction is done.


The village has one of the best swimming beaches around -- on Tenacatita Bay.  Here the surf swishes in.  Unlike Melaque where it bangs the shore -- and swimmers.


During the winter, La Manzanilla is a happening place.  Very good restaurants.  Lots of water sports.  Art shows.  Cosmopolitan visitors from all over the world -- many at the language school.

Despite everything my head keeps telling me, I found myself looking at my realtor's (Daniel Hallas) listing board.  One of the houses I was interested in three years ago is still for sale -- and the price has fallen.


It is getting close to the point where I could afford to lose my investment without feeling as if the world had come to an end.  And without full title, that is always a real possibility.


That was impetus enough to get me re-acquainted with the village as a potential homeowner. 


I drove through the old neighborhoods.  They are just as rustic as ever.  At times, the streets appear to be doing double duty as stream beds.  In one instance, the main river bed, that is literally true. 


La Manzanilla will never be confused with Santa Monica.  And that is to its credit.


I then sat on the beach and read the newspaper on my Kindle -- while enjoying the glee of children and dogs playing in the surf.  I could easily get accustomed to the routine.

In honor of my brother, I had lunch at my favorite beach eatery: Lora Loka. 


One of our first nights in Mexico, Darrel and I had dinner there with two bloggers and their families.  That night we learned Lora's chicken enchiladas with salsa verde are exquisite. 


On Friday I discovered nothing had changed.  The only thing that would have made it better is if my brother had been there to share the experience.


And I was then off to the art show.


Ed Gilliam is one of my neighbors in Villa Obregon.  I knew his art before I met him.  He painted a mural on one of the buildings where Indian children attend school.  I have always appreciated its style.


I first met him at a meeting to help clean up the laguna.  And I then worked with him on a project providing assistance to the Indian school.


Before I knew he was an artist, I knew he was a friend of Mexico.


His canvas pieces are as stunning as his murals.  If Gaugin and Picasso (in his cubist phase) were reincarnated as one spirit, the result could very well be Ed.

That is not to say his work is derivative.  It isn't.  But he takes advantage of artistic giants by standing on their shoulders.


I may write a separate post on some of his pieces -- if you are interested. 


If I had not forsworn acquiring additional possessions, I would have purchased two or three of his canvases.


I guess I could solve that dilemma by buying that house in La Manzanilla and filling it with art.  It would be easy to do.  But that would be a lifestyle change I am simply not ready to make.


Yet.