I’m always trying to think of new ways to describe the enchanting beauty, the deliciousness, of Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico—a place I've come to think of as my second home. This is, I believe, the third time I’ve tried committing those reflections to paper. Or maybe the fourth.
There’s a pricy little boutique hotel just up the hill from our villa called Cinco Sentidos. It means the Five Senses. What a seductive name, and as good a motif as any for an homage.
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The ceiling fan flutters, barely perceptible, overhead. From one of the villas below a young girl’s voice rings out in a simple, sweet, repetitive song. Another sixty steps down, along La Escénica La Ropa, the workaday grunt and groan of backhoes and pipas—the lumbering water tank trucks whose numbers grow now that the dry season is here—lend a bass note to the searing hiss of car tires on hot pavement.
This morning, every morning, chachalacas in the trees or on thatched rooftops echo each other’s arresting, washboard rasp. Caciques, magpie jays and a couple of other little cantantes try to get a word in edgewise.
Now and then other noises blend in—sounds so characteristic of Mexico that even if I had no idea where I was they’d say bienvenidos: mariachis blare from one dude’s pickup; a super-hyped announcer voice promoting some event or sale or political candidate spills from another’s; children squeal in delight as they scamper down to Paty’s and the beach; and, once in a great while, the itinerant knife sharpener passes by, playing his haunting little flute ditty.
And behind all these now familiar sounds, always—always—the soft, languorous breath of the Pacific surf. In with each rising swell …and out with each breaking wave. An easy respiration that’s recurred every ten to fifteen seconds since long before there was a soul to hear it.
The scent of the sea…silky, salty, alive.
NO SWEAT
Of course there are other senses coaxed and coddled by this place. A Minnesotan’s eyes, accustomed to the bland diet of white and shades of grey rationed out by a cold, dark winter, feast on a spicy guiso of color. The buildings, the foliage and flowers, the birds…the people themselves exude it.
Then there are the smells. Dust, smoke from nearby brush fires, fish at the market along the Paseo del Pescador, flowers at one of the town’s amazing florerías, the surprisingly floral smell of fresh corn tortillas. And something in the soaps they use here to mop tile floors and scrub sidewalks smells absolutely wonderful—unlike anything we use back home.
You’d think, with how warm it is and how hard people work here, some folks would smell sweaty. I may be guilty of romanticizing everything Mexican, but if there’s any unpleasant odor I’m not aware of ever having noticed it.
Once again, there’s the sea—its scent—that silky, salty, alive quality, wafting in on La Costa Grande’s faithful Pacific breezes.
And the flavors. Like Zihua’s rich color palette, they’re warmer, brighter than what we’re used to. Seafood, fresh as can be; exotic fruits; chilis of every stripe; a bright splash of lime juice; fresh Oaxacan string cheese from a big plastic bucket schlepped by a guy down on the beach; and mezcal, from the amateur to the artisanal, with its fruity, floral, spicy and smoky flavor notes.
Finally, there are the tactile enticements of this part of Mexico. The leathery hide and slight give of a perfectly ripe mango; the nubby hand of a fine woolen rug or runner you've been watching the weaver create; the slimy texture of nopales, the cactus that’s both a staple of Mexican cooking and a national symbol; the tickly sluicing away of sand underfoot by a receding wave.
And things you don’t want to touch: the armor-plate skin of a live crocodile; scorpions; certain spiders and caterpillars; the frightening spikes deployed by a sacred old ceiba (kapok) tree.
I saw this extraordinary place in a way
that is rare indeed for any traveler.
A FORCED SEPARATION
Tonight, after saying adios to Sally and several family members who’d been visiting, I wandered by myself down to Playa la Ropa for dinner. As the sun set behind Cerro del Almacen I savored a nice margarita, serenaded by a pair of really good musicians...and, of course, the surf.
Suddenly, the magic that Zihua radiates through all my senses kind of overwhelmed me, and I teared up.
It was like all these sensory intoxicants swept over me at once. And I saw this extraordinary place in a way that is rare indeed for any traveler, especially one who’s now been coming here for thirteen years. I saw it as if I’d never been here before.
There the emotions will have to rest for eleven long months, a kind of forced separation from my poor, hungry senses. I’ll peek in now and then to make sure they’re all doing well. And then, next March, God willing, I will once again let them have their way with me...in Zihuatanejo.
