I’D HAVE TO KILL YOU – Part II: First Impressions / What La Joya Isn't

Well, here I am. After months of eager anticipation, I’ve arrived safe and sound at my little hidden-gem beach town—so secret that I’ve had to assign it the sobriquet La Joya (The Gem). (For now, I’ll go so far as to say it’s in Mexico.)

Let me start by acknowledging a couple of things. The first feels more like a confession: I’m well aware of the hypocrisy of digging up an as-yet relatively undiscovered destination, and then, by the very fact of my coming here, hastening its discovery. Not to mention my coming out and blogging about it. (Knowing me, I'll eventually slip and divulge its real name.)

Secondly, it shouldn’t surprise me that one’s preconceived notion of nearly any destination might not jibe with what one discovers on arrival. That’s certainly the case for La Joya. The pictures are idealized, the accounts subject to their writers’ particular tastes, the reviews perhaps cherry-picked by those in the local hospitality business.

Finally, one’s initial uncertainties about a new place rarely last. That’s already proving true for me here in La Joya, as all its small wonders—discoveries, beauty, kindness—gradually become the boldest brush strokes on the canvas. 

              ~     •     ~     •     ~           

Now, to my impressions of La Joya, what it is and what it is not. For this post, let me start with the latter.

WHAT LA JOYA ISN’T
Lose the Broad Brush – Among the things that drew me to La Joya were the many descriptions calling it laid-back, unpretentious, a bit scruffy. At least on the surface, it’s all those things. But I’m getting the feeling the village isn’t quite that easy to typecast.

For example, at first glance I thought the place looked kind of messy. You know, bits of litter in the streets, a few overflowing garbage cans. Come to find out I’d arrived on the last day before the weekly trash collection; the next day, clean as a whistle. And one can certainly forgive some signs of disrepair, as, like just about any town anywhere, La Joya is a work in progress. Some projects wither; some dry up; others bloom. 

Then there’s the people.The first folks I noticed when I arrived were some pretty mangy-looking characters. I thought maybe this is typical. But as I’ve started exploring the back streets I’m observing a great diversity of types pursuing widely varying interests.

Lose the Sweatshirt – For early November, it’s really hot here. All the weather forecasts I’d read for the area predicted temperatures about ten degrees cooler than this during the day, fifteen at night. So, against my better judgment, I packed a sweatshirt…which will remain stuffed into the side pocket of my carryon. 

These first few days have topped out above 90 degrees Fahrenheit, with lows sagging to just the low 70s. And humid? OMG! It’s tropical with a capi-
tal T. Thank God most of my little apartment is air conditioned. 

Another thing I’d never anticipated for such a small town bathed constantly in ocean breezes: the air quality has been abysmal. Today’s forecast: Muy insalubre / Very unhealthy.

    Sadly, that beach—arguably the de-
    fining feature of the town—is gone.

What Beach? – Since what I’d googled was “beach town,” I’d pictured long walks, day and night, along a mile-and-a-half of fine, golden-sand beach, which every single image had shown to spread 50 to 75 yards from the beach-side restaurants to the water. 

PHOTO: Marival Resorts

Sadly, that beach, arguably the defining feature of the town, is gone, all but consumed by what looks to be a three- to four-foot, climate-change-induced, El-Niño-amplified surge in sea level. With each thunderous breaker, the “mar de fondo” surf sucks away more of that fine sand, leaving in its place swaths of course, lemon-sized gravel. There’s no place left to walk. 

Mar de Fondo surf gobbling up beach...and buildings

One Man’s “Authentic…” – Finally, La Joya is not quite the unspoiled, homogeneous, “authentically Mexican” town I’d pictured. There are glimpses of that kind of innocence, but, again, to have imagined such a non-touristy place—especially one I could reach in one day’s travel—was pretty unrealistic. Not to mention that equating authenticity with lack of development vastly underestimates these smart, industrious people. 

IMAGE: Google AI

The fact that tourists like me account for probably half of the town’s population at any give time, and that the vast majority of La Joyans make their living serving us shouldn’t surprise me; it’s that way in just about any tropical beach town in the world…or soon will be.

Now that you know what La Joya isn’t, stay tuned for my next post, about what La Joya IS. 

                                             /\_      /\_       /\_

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I’D HAVE TO KILL YOU – Off To My Secret, Hidden-Gem Beach Town

As many of you know, I love traveling, especially in Latin America. For the past 15 years Sally and I have been spending a month each late winter in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico, a place I now like to think of as our second home.

And, in the past several years, even that annual trip south hasn’t quite satisfied my appetite for adventure…and for keeping my Spanish sharp. So I’ve been traveling again in the fall, exploring a new destination in Latin America each time.*

So back in June, acting on a whim, I googled “Find me a hidden-gem little beach town anywhere in Latin America.” Intriguing as the results were, most spots looked like it might take two days just to get there. 

But the description of one caught my eye: Right on a broad, mile-and-a-half-long beach; flanked by rocky headlands and backed by jungle; just 1,500 inhabitants; vibrant community spirit; several nice-looking little hotels; decent restaurants…All this and it’s relatively easy to get to.

So, what’s the name of this magical place? Well, I could tell you…but then...I’d have to, well…you know… ** 

          

NOT IN MY BACK…PATIO
That’s the dilemma with any as-yet-unspoiled destination. You’d love to spread the word—not least, to help the hard-working folks who have to make a living there. But if a lot more people come, “there goes the neighborhood,” as they say. 

I know my hidden gem—this joya oculta (Hey, why don’t we just call it La Joya.)—won’t be hidden much longer. One can almost see the wave of big-time development, with its high-rise condos, sterile, all-inclusive resorts and Señor Frog’s dives, creeping up the coast toward it. 

Just a few miles away, another village, which itself was a sleeper just 20 years ago, is now considered by most to have lost half its charm.

    Most importantly, I’ll keep 
    an open mind and heart.

READY TO SEE GENEROUSLY
So off I go, cameras and laptop in hand, hoping my picture of "La Joya" turns out to be more or less accurate. Scores of such adventures, though—especially those in Latin America—chasten me to manage my expectations. To skew the truism of the century, it will be what it is.



          

During the next couple of weeks, of course I’ll keep my eyes, ears and all the other senses open. But my version of adventure travel calls on more than my physical senses; it summons what I call seeing generously. Sensing with open mind, heart and spirit too. 

With any luck La Joya will prove as beautiful as I imagine, its habitantes as unfailingly kind and generous as those I meet in most Latin American towns. That’s all the motivation this tall, pale, tottering gringo will need to jot down a few reflections about this, my perfect little hidden-gem beach town. 

Stay tuned…

* I’ve been on a somewhat less-than-urgent quest to visit every country in Latin America before I croak. So far, I’ve checked off seven—as well as half of Mexico’s 31 states—so…hey, it’s a start!

** The hypocrisy is not lost on me; on one hand, I want the unspoiled, authentic charm of 1970s Mexico, and on the other, they better damn well have high-speed Internet.


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BEYOND MEASURE – The Folly of Quantifying Paradise

When I was a kid, there was this 
all-too-common presumption that Mexicans were lazy and slow. Social psychologists say the “sleepy Mexican” stereotype may have arisen in the mid-19th century during the Mexican-American War, and I’m guessing it gained appeal as other immigrant groups sought advantage in their adopted country. 

Eventually, as such stereotypes of-
ten are, it got played up in films, and later on television, with characters like Slowpoke Rodriguez, the Frito Bandito and Speedy Gonzalez. 

I don’t think my parents, while both intelligent and kind, did anything to debunk the trope—or even realized its harm. Honestly, though, as a kid I’m not sure I’d even have cared.

VACATION RECALIBRATION 
After about 70 years of traveling to and around Mexico—some 50 trips so 
far—I’ve gained a somewhat fairer, better-informed point of view on our southern neighbors.

As Sally and I pack up for our 18th dewy-eyed departure from our annual month-long escape to our beloved Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, I find myself thinking about that old xenophobic nonsense. And, for that matter, other measures of a people or a place. Specifically of this place.

Once we leave behind the demands of our “real” lives back in Minneapolis, our routine in Zihuatanejo affords us a precious chance to recalibrate. Here, life comes at us at a whole new scale, in new rhythms.

Measurement is different here. 

   Here in Zihua, we appreciate the time 
   to talk, people-watch, whatever.

WHO’S COUNTING?
Instead of how many nerve-wracking miles on a gridlocked freeway till I have to show up at such-and-such a place, it’s how many more sweaty steps to conquer the grinding, four-block climb from the dolphins fountain up to the Catalina. How many turns to reach the next shady or breezy spot. How many claustrophobic aisles explored in el mercado to find perfect, mild, apple-size radishes.

At home, we might get annoyed having to wait in line for some service. Here in Zihua, we appreciate the time to talk, people-watch, whatever. If it’s a longer wait, we find a place to sit, pull the cribbage board from my backpack and play.

Here, instead of tracking the soaring price of gas, tonight’s numbing low temperature forecast or how many points the T-wolves score, we appreciate simpler counts: the pesos-to-dollars exchange rate, the SPF rating of our sunblock, little kids trying to get just one two-pointer up to the hoop at La Cancha, the town’s basketball court and town square. 

     Despite its population of 130,000, 
     Zihua still feels like a pueblo.

THE HEIGHT OF ARROGANCE 
Back home, our comings and goings navigate a fairly typical urban landscape. Even in our residential neighborhood, a 14-story apartment building looms over us from across the street. Downtown, the proportions are even more intimidating. Like the pace, it’s another assertion of quantity over quality.

Even vacationing, we’ve observed many coastal resorts—including Ixtapa, right up the road from Zihuatanejo—whose powers that be have made the same calculation with their skyscraper hotels. Monstrosities that obstruct ocean views and breezes for everyone but paying customers.

In Zihuatanejo, though, very few buildings exceed a few stories in height. And even most of those have been thoughtfully designed to conform with the cerros (hills) surrounding the bay, stair-stepping their way gracefully up their flanks. The result is a city, our home away from home, that, despite its population of 130,000, still feels like a pueblo (small town).

                     
                                                                           
BEAT THE CLOCK
In Zihua we’re able to let go of most time expectations. While it’s hard for us to set aside our accustomed punctuality habits—say for dinner reservations or a doctor’s appoint-
ment—we don’t hold our Mexican hosts to anywhere near the same standard. We realize that’s our culture’s obsession, and actually love the notion that we’re now “on Mexican time.” *

That means it doesn’t matter whether our morning walk downtown gets us to El Cafecito cafe, our favorite beach-front oasis, early enough for breakfast or more like brunch time. And if the Carnaval parade or the Guitar Fest concert starts 20 minutes—or an hour—late, it just doesn’t matter. 

We remind ourselves that, even though those in the hospitality industry bend over backwards to indulge our time fixation, for most Mexicans the concept of time is quite different, with different priorities—and with good reason.**

       The only things to count are 
       the bright green parrots flying 
       past our open-sided living room.

SKIPPING A BEAT
Each morning, as we gaze out over the intimate embrace of Zihuatanejo Bay, the only things to count—if one is inclined to such a meditation—are the number of pangas crisscrossing the bay to and from Playa Las Gatas. The number of arresting black-and-yellow caciques or bright green parrots flying past our lofty, open-sided living room. How many little cubes of sweet, ripe mango to plop onto my cereal.

            

Another way folks might measure an experience is through rhythms. Here in Zihua, as in other parts of Mexico, those beats feel somehow less insistent than those we’re used to. Here, it’s the unhurried, whispered cadence of the surf down the block on Playa La Ropa. A sequence of hollow-plastic thwaps from the La Cocina pickleball courts. The barely-differentiated pulses of air coaxed down by each slowly-turning blade of our ceiling fan.

         With the ebb of the rain 
         comes the flow of tourism.

EBBS AND FLOWS
Some rhythms can’t be seen, heard or counted; you just feel them. Like the slower turning of the seasons down here. Back in Minnesota, with the all-too-hurried succession of our accustomed four seasons, one barely adjusts to one before the next one blows through. Here in Zihua, it’s just two: rainy and dry. One has time to appreciate the flavors, the full expression, of each.

Zankas—natives of Zihuatanejo—and their region’s landscape have contrasting views of the seasons. While the parched dry-season countryside celebrates June’s first rain, many people and the local economy prefer October’s last. Because with the ebb of the rain comes the flow of tourism.



To the observant visitor, especially at either end of high season, the transition’s quite evident. Sally and I are always mindful of the fact that the folks who are so kind and work so hard to please us while we visit somehow have to meet a whole year’s expenses with a scant five-months-worth of income. 

So, yes, that’s one thing we are careful to measure: what we pay for things, and our tipping percentage. You won’t find us haggling for an artisan’s unique creation, nor tipping less than 20 percent for decent service—25 or 30 percent for excellent.

   That dude isn’t sleeping because 
   he’s loafing; he’s exhausted from 
   working so hard.

LA CUENTA, POR FAVOR
So, back to the "sleepy Mexican" label. 

What I’ve learned is that Mexicans—and I dare generalize because I’ve found it so universally true—have no problem with either time, counting or effort. What they do have a problem with is putting quotas and deadlines ahead of more important values.

This is why the folks we observe here, these Zihuatanejenses, are so unfailingly generous and patient, with us and in their own lives, whether caring for an elderly parent, abiding the interruption of a street vendor, strolling musician or beggar, or making the best of an event’s starting an hour late.

                 

PHOTO: Fernando Salazar

One custom that, for me, captures this grace especially well is the steadfast refusal of Mexican table servers to bring a diner the check before being asked for it. There’s even a word for it: la sobremesa.*** I’ve never once, in hundreds of establishments in every corner of the country, seen this unwritten rule violated.

         I must have been a Mexican 
         fisherman in a previous life.

NO SWEAT!
So, no, Mexicans aren’t slow. They just know how not to sweat in this searing tropical heat; those with the luxury to choose know not to work during the hottest hours of the day. 

Nor are Mexicans lazy. That dude sitting with his sombrero tilted down over his face isn’t sleeping because he’s loafing; more likely, he’s exhausted from simply working so hard.

To explain my love of this culture I often posit that I must have been a Mexican fisherman in a previous life. While I know I can never be a Mexican in this life, what I can do is, every time I’m here—especially here in Zihuatanejo—to observe and learn from the way folks gauge time and scale and effort and rhythm. And appreciate how all those measures might help me live a happier, healthier more loving life.

               ~     •     ~     •     ~   

* The idiom, “on Mexican time,” refers to the significant cultural differences in time perception evident there. It gained popularity with the success of Tony Cohan's 2009 memoir, On Mexican Time: A New Life in San Miguel.

** Mexican culture, as I’ve observed it in my travels to about half of the country’s 31 states, consistently prioritizes family, relationships, tradition and folks’ Catholic faith. Living joyfully in the present moment matters more than future planning.

*** La sobremesa is the custom of savoring time and conversation spent with family, friends or business associates over and after a meal, free of distraction over payment. While leisurely sharing food was central to pre-conquest Meso-American community life, the specific, formalized custom of sobremesa originated in Spain and eventually became deeply embedded in Mexican culture.

THE LAST OF THEIR KIND – Music Meets Love In Zihuatanejo

They met in Michoacán. I met them in Guerrero. Zihuatanejo, to be exact.

The other day Sally and I were enjoying our iced tea and mango smoothie 
at El Cafecito, a charming little sidewalk cafe just across the Paseo del Pescador from the beach-side fish market.


Every day, we’re entertained there by a predictable bill of strolling musi-
cians, most of whom we appreciate and tip. Most are young and talented, and project pretty well; some have little portable amps.

Just as one young performer was wrapping up his little gig, we noticed a very elderly couple totter into the shady oasis and sit across from us on 
the sea wall. He appeared very frail, shuffling in tiny steps and nudged by Parkinson’s-like tremors. I couldn’t see his eyes, though his very dark sunglasses and certain mannerisms suggested he may also be blind.

She, though quite frail herself, was obviously the one providing the support…and carried the guitar.

   Luis swears he remembers playing 
   for Sally and me almost 20 years ago.

FIFTY YEARS TOGETHER
I’m intrigued by the very well-used instrument. Whose is it? Why do they have it? It seems quite obvious neither of them is up to the task of per-
forming, especially for such a scattered group. 

I have to know…so I grab a chair and go to them. 

Neither speaks English, so my command of Spanish opens the door. First of all, they both seem delighted to chat. We introduce ourselves and share a little information about each other. 

When I get around to asking Maria Elena and Luis about the guitar, they explain: For decades, Luis was one of iconic strolling musicians playing for diners along the several beaches here—mostly Playa La Ropa—every evening. Now and then Maria Elena would accompany him, or at least bring him his supper.

EVER THE AMBASSADOR
Both were born in Mexico City. They met while working as street vendors somewhere near Uruapan, Michoacan, and have been together for 50 years.

 He’s performed in other parts of Mexico, and even as far away as Seattle, where he once sang and played in a restaurant.



We compare notes about our respective histories with Zihuatanejo, and Luis swears he remembers playing for Sally and me almost 20 years ago somewhere on La Ropa. (Ever the good ambassador for the place and the music, I’m thinking.)

  

 Luis addresses me by the gag nickname
 I used yesterday in our introductions: 
 ¡Buenos dias, Jefe!

THE MUSIC IS LIFE
I ask him to play me a song and he asks what’s my favorite. I suggest he play me his favorite. Which he does—a sweet, nostalgic song about the beautiful state of Veracruz, with a musical nod to el Son Jarocho, the traditional folk music style of that Gulf Coast region. 



His voice is surprisingly true and strong, and he picks and strums with fingers that absolutely defy his tremors. 

I thank them and hand him a hundred pesos—a little over $5.00 USD. He doesn’t see it, but she reaches over gently and takes it. We shake hands again—each of them sandwiching mine between both of theirs.

¡UN BIS! / ENCORE!
The next day there they are again. I walk over; they smile and extend their hands. Incredibly, both remember the gag nickname I used yesterday in our introductions. Hola, ¡Buenos dias, Jefe! they say.

Luis plays us a couple more songs, including a request: Los Caminos del Sur and another of my favorites, Zihuatanejo.

I’m not sure other patrons of El Cafecito are aware of Luis and Maria Elena's presence, not to mention and that they still see his music as their livelihood. I'm afraid they're that inconspicuous. 

So each day we see them, Sally and I make sure to request more songs, applaud and hand them a couple of bills as conspicuously as possible. Others do notice, clap and hand over more tips. Some, I'm happy to see, also offer their hands.

    This is the way to have a conversation; 
    this is the way to make friends. 

WELL, ENOUGH ABOUT ME...
Sally and I have met many, many people here in Zihua over the past 20 years. Lots of fellow visitors—most from the U.S. and Canada; fewer Mexicans. Most gringos, while pleasant enough and anxious to tell us about themselves, have shown absolutely no interest in finding out anything about us. Mexicans have generally been more curious about us, but we realize most are either in the hospitality industry—or at least know their town depends on their graciousness to tourists like us. They have to be nice.

I find it most extraordinary that Maria Elena and Luis—mostly Luis—have been full of questions about us: our families, where we live, our careers, what kind of music we listen to back home, what kind of car we drive, what winter's like in Minnesota. 

This is the way to have a conversation; this is the way to make friends.

THE LAST OF HIS KIND

As our annual month here in enchanting Zihuatanejo winds down, I know I’ll weep once again as our Sun Country pilot dips a wing to this welcoming, beach-bejeweled bay and the lovely people who live here. This time, I know one big reason for the emotion will be that this was the year we met Maria Elena Medina Rivera and Luis Pelcastre. 

Yes, this was the year we had the honor, the privilege, of becoming friends with this pair of endearing, iconic costeños—Luis, el músico ambulante, quite possibly the last of his kind.



HORIZONTES / HORIZONS – The View From Paradise

As those of you who follow my occasional travels know, Sally and I spend a late-winter month in Zihuatanejo, a one-time quaint fishing village here on La Costa Grande—the Pacific coast of Guerrero, Mexico. 

A month’s enough time to get past that first week or so transitioning into “vacation” mode. Enough for the feel, the smell…the rhythm of a place to elbow their way past those pushy little stresses one hopes to have left back home.

The most emotional of my many jottings here about Zihuatanejo usually weep out of me as I’m leaving. As the horizon I clutch—that from the airplane of the rolling Sierra Madre del Sur with Zihua Bay glistening in the foreground— is slowly pulled from my arms.

PHOTO: Wil Mertz 

This time, though, I’m changing it up. There are no tears, just joy. For once, I’m going to reflect not on a departure, but an arrival. 

A STUDY IN STRATA
This first morning, as I peer out from our open-air, hillside villa, I feel the welcoming embrace of Zihuatanejo Bay, its arms wrapping round my view south-southwest out across the bay and then the vast Pacific Ocean. And today it’s a study in strata. 

A clear, cerulean sky bisected by a distinct band of pebbly white clouds; then a layer of light ocher haze; next, just above the water, the “marine layer,” that ubiquitous, blue-grey mass of cool, moist air pressed against the horizon by the much-warmer air above. 

The water, too, is striped. In the distance, by the clouds' shadow and other, inexplicable lines of light and dark; within the bay, by the wakes of the little pangas constantly ferrying folks across the bay to and from Playa Las Gatas.

Below that, the sands of Playa La Ropa add a swath of faded khaki, effervesced every ten or twelve seconds by the churning surf.

Would it be silly to ride this theme closer still? To the garland of palm trees lining the beach? To the row of salmon- and pumpkin-hued boutique lodgings just below me? To the bougainvillea-draped adobe parapet of our villa? The top edge of my laptop? The files of little characters I'm lining up across this page?

Yeah, you're right, too silly. 

MORE TO COME
There’ll be many more such impressions to come, each a sensory thread further lashing my heart and soul to this precious place. Stay tuned as I pull on a few of those too…

DAY OF THE DEAD TRIPTYCH – Naolinco, Oaxaca, Mérida

To experience Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) in Mexico is, for many, a once-in-a-lifetime joy. If you’ve ever done so—or if you’ve watched the wonderful animated film, Coco—you understand something of the meaning and wonder of this magical occasion.

I feel blessed to have done Día de los Muertos in Mexico three times—most recently this fall in Mérida, Yucatan.

I’ve reflected here after each of those first two trips, and was starting to write about Mérida’s version when I realized the real story might be to compare all three.

NAOLINCO, VERACRUZ
In Naolinco—a mountain town of 20,000 known for its profusion of cobblers and shoe and leather goods stores—nearly every shop in town had some depiction of skeleton figures (catrinas) posed to act out some everyday scene.

A tram stop was peopled with catrinas checking their watches, reading the newspaper—whatever folks would normally do there. Even the barber shop had skeletons standing in for barber and customers. 

The last two days of October, families gathered in the panteon (cemetery) to clean up the grounds and paint and decorate the spiffy little mausolea built atop nearly every grave. 


Then, on November first and second (All Saints Day), the same families would return to the panteon after dark with blankets, chairs, maybe a picnic and, of course, lots of candles. In one group a young man strummed lightly on his guitar as everyone sang.

It was lovely and quiet, reverent but not somber. I didn’t eavesdrop, but there was laughter. And frequent lulls in the conversation, left, I imagined, to listen for the voices of their dearly departed. 

In contrast, closer to el centro, groups of mostly young people donning glam catrina outfits and makeup partied in the streets. No outrageous behavior, but certainly far from solemn. 

So much to see and feel, but one engaging experience stands out: as I walked quietly around the side streets that night, many families had left their doors open. Some were selling drinks, arrayed on small tables or crates. From fruit waters to horchata to home-brewed mezcal, all were displayed in a ragtag assortment of repurposed bottles.

Folks loved it when visitors would stop and admire their alters. Several families invited me in for a closer look, and offered me tamales and drinks.

                               💀          💀          💀 

CIUDAD OAXACA
In Oaxaca, I saw those same charming little scenes around town. Folks showed off their family altars; businesses put up decorations; and catrinas were everywhere. But Oaxaca’s a medium-size city of nearly half a million. So picture the scale of Día de los Muertos—of the colors, the costumes, the music—scaled up about 2,500 percent from that in Naolinco. And the tone: imagine Naolinco’s solemnity dialed down a bit, the partying dialed up a lot.

So, here the festivities start at least a week before the actual dates. Truckloads of cempasuchil (marigolds) and cresto de gallo (cockscomb) get dumped around town for decorating on a grand scale. 

Families and organizations build their altars, decorated from floor to ceiling. The huge community version arrayed just outside Oaxaca’s main cathedral had to be 40 feet wide. 

At nearly every hour of the day and night one can hear bands, salvos of fireworks and the joyous voices of people partying emanating from the various neighborhoods. 

For me, the most splendid of all the Oaxacan Day of the Dead traditions was the comparsa. Comparsas—some scheduled and well choreographed, others apparently spontaneous—are like parades, turning certain streets into pulsing arteries of lavishly costumed dancers, singers and musicians. 

Each array of costumes and performances depicts one of the widely divergent cultures of the various regions of Oaxaca state. It’s all bigger, brighter and louder than life.



Another tradition, one I’ve not seen elsewhere, is the display of tapetes, rectangular mats or “rugs” crafted on the ground of sand and flowers. It’s a custom that originated in Spain and has achieved work-of-art status in Oaxaca.

My night at the Panteon de San Miguel, Oaxaca’s general cemetery, couldn’t have been much different from that endearing night in Naolinco. First off, it’s a huge cemetery. And it wasn’t just the scale. Instead of surfaces adorned with freshly painted white and pastel colors, the Panteon General is one big study in gray and black. 

It’s possible that I was just there at the wrong time, but I saw just a small percentage of the tombs decorated. And very few families gathered around graves. 

(This dark, rather depressing ambience became all the more visceral when, as I picked my way around the tombstones in the feeble light of my iPhone, gaggles of cockroaches dodged my feet.)

I’d brought some color with me in the form of a big bunch of long-stem marigolds, intending to lay a single stem on each of the most abandoned-looking graves. In the near absence of family gatherings and the scarcity of even flowers and candles, that little gesture turned out to be the highlight of my evening.

                                💀          💀         💀 

MERIDA, YUCATAN
Day of the Dead in Mérida is unique in many ways. For one, its origins in Mayan—not Aztec, Zapotec, Nahuatl nor Olmec—culture. In fact, most Meridanos consider it a different thing altogether, calling the occasion by its Mayan name, Janal Pixan. 

Still, there are many similarities with Mexico’s other events to remember and celebrate the dead. I was glad to see one of my favorite little customs shared in Yucatan: the laying of trails of marigold petals leading from the streets into people’s homes—to show returning souls the way home. (By the way, in Mérida I noticed none of the magenta cock’s comb flowers I'd seen in profusion in both Naolinco and Oaxaca.)

In my admittedly limited view, Mérida’s Janal Pixan celebration seems pretty subdued. For example, instead of the seven-layer ofrendas, or altars, stacked up to welcome the return of antecedents in Oaxaca, the Yucatecos typically build just three. 



Other features are more subdued too. I saw limited use of crepe paper decorating people’s altars, whereas in Oaxaca it often creates an intensely-colored, beautifully textured canopy over the displays.

There are just two major Janal Pixan parades in Mérida: the larger, more important Paseo de las Animas, Walk of Souls, which starts from the main cemetery, and the Desfile de Catrinas, Parade of Catrinas, the emblematic skeleton figures, starting at the city’s main plaza.

PHOTO: Ayuntamiento de Mérida

Sadly, I got my dates mixed up and missed the Paseo de las Animas, but the catrinas parade was great fun. Despite a delay of more than an hour, the event—running from Plaza Grande to the foot of Paseo Montejo and on to the Parque La Plancha—proved worth the wait. 

Loud music blared from the beds of pickup trucks, each introducing its own group of performers. Marchers sang, danced, and engaged spectators—some with smiles, others with playfully menacing moves. A few groups featured bigger-than-life characters on stilts or animated with sticks and strings loomed over the rest. 

I'd heard someone mention an event remembering and celebrating the souls of mascotas (pets). So one night I headed over to Parque La Plancha, expecting some kind of parade similar to those for human spirits. And, if the on-line reviews were accurate, lots of living pets either painted or in costume. 

But the affair turned out to be quite small and commercial, with lots of small stalls hawking pet supplies and just four or five pets dressed up. 

There was, however an impressive altar featuring hundreds of candles and what looked like at least 1,000 names of folks’ deceased pets. 

                                💀          💀         💀 

SEE GENEROUSLY!
If I’ve persuaded you to visit any of these locales for Day of the Dead, I suggest you plan ahead by at least six months—a year if you’re really fussy about where you stay. By not doing so I’ve had to depend on as many as 40 inquiries—and considerable luck—to find decent lodging. (I’d be happy to share the names of those finds. Send me a Facebook private message or email me: jeff@willius.com)

Whether it’s Mexico for Día de los Muertos or anywhere else, remember, seeing is far more than an act of acquisition. At its best, it also involves giving. So I urge you to travel with not just open eyes, but also an open mind and an open heart. See generously...and expect wonder!

A MILE IN MY OWN SHOES – The Ways of Wanderlust

It’s silly I know, but one of the ways my Latin American travel/adventure trips move from crazy notion to harebrained scheme to actual occurrence is that I envision one of my favorite pairs of shoes stepping down the streets or trails of that distant place. Oh…and I’m in the shoes.

For Puebla, Mexico, it was my then-brand-new Keen ultra-lite sandals. In Buenos Aires, it was the Merrell Encore clogs. Havana saw me mostly in my Ecco Yucatan sandals. Oaxaca, in my Birchbury leather sneakers.And now, for my upcoming fall trip to Mérida, I'm thinking my new, walking-on-a-cloud Skechers Slip-ins. (Though for this trip it might make more sense to revisit those Yucatan sandals.)

       I make room for adventure in
       a future that thinks it’s already
       scripted for something else.

Why does it take footwear to lead me to such places? I suppose it’s like any other serious intention in life; to make room for adventure in a future that may not be ready for it, or thinks it’s already scripted for something else, it helps to imagine oneself there. The rest of the plan then starts falling into place around that image.

The shoes get me to that place of my imagining in a way that simply Googling the place cannot. More than just reading someone’s description or looking at photos, they seem to put me there physically. I can actually feel it, my connection with the ground.

FEEL THE YEARN
I remember reading Thomas Mann’s novella, Tonio Kröger, when I was in high school. Mann used the distant sound of the Posthorn to represent the siren song of Tonio’s wanderlust.

There’s nothing as powerful as a dream. For some, like Tonio, it’s just a hazy, unsettling yearning; for others it’s more like a prayer. I see it as simply committing my wishes to the wise ways of the Universe. And, since my Higher Power wants me to be happy, it makes space in the future for the fulfillment of those wishes and then enlists my own intentions, planning and a bit of elbow grease to make them happen.

You see, I have this hunger to keep expanding the realm of my being. To learn new things, meet new people, behold ever-more-stirring expressions of Nature’s beauty, get out of my egocentric, way-too-busy self and closer to the ideal of oneness with everything.

Nothing better satisfies that yearning than travel. (And travel, specifically to Hispanophone places, also lets me pursue my late-in-life quest to get reasonably fluent in Spanish.)

     My wanderlust exerts the same
     pull that being a homebody does,
     but in a different direction.

DIFFERENT STROKES
I realize that, for many, life’s less about opening new realms than deepening the ones they already occupy. That’s fine. I actually envy you homebodies, for your ability to happily grow where you’re planted. And for the strength of your commitments to a beloved place and the people you make sure frequent it.

I suppose I could say my wanderlust exerts the same kind of pull that being a homebody does, but in a different direction. To be honest, though, I feel a bit guilty about how selfish it is. I try to salve the guilt by recalling how many other worthy endeavors demand a choice between familiarity and exploration.

Wanderluster. Full-nester. Aren’t they really like introvert and extrovert, where one is better than the other only for certain purposes. Shouldn’t it be possible to be some of both, to balance the two?

How does one do that? As my mother used to say, when you’re torn between two valid paths, sometimes you just have to follow your nose…

…and, I would add, your shoes.

"To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted."
BILL BRYSON