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.

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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.

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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. 

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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!