Sayulita by Robert Richter

Pull up a comfortable chair and allow yourself to be transported back to another Mexico, to a small seaside village before the arrival of condominiums, time share vendors, polluters and exploiters, and the all-inclusive resorts with herds of tourists spilling into downtown areas where they shop for trinkets and souvenirs of a clichéd Mexico of sombreros and burros.

Robert Richter, sometimes called Roberto (or “Rowber”) in Mexico, is on the run from two countries: from drug charges in Mexico and the Vietnam draft in the US, as well as from the consumer culture that permeates both sides of the border from Miami Beach to Puerto Vallarta, from New York to Acapulco. The year is 1972 and the federales have ordered him out of town, taken the money found on him, and dumped him and his belongings on the side of the highway with orders to leave Mexico and never return lest he be incarcerated for life.

With his backpack of clothes and camping gear, and two trunks of books, he boards a third-class bus and heads for Tepic, the capital of Nayarit. He spends two nights there drunk and depressed. The next morning, he gets out a map and finds a secluded coastal village called Sayulita, a perfect place to retreat from the cares of the world with his hidden stash of funds that the federales missed. It was a fortuitous choice.

The small fishing village was replete with welcoming, easygoing fishermen and their families, and he was able to rent a small hut of wattles and thatched roof (no water, toilet, or electricity) for a token sum. Nearby was a communal well, a small restaurant, a village store which sold staples, and a bay filled with fish and crustaceans to be had for the taking. For him, it was ideal.

There were perhaps fifty homes in the area, mostly of humble construction; the streets were dirt or rough cobblestones. There was a grade school, a municipal building and a small plaza which hosted a casual band and dances on weekends. It was a village lost in time, bordered the sea on one side, thick jungle on the other. There he wrote almost daily in his journal of his external dealings with the townsfolk, and his internal turmoil: a tireless and bewildering search for purpose in life. Sometimes the writing from those hours flowed with exuberance and joy, other times they reflected a struggle with depression and self-doubt.

The village people, many of whom befriended Roberto, saw him with his two trunks of books and his disciplined writing as a true scholar, who would return to the US one day and become a famous professor. He saw himself as a college dropout with no agenda and no wish to return to his homeland. Thus, he refused to fully enter the Mexican life, refused the love even of a beautiful Mexican girl who wished to be his novia. He felt deep inside that he was a fraud, a perennial outsider looking in.

Over the course of the next four months, he fell in love with this “patch swathed out of the jungle” in a small niche of the Nayarit coast: the children playing in the dusty streets, the “palm-laced village,” the lava point jutting out in the sea, this “fisherman’s paradise bordering a tropical garden.” But he also realized that it was temporary, like Walden, but, unlike Thoreau’s retreat, populated by caring people who had reached to embrace him. His leaving is filled with sadness and remorse.

But his return years later as a mature writer is even sadder. Not only for Roberto, but for all of us. For the village he loved so much no longer exists. It had been consumed by the same tidal wave of “development” which has sprinkled condos and high-end hotels up and down the coast. Tourists and service workers have replaced the fisherman, the roads are paved over, and the jungle retreated, replaced by manicured patches of trimmed greenery. “Unlimited growth,” Ed Abbey once wrote, “is the etiology of the cancer cell. And the end is always the same. Destruction of the host.” This is a memoir of a Mexico that is no more and a glimpse into the paradise that has been lost.

Sayulita: Mexico’s Lost Coastal Village Culture is available via Amazon.

• Something for Nothing (a novel)
• Something Like a Dream (a novel)

MICHAEL HOGAN is the author of 26 books including the best-selling Irish Soldiers of Mexico, and the critically-acclaimed Abraham Lincoln and Mexico. He lives in Guadalajara with the textile artist Lucinda Mayo and their Dutch Shepherd, Lola.

Published or Updated on: December 29, 2020 by Michael Hogan © 2020

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Sayulita: bohemian surf town on the Nayarit coast

Sayulita: A quintessential Mexico beach town on the Riviera Nayarit

Sayulita beach is stunningly beautiful, and most visitors are completely captivated by its charm. The two-mile long beach boasts soft fine sand, warm blue waters, perfect surfing waves and is adorned by rich tropical foliage and swaying palms, fulfilling most people’s fantasy of a tropical oasis. Indeed Sayulita is commonly referred to as “The Jewel of Nayarit.”

Sayulita visitors come from all walks of life. You will meet the friendly hippy who chose to miss his flight home as well as the rich and famous searching for an off-the-beaten track vacation destination, who add a definite touch of glamour to the town. Even the stray dogs in Sayulita seem to be hipper than the rest of the strays in Nayarit, many adorned with jewelled collars.

The charm of Sayulita is that it remains a true Mexican town, with a mix of cobblestone and sand streets frequented by friendly locals, dogs, chickens, roosters and a large expatriate population who happily coexist. But it also offers the tourist — especially the younger generation — a hip, trendy and charming destination off the beaten path. Indeed, the town of Sayulita offers an eclectic mix of Mexican people who happily reside among a large population of Canadian, American and European and Japanese expats who call Sayulita home for at least half of the year.

Sayulita offers great surfing. The town hosts a number of tournaments and tours throughout the year, attracting surfers from all over the world. In fact, surfing is a way of life for Sayulita, and young surfers with toned bodies bedecked in the latest fashions appear enthralled by Sayulita.

The south end of the beach is populated by tourists, who recline on deluxe lawn chairs or under the shade of a palapa, taking in life at this beachside paradise while enjoying a cool one. This end of the beach can be a little crowded with tourists, vendors and surfers during the height of the tourist season. However, to avoid the crowds, one simply needs to walk a little way towards the north end of the beach, which is always quieter.

Sayulita offers visitors a wonderful variety of trendy upscale boutique stores with sand floors where clerks in the latest bohemian fashions sell rare imported black pearls, authentic Huichol creations, blankets from Oaxaca, and the hottest “Sayulita Fashion.” Sayulita also offers a lot of activities for the adventuresome, active and young and heart — ATV Tours, group hikes, yoga retreats and even services like acupuncture and massage therapy.

We love to visit Sayulita whenever we have an expatriate craving for lox and bagels, rye bread, chocolate chip cookies, bran muffins, or simply a deluxe dinner on par with some of the finer dining one might expect to find in San Diego, San Francisco or Vancouver. Don Pedro’s on the beach is our favourite place for dinner for its unbeatable beach setting, excellent service and cuisine, and because they serve the best chocolate mousse and crème brulee in Mexico. Of course, the prices are a little higher in Sayulita then in other beach towns along the Nayarit coast, but are well worth it, and still far less expensive than dinner at any comparable establishment, north of the border.

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Yarn paintings - images of a vanishing culture

Gallery

The Huichol Indians, whose pre-Hispanic culture still survives in the remote Sierra Madres ranges, live a life woven of magic and sacred mythology. Believing themselves to be that part of creation which entertains the Gods, Huichols are sustained by their earthly representatives – corn, peyote and the deer – thus symbolically renewing their divinity daily.

These women and men keep alive the ancient traditions which remain a precarious reality for an indigenous people still relatively unaffected by Western civilisation. But, encroaching paper mills, airstrips, and government forces are rapidly altering this. Soon, all that will be left of this so-called “primitive” culture will be memories and the yarn paintings surviving in the hands of collectors.

Shamanic art originated with prayer bowls placed in caves as offerings. Whatever the size, the yarn paintings are personal interpretations of some aspect of Huichol relationship to the Gods. In this land of canyons, sparse rainfall, and uncertain crops, these Indians depend on their close psychic connections with Nature to survive.

Called “nierikas”, or mirror images of God, these art pieces are creative manifestations embodying the Huichol belief that we all make our own realities. Such works, empowered by the visionary cactus, peyote, are magical talismans which return to our lives a fusion with those natural forces we have lost.

These paintings are part of the ongoing collection of Maria von Bolschwing, curator of the Huichol Art Center. She lives in Mexico and has worked with the Huichols for the last 25 years. Originally a native of South Africa, Maria has lectured on and exhibited ethnic art in Europe, Africa and the United States.

All paintings shown here are approximately 23″ x 23″, unless otherwise noted. They are traditionally made of yarn, board and beeswax.

By Maria von Bolschwing and adapted here from her Huichol Art Center Site with her kind permission.

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The fog of hallucination that occasionally seems to envelop Mexico hovers over San Blas most of the time. The amiable residents talk of their future as the next Puerto Vallarta while they wave towels to keep off the abundant mosquitoes, and inquire if you don’t find their town tranquilo while you yawn, stupefied from a night clamorous with the sound of competing bands which played until 3 a.m. They will assure you, straight-faced, that the shrimp and oysters here are muy ricos, even as fishermen pull in with their nets nearly empty.

Some commercial establishments make much of a mythical pirate history; the place was never a pirate stronghold, but rather a base for repelling them.

All of this is part of the town’s goofy charm. It’s full of ruins — an old fort, church and counting house, once-teeming shrimp, clam and oyster beds, once-bountiful rare birds, at least three contemporary hotels, uncounted dreams. They all testify to its series of incarnations.

San Blas was occupied in 1531, but the official date of founding is 1768, when Don Manuel Rivera and 116 families arrived at the orders of the Viceroy Marquez de Croix, under the supervision of Don Jose de Gavez, representative of New Spain. At the height of its commercial period, the town had 30,000 inhabitants and became headquarters of Spain’s General of the Southern Seas.

The old hillside fort, or Contaduría, was built in 1770 as accounting offices for the town’s extensive sea trade with the Orient. On its front are stone carvings of the kings of Spain. Down a slope from the Contaduría are the ruins of the Church of Our Lady of the Rosary, started in 1769. The ruins once contained the bronze bells that reportedly inspired Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “The Bells of San Blas,” although Longfellow never did visit the town.

The ruins of a 19th century customs house are on Calle Benito Juárez, three blocks from the main plaza.

In the 18th century hardwood forests, now long gone, were the raw materials for ships which did a brisk trade with the Philippines, until the shipping moved to a deepwater port at Manzanillo, and later to Acapulco. Father Junipero Serra departed from nearby Las Islitas beach on Matanchen Bay in the locally-built bark Purísima Concepción on his journey to California on March 12, 1768. Once the shipping moved south, there was no further need for the government buildings or the hefty garrison, and the fort became a commercial building.

In the 1960s, Hollywood had a brief hideaway flirtation with San Blas when the likes of actor Lee Marvin discovered the place’s good fishing and tolerance for rowdy parties.

Through the years, it has attracted, and continues to attract, bird-watchers. There’s an annual international gathering of bird buffs at the Garza Canela (formerly Las Brisas) Hotel, long the town’s one truly first-class hostelry. The hotel on the edge of town earns its good reputation. Three of the four daughters of the Vasquez family who owns it are fluently bilingual, one is quadrilingual; one studied at the Cordon Bleu in Paris and runs the kitchen, and another, when she learned a group of German scientists was booked for the 1991 eclipse, added German to her language repertoire of Spanish, English and French.

Downtown, the venerable Flamingos Hotel is sprucing up to attract a more upscale crowd, with remodeling that’s been going on for about three years. By this year, it may even be finished. One guidebook says the Flamingos was once a German consulate. That seems unlikely. More probably it was headquarters for a German trade mission involved in a farming joint venture.

There are a few modest hotels, of which the Posada del Rey, with swimming pool, is the best-maintained, and a few bungalow operations with kitchens and one or two bedrooms. The nicest of these is El Tesoro, on the estuary. The Suites San Blas has some kitchens and a pool. Rock bottom on the hotel list, just a step up from sleeping on the beach, is the formerly elegant Playa Hermosa, on a lonely and beautiful stretch of beach about a mile from the plaza. It still gets drop-in visitors who gasp in dismay at its present condition and wax nostalgic over its grandeur when they were kids in the ‘50s and ‘60s. For a while, a few gringos were in residence on the top floor, in rooms remodeled and knocked together to create apartments with fabulous views (and daily water shortages and power outages). Intense upgrading efforts were going on two years ago, and it’s worth checking out if you must have quiet and can tolerate the bugs.

Some guidebooks have talked about San Blas’ platoons of giant mosquitoes, big enough to carry off dogs and small children. In a rainy summer, it’s easy to understand and forgive that hyperbole, but the fact is it’s the tiny jejenes (known as no-see-ums in many parts of the U.S.) that are the real problem. They’re a year-round menace, particularly at the new and full moons, at sunrise and dusk. They lay eggs under your skin and can cause a fearful itch to the sensitive. A friend who visited and scratched still bore scars on her legs a year later. And they’re an essential part of the region’s economy. The shrimp that breed in the estuaries of the mangrove stands feed on the mosquito and jejen larva.

Although perhaps not for much longer. A few years ago, having pretty much wiped out the shrimp grounds to the north, the shrimpers started coming to San Blas to harvest shrimp for farming — raising them in tanks. The government issued permits, with lots of conditions about which types of shrimp could be taken, and how many, which were largely ignored. Fishermen netted everything they could, leaving very few shrimp for the next year’s breeding season.

That’s approximately what happened to the clams and oysters several years ago. They were simply over-fished.

Several restaurants, both in town and on the beach, do very nice things with what’s left of the seafood. Tony’s La Isla, festooned with mesmerizing decor from the sea, is particularly good. The Wala Wala menu is more imaginative than most, the venerable McDonald’s (not of golden arches fame) is reliable and El Cocodril, better known as Chacha’s, is not to be missed, especially for its friendly ambience at sidewalk tables on the plaza.

What is there to do in San Blas? Not a lot. Hang out on the beach during the day, hang out on the plaza or in whatever discos are operating this year at night, attend a weekend travesti, an elegant transvestite musical revue.

San Blas feels no particular need to cater to tourists. Once, when a visiting American suggested to a restaurant owner that he might consider keeping change on hand for customers, he thought it over for a day, then informed the American, “This is San Blas; when people come here they should bring change.”

Playas Hermosa and El Borrego are the town’s main beaches, two adjoining strands of silvery gray sand that extend for about a mile and a half from the foot of Calle Heróico Batallón de San Blas. Borrego, at the west end, has numerous open air restaurants (ramadas) serving seafood snacks and meals. Hermosa is at the left as you face the bay and ends at an estuary which separates it from Playa Las Islitas. The derelict Hotel Playa Hermosa, home to myriad fruit bats and the occasional reclusive visitor, is just before the estuary. Camping at this end of the beach, or visiting it alone, are not recommended. There have been robberies here. Close-in Playa Borrego is perfectly safe. Plan to leave the beach approximately an hour before sundown (about 5:30 p.m. in the winter months), when the mosquitoes and jejenes become active.

Nearby Las Islitas on Matanchen Bay has long, gentle waves ideal for extended surfing, which in the protected, curving bay, often the anchorage for visiting yachts. There are several ramadas along the beach serving food and drinks. Some charge a small fee for parking and use of tables when visitors bring their own picnics. The most-frequented section of beach ends at a rocky point topped by an occupied house and a cross. Beyond this is a very secluded beach, tempting to nude sunbathers. Avoid the temptation. Nudity is not allowed, and you could be arrested. Jejenes are even more fierce here than on the other beaches, particularly on overcast days, although brilliant sunshine often doesn’t deter them.

Playa del Rey and the Huichol sacred island lie across an estuary from the customs house. This is not really an island, but the tip of a peninsula, and the southern end of the Marisma Nacional, or National Swamp, which ends just south of Mazatlán. Hire a panga at the boat dock to take you across, then walk across to the ocean and deserted beach. There are sometimes oyster divers here, rarely tourists. The boatman will come back to pick you up at a pre-arranged time. No shelter, no facilities.

The Huichol Indians, based in the remote hill towns, use the island for ceremonies, consigning their prayer arrows and God’s Eyes to the water in appeals to the sea goddess Amara. You might see some of them floating in the water. Please leave them there. The Huichol are a familiar, and colorful, sight around town, the men in their embroidered muslin suits and plumed hats, the women in bright print outfits.

The main tourist attraction is the La Tovara Springs trip, an approximate three-hour guided boat trip through the estuary and mangrove swamps to a natural pool at La Tovara Spring, where you can swim, possibly in the company of an allegedly tame crocodile. There is a restaurant at the spring. Sunrise is the best time to see birds and animals along the way. The trip leaves from El Conchal, at the entrance to town (Guadalupe Victoria crossroads) or from Matanchen. The Matanchen trip is about one hour shorter and costs about $15 USD per boat. From El Conchal the cost is about $20. Boats carry 4-6 people. To hire a boatman, go to one of the launching points and arrange a time for the trip, or call in advance. Javier at the phone store a block north of the plaza can help you with calls — he knows the boatmen who have phones and their numbers. It is customary to buy the boatman a meal during your stop at the spring.

In nearly three years of San Blas residency (don’t ask why, I don’t know, probably sheer laziness) I spent a fair amount of time as a volunteer at the tourist office and learned that, despite its bugs and lack of amenities, the town makes a good base for exploring. Here are some possibilities.

Isla Isabel

Several local fishermen offer a two-day two-night trip to this marine and avian sanctuary with its excellent snorkeling. The cost is about $400 USD, for four people. Visitors bring their own food and staples, the boat captain supplies 50 gallons of purified water, and the party fishes for food. There is a primitive camp.

The island is 42 nautical miles (48.3 statute miles) offshore and is of volcanic origin. There are two beaches, Los Pescadores and Las Monas. The principal attraction is the fauna and marine birds, which include blue-footed and yellow-footed boobies, pelicans, swallows and sea gulls. Isla Isabel is one of the main nesting areas in the Pacific Ocean. Parakeets and sea swallows use the island for breeding from September to November. There are also some shore birds, including egrets and hummingbirds.

The island became a national park in December, 1980, and is maintained as an ecological preserve by the federal and state governments.

The University of Mexico has a research station here for studying whales, crabs and birds.

Villa Hidalgo

Commercial center of the agricultural area east of San Blas, large market with nice selection of brown pottery, very good food stalls. Frequent buses. Trip goes through shrimp beds.

Santiago Ixcuinta

Another market town, across the river from Villa Hidalgo. A bridge is usually open during the winter, otherwise, you must drive or take the bus up to Hwy. 15 and then back to Santiago. Home of Susana Valadez‘s Center for Survival of the Huichol Indians. Drop-in visitors are discouraged, but those planning to buy large amounts of artworks, or who wish to volunteer to work (mostly on Indian health problems) may contact Susana for an appointment; the Center’s artwork is available at the Galeria Tanana in Sayulita, (329) 291-3889.

Tepic

The capital of the state of Nayarit, Tepic boasts a regional museum, cathedral, two large markets, bullring, supermarkets (Comercial Mexicana and Ley, which is owned by Safeway) with lots of U.S. products. Several nice restaurants. Major bus terminal for long-distance trips. Trains run daily from here to Nogales-Mexicali and to Mexico City. Regional airport. Frequent buses.

Aticama-Los Cocos-Manzanilla-Miramar-Santa Cruz-El Llano

Small beach towns south of San Blas. Los Cocos has a very nice moderately priced hotel and restaurant, Casa Manzana. Manzanilla has an RV park and apartments (expensive) on an ocean bluff; excellent small restaurant. Miramar is little more than a collection of seafood restaurants fronting on the beach and fishing boats — beautiful view. Santa Cruz is a small, pretty, town with bungalows for rent, and the site of a shrimp hatchery, operated by a consortium of Mexican, American and Thai businessmen. Frequent buses. El Llano is a very small town, start of the scenic coastal road to Las Varas and Puerto Vallarta.

Jalcocotan

Small town about midway between Santa Cruz and Tepic, on Highway 66. Roasted coffee beans and ground coffee from nearby plantations sold at stores in the center of town.

El Salto (Cola de Caballo)

A group of waterfalls, three small and one large (more than 45 feet high), and a natural pool for swimming and diving, reached by hiking (about an hour) through tropical jungle and two old railway tunnels, built for a planned railway to San Blas that was never finished. The area abounds in tropical vegetation and fauna, including raccoons, deer, coatimundi, and partridges. Ask about a guide in San Blas, Santa Cruz or El Cora.

Platanitos

An idyllic curved beach with fine gray sand, fringed by palms. South of Santa Cruz. Fish restaurants are open from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.

Balneario Nuevo Chapultepec

Up Highway 66 from Santa Cruz crossroads. Frigid swimming pool with slide, facilities for cooking your own fish or carne asada, waterfalls on the hill above. Small fee for table rental. Mobbed with families on holidays and weekends.

Mecatan

North of Hwy. 66, small hill town with pretty topiary shrubs around the plaza. According to the official state guidebook, there are petroglyphs of spirals, curved lines and circles symbolizing the movement of a hurricane, carved in eight basalt rocks near town. Ask for directions in the village — you might have better luck than I did on the day an interested schoolteacher said be sure to let him know if I ever found the rocks.

El Mamey

Natural rock pools in basalt rock, 5 km. west of Mecatan. Tables, benches and grills for picnics.

Chacalilla

Undeveloped archaeological zone, about 5 miles up a rough rock road from the road between San Blas and Guadalupe Victoria. A few fragments of rock beads and carvings may be found, but the area has been vandalized. The farming village of Chacalilla has a small store carrying soft drinks and snacks, but no tourist services.

Singayta

Village on Hwy. 54 from San Blas, start of rough dirt road to a choice area for viewing birds. Four-wheel drive recommended. Easy hiking required for a couple of miles.

Published or Updated on: May 1, 1997 by Sophie Annan Jensen © 1997

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The mangrove swamps of Mexico’s Pacific Coast shelter a seldom-visited jewel of a day-trip destination.

Legend has it that the man-made island city of Mexcaltitan, was Aztlan, the ancient home of the Aztecs, and that it was here a priest had a vision of an eagle perched on a nopal cactus, eating a serpent, which he interpreted as orders for the Aztecs to head south. By 1325 they had settled in Tenochtitlan, now Mexico City, nearly 700 miles to the southeast. Mexcaltitan may or may not be Aztlan, or the “cradle of Mexico,” as it likes to call itself. The town’s other favorite nickname is “the Venice of Mexico,” which is stretching it a bit, although summer floods and rains do turn the streets into canals, and force the inhabitants to build their sidewalks two to three feet above street level.

On my last visit, I still had one foot in the boat, which had brought us over from a mainland dock with a load of supplies, and the other on the swaying dock, when the first friendly native approached, offering a guided tour.

It wasn’t a first visit, so I knew one hardly needed a guide to the tiny island city. We thanked our would-be guide warmly and gave him enough pesos to buy a beer (clearly not his first of the day), then set off for the main plaza, past a couple of open-air restaurants where groups of men lounged with their late-morning beer and snacks. Along the four blocks to the plaza, I fended off more willing guides with an authoritative wag of my forefinger, a Mexican gesture that stops any unwanted activity dead in its tracks.

On this late winter day the streets were dry, and we elected to walk in them, avoiding the climb up and down at every intersection, and leaving the sidewalks to trays of drying shrimp and prowling cats.

The town is laid out like a wheel, with the plaza at the hub, with the church of Saints Peter and Paul on one corner, a tiny but choice museum diagonally across. In the center is a lacy wrought-iron gazebo and, to one side, a statue my companion dubbed “the sexiest Madonna in Mexico.” Unlike the better-known sexy Madonna, this one is white plaster; on her rounded hip she holds a chubby infant who tugs at her flimsy sculpted gown. Both mother and child are so animated, so saucy, one wonders what silver-tongued artist talked the town into accepting them. Perhaps they’re a relic of Mexcaltitan’s pagan days, when it’s said to have been a center for moon worship.

Inside the church, the mood is typically solemn despite the swallows that dart among the eaves. Wax statues of Christ and saints with somber expressions on their pale faces stare from glass cases. In a room to the side of the altar is a crucified Christ with long black hair blowing in the breeze. Saints Peter and Paul come out on July 25 and 26 and are treated to a boat race around the island during the celebration of its patron saints’ days.

In the museum, island history is traced from the earliest inhabitants, about 4,000 years B.C., to the present, in dioramas, photos, paintings and exhibits of local flora and fauna. The displays do not include the explanation of the Aztecs’ departure, which author Gary Jennings relates in his often-bloody, often-hilarious, novel Aztec. There, a visitor wonders why the Aztecs left such a beautiful, fertile land and the mayor informs him they had no choice: The town kicked out “those bloodthirsty savages.”

Mexcaltitan’s 1,300 inhabitants, like those of most Mexican villagers, live in concrete block houses, some stuccoed, some not, which make a solid wall along the sidewalks. As we walked towards the far side of the island, open doors revealed an occasional courtyard brimming with tropical plants and the day’s laundry, high-backed chairs surrounding baronial-size dining tables, and many front rooms crowded with beds.

A perimeter street circles the island. Here we spotted a nameless hotel and asked to see the rooms. All six were simple but immaculate and airy; most had views of the water and a luxuriant back garden blazing with orange and magenta bougainvillea. Rooms offered accommodations for two to six people If I had a reason to spend the night in Mexcaltitan, I wouldn’t hesitate to stay there. The owner told us he hadn’t been full, except for the Saint Peter and Paul celebrations, since the eclipse of July, 1991, when observers converged from around the world, filling not just his hotel but the many new rooms built in private homes just for the eclipse.

Another three blocks or so along the street, we found the restaurant open (not always the case) and vibrating with activity. A big Mexican party, which we took to be a family of three or maybe even four generations, occupied the center of the open-air dining room. A boom box at the bar to one side filled the air with dance music, and the floor with dancers: young couples, old couples, little boys with grandmothers, little girls with grandfathers, little girls with other little girls.

Outside, long-necked olive cormorants dove and surfaced with a gleaming mouthful of wriggling fish. Our view across the water was to another island, where humble houses of palm thatch and sticks teetered on the beach.

Salt-water breezes competed for our attention with rich food aromas, frying fish and hearty soup dominating. We ordered a local specialty, soup with shrimp meatballs to start, and fish (meaty robalo, or sea bass, that day) in garlic butter to follow. One or the other would have been plenty.

Mexcaltitan is in the heart of Mexico’s Marisma Nacional, or National Swamp, about midway between Teacapan (just south of Mazatlán) in the north and San Blas in the south. In its southern reaches the swamp is movie-bayou country, thick with mangroves, exotic birds, alligators and turtles. Towards the north it thins out and becomes marshland. Throughout, it’s a fertile breeding ground for shrimp, oysters and fish, succulent raw materials for talented cooks.

During lulls in the music, we fell into conversation with a man at the next table, a native of Mexcaltitan, who now lives in California’s Central Valley. “They don’t get a lot of foreign tourists here,” he told us, adding that it’s a popular day-trip for residents of nearby towns, especially on Sundays, when todo México heads for the nearest coast and a long afternoon’s feast. Many of the residents, he said, have never left the island, content to pass their lives in tropical peace and ignore the outside world.

Well, not quite, we discovered as we walked back to the dock in late afternoon. Except for the cats, staring at the drying shrimp, the streets were deserted. And they would have been silent, but from nearly every home reverberated the current telenovela, the soap operas with endings which have captivated Mexico’s housewives, saturating the ancient village with sounds of distant melodrama.

Practical matters

Getting there:

Approximately 200 kilometers south of Mazatlán, turn west from Hwy. 15 to Santiago Ixcuintla; about 5 miles from the highway. Drive through the town and another 6 miles to El Carrizo, where the road turns northwest for 6 miles through Sentispac, and becomes a good graded road for 10 miles to La Batanga, the boat landing. Fare to the island by motor launch (about 20 minutes) or dugout canoe (an hour or more) is negotiable. Buses run to La Batanga from Santiago Ixcuintla; schedules and fares change frequently. Alternatives are to hire a taxi in Santiago Ixcuintla or to make the trip by boat (open panga) from Teacapan, approximately a four-hour trip, and plan to spend the night on the island.

Where to stay and eat:

Island restaurants and the one hotel are nameless and have no telephones.

More information:

José de Jesús (Pepe) Morales or Carol Snobel, Hotel Denisse, Teacapan, Sinaloa, telephone (from U.S.) 011-52-695-954 5049.

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Cogan’s Reviews

I’m not sure why I haven’t reviewed this book, currently in its 3rd edition, sooner. It’s been around since 1993 and it was one of the first books my wife and I read when we arrived here in Ajijic eight years ago. And – heaven knows! – I’ve reviewed more than 60 books about this fascinating country in the past few years. Anyway, this useful volume is back in a new and updated edition and it’s still as essential as ever. Whether you’re making a brief visit as a tourist, or escaping the northern winter for a few months or checking out the area more extensively as a place to spend one’s retirement years, this is one item you should have in your survival kit. It’s a nice blend of guidebook, travelogue and history text with lots of local color and some ecological notes sprinkled throughout.

Re-reading it brings back a host of good memories. I’d forgotten, for instance, Santa Maria del Oro and the impromptu New Year’s party we were invited to in the campsite there in 1994 when we visited the area – as a result of reading this book. And then there’s the lovely drive up the flower-covered slopes to Mazamitla in September and October. Also, my wife says I shouldn’t forget to mention the restaurant that Burton recommends on page 158 – the Camino Real just outside Pátzcuaro. (Cecilia never forgets a good comida.) The restaurant is located in an unlikely place, next to a gas station. But Burton’s book is like that – well researched and he’s obviously checked out all these places before writing about them. Lots of other memories flooded back as a result of a rereading.

The book covers eight distinct areas of Western Mexico in the States of Jalisco, Colima and Michoacan. Reading it leaves you wondering if there’s any country anywhere that’s offers so much variety in such a relatively small geographic area. Altitudes range from sea level to 12,600 feet, which is the peak of Tancítaro, the highest peak in Michoacan. That’s almost 2-1/2 miles straight up! The terrain includes desert, cloud forest, ocean beaches, picturesque villages, swampland, mountain ranges, tropical jungle and several cities, including, of course, one huge metropolis….Guadalajara. Also, we have volcanoes. I don’t know the precise number but there are obviously lots of them. And some are still active. As I write this, in February 2002, our local community newspaper, The Reporter, features a front page story on a volcano very close to Colima which is spewing out lava and causing the evacuation of several villages.

Guadalajara receives little mention because Burton is obviously more interested in getting into the hinterlands and exploring everything that’s out there. Be warned that it’s very much a book that’s geared to driving although the author provides maps and clear directions on how to reach the offbeat places he describes.

I know that there are lots of buses in Mexico and the first class ones are really first class. But this volume is also concerned with getting you down side roads and visiting places you might otherwise miss. Along the way you pick up all sorts of information on the various specialties offered in each community – whether it be equipale furniture, quilts, ceramic tiles, straw goods, woollen sweaters, guitars, pottery, toys or whatever. And you’re also given useful information on accommodations and restaurants and Feast Days and other occasions that might tickle your fancy.

History isn’t neglected either. People have been living in this area for thousands of years and there’s evidence everywhere regarding these former inhabitants and their societies. The author covers them with colorful accounts that enhance your explorations or are simply interesting to read, not just about the various Indian tribes that inhabited the area but also about the coming of the Conquistadors and the profound effect they had on every aspect of life here.

Burton is obviously interested in the geological and ecological history of this part of the world. He provides accounts on topics such as how Lake Chapala was formed and why there are so many of those troublesome volcanoes still around.

The book also contains some 30 or so short highlighted passages that cover various relevant subjects. For example half-page sidebars discuss topics like “Why There is Such an Astonishing Variety of Flora Here”, or “The Production of Tequila”, or “The Volcán de Fuego”, a brief look at Mexico’s most active volcano.

The book is illustrated throughout with drawings by Mark Eager. There are about three dozen of them, bringing the overall story even more to life. Maps are also provided for all the areas Burton explores and the driving routes he’s recommending.

In my humble O: It’s a volume that just makes you want to git up and go. Now then – where on earth did I leave those car keys….?

This review (2001) was of the 3rd edition.

REVIEW OF THE EXPANDED AND UPDATED 4th EDITION.

Western Mexico: A Traveler’s Treasury, 4th edition
By Tony Burton
Sombrero Books, 2013
Available from Amazon Books: Paperback

Published or Updated on: February 15, 2001 by Alan Cogan © 2008

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Cogan’s Reviews

In a Village Far From Home: My Life Among the Cora Indians of the Sierra Madre
By Catherine Palmer Finerty

University of Arizona Press Paperback, 2000

Available from Amazon Books: Paperback

I borrowed this book from a friend who borrowed it from a friend. And when I was finished I immediately started recommending it to other friends. It’s that kind of a book. I guess well-written personal adventure stories have that effect on us – and this is a good example of the genre.

Catherine Finerty seems a rather unlikely person to have written a first-person account of the eight years she spent in a primitive Indian village in Mexico. She had previously spent all her working life in Manhattan as advertising manager with Helena Rubenstein, vice president of an ad agency, beauty editor of a popular fashion magazine and copy-group head of a well-known New York ad agency. She quit her career shortly after the death of her husband but none of the more usual retirement locations in the U.S. appealed to her. Still in her early 60s, the challenge of Mexico seemed more attractive so she drove to Guadalajara to live. She felt that learning Spanish and possibly teaching English would help fill her time.

While living in Guadalajara, Ms. Finerty became acquainted with some Franciscan priests and also with some Huichol Indians who were associated with the Franciscans. Eventually she was invited to visit a Huichol village about a thirty minute flight from Tepic, high in the Sierras in Western Mexico. The only other way to reach this community — Jesús María — was by taking an eight day mule ride. The village wasn’t even marked on the map.

It was also the kind of place with no running water or electricity and more than its share of disease, unbearable heat and bugs. One slept on boards raised up on rocks or gasoline containers. Clothing was washed in the local stream.

There was a government Health Center in Jesús María that housed a medical school graduate who was doing a required year of social service before starting his career. There was also a permanent male nurse. Ms. Finerty became associated with the clinic and soon found herself boiling hypodermic syringes, massaging swollen knees with peyote and alcohol and cleaning and bandaging wounds. She admits to a predisposition to medical practise so that little by little she found herself enlarging her scope of activities until she was giving shots, dispensing antibiotics, treating diseases such as dysentery and typhoid. Then, in one particular month, she found herself the only médico in the town — not just Jesús María but the surrounding area, too. She describes it as “a month of suppressed terror”.

“On the wall of the clinic, ” she says, “I pasted a chart I had prepared from the book a doctor had prescribed. It showed the symptoms of simple diarrhea, salmonellosis, shigellosis, amoebiosis and typhoid fever. It also showed the remedies for each, milligrams of medicine to kilograms of body weight.”

She relied on these charts and the medicines that were available and, as she says: “Not a single baby died, nor any child or grown-up. I was hooked.”

She obviously found her role personally fulfilling because later she writes: “It isn’t every day that a person past retirement age gets a chance to take care of the sick and hurt and see them get well.”

I shouldn’t give the impression that Ms. Finerty’s book is only about medical practices and the treatment of illnesses. We are also given exact and loving descriptions of rites and ceremonies at Easter and Christmas and the Day of the Dead, as well as birthdays, weddings and the special coming-of-age ceremonies that fifteen year old girls celebrate in Mexico. Because of the background all are unusual mixtures of Christian and Indian approaches to these festive occasions. It’s interesting to see the ways in which two wholly different sets of beliefs have somehow become molded to each other. And they are all are observed keenly by Ms Finerty. She became completely accepted by the Indians in all the villages where she served and her story provides numerous anecdotes about her relationships with the people, who she definitely came to love.

“Somebody should write a book about this place,” she observes at one point.

“There can’t be another like it on the map.” She mentions taking her typewriter with her whenever she travelled far and one wonders if writing a book wasn’t in her mind when she went to Jesús María in the first place. Anyway, rest assured the book has finally been written and this is it.

In my humble O: Good one! Buy a copy. Then pass it on to a friend.

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Westwords

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Westwords

Artist James Vitale, owner and operator of El Encanto, a boutique eco-hotel or maybe a healing place or perhaps a vibrant retreat for creativity and education, came onto his verandah to say “Good morning, Mexico.”

Living in peace and tranquility in the pueblo of Santa Cruz de Miramar, between San Blas and Tepic in the state of Nayarit, Jim had come to expect the sunrise over his shoulder, frigate birds in the amapa tree, the surrounding cluster of beautiful plants and flowers and the silver shine on the passive Pacific ocean.

What he saw was a shocking encroachment. There was a bulldozer on the beach!

Vitale is really big on environmental integrity. He treats his seven acres and those around him with utmost respect. He cherishes the remnants of indigenous cultures. He strives for harmony with nature. There is no scrapheap at his house. Even lovely mango peelings go into the compost pile. Jim recycles wine bottles and broken tile into what may be modern art.

The bulldozer caught him off guard.

“What the hell is that doing here?”

The state government and maybe the feds were playing a game. The powers that be had decided to pour all the pesos from a civilization grant into a sewer-treatment plant. For that, they needed a sewer line. And for that, they needed the bulldozer.

Vitale was ticked. There had been no clue this was coming, not even a warning whisper. Focus groups? Are you kidding? Environmental impact study? What a joke!

Politicians and contractors got together and almost wore out the ink pad with stamps of approval.

For those who have missed this treat, El Encanto is a little slice of paradise, an old estate rescued from ruin and retooled into oceanfront rustic rooms. On the other side of a private road are jungle apartments in a hideout of palm trees. From the oceanfront row, you can see such delightful sights as fishermen far out in little boats and pelicans parked on leftover posts from an old pier. From the mirador, you can see forever.

On this fateful morning, all Vitale could see was that blasted bulldozer.

The artist became a researcher. He asked many questions. Maybe he raised his voice and waved his arms. He learned about a government development plan which talked of ecotourism but was actually based on money. Would any virgin beach survive or would Santa Cruz de Miramar become all jet skiis and water slides?

Like it or not, the government built that waste-treatment plant smack in El Encanto’s front yard. Hideous electric lines were stretched across El Encanto’s magnificent view.

“What they built was a non-functioning monstrosity,” said Vitale. “Four families hooked up to the sewer line. The machinery has never operated properly. Medium-sized waves lap over into the holding pool. There is the forever promise that the first big storm will contaminate the bay.”

Vitale, with eyes trained to see beauty and a nose for natural perfume, knows this ain’t it.

“Now and then we get a puff of raw sewage. There was one eruption at a main intersection in Santa Cruz.”

The government reacted in typical government fashion: “Live with it. This is progress.”

Vitale launched a counterattack. He set out banana trees to hide the unsightly concrete structure. He added fragrant flowers. He developed an organic garden to attract hummingbirds and produce food, herbs and medicinal plants. He became an even better good neighbor, raising funds for community projects and promoting a bilingual library. He found happiness all around.

El Encanto has roots. It was thought to be a pre-Columbian settlement. It became part of a hacienda built by Germans in the 1800s. They were going to process honey and produce coconut soap for export to Europe. The Germans moved on at the start of World War II. In 1951, the governor of Nayarit bought most of the tract as his very own playground. His family sold the remains in the 1970s.

Vitale found it in 1987 and started the transformation with his own hands and a rare Mexican loan. When he ran short of money, he went home to Seattle and painted.

“Houses,” said Vitale, “not pictures.”

Vitale really is an artist. He’s had one-man shows in Seattle and Puerto Vallarta. He’s won awards for creating art from recycled junk. Samples of artistic tinkering are all about El Encanto.

Jim thinks outside the proverbial box. He offers exotic workshops, including tile art, mask-making, costume design and “deeply soothing yoga from the rooftop terrace overlooking the ocean.”

He even encourages guests with artistic inclinations to work collectively on a mosaic garden sculpture. We skipped that part.

Vitale seems grateful for guests. He allows them to pay a few extra dollars in exchange for that warm, fuzzy feeling of fitting in, avoiding conflict with nature and resenting intrusive bulldozers.

Published or Updated on: November 1, 2007 by Marvin West © 2007

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