Mexicowoods—An Expatriate Life

A Luncheon in Zacatecas

My friend dined recently at a posh restaurant in Zacatecas. He and his party had been seated where they could observe patrons getting out of their cars and handing their keys to the valet parking attendants.

Four identical black SUVs pulled up. A dozen young men got out, sidearms visible under their jackets, and entered the restaurant.

 

One of them addressed the roomful of diners. "Please do not be frightened. We are just coming in for a meal. We ask you to remain in the restaurant until we leave. No one else is allowed to come in until we are finished. Please, nobody use your cell phones. You can relax and enjoy yourselves as our guests."

Then a smaller group of somewhat older men entered, flanked by bodyguards. They spent a couple of hours quietly eating and drinking. As they left, the spokesman handed a thick wad of cash to the restaurant owner. He announced, " Thank you for your cooperation. I hope everyone enjoyed comida. You can go whenever you want." He left, and the motorcade pulled away.

Yelapa Beach

Our closest beach getaway is Puerto Vallarta, eight hours west of San Miguel de Allende. But PV is not to our taste. Resort hotels insulate visitors from Mexican culture. Beach vendors hit on sunbathers every ten minutes: jewelry, sunglasses, hats, fish-on-a-stick. Forget dozing in the sun.

On the street, ambulatory salesman carrying photo-filled binders offer snorkeling trips that turn out to be come-ons for time-share pitches. Your snorkeling trip won't be free as advertised. You'll have to endure hours of high-pressure selling to pay for it.

And man are those high-rise hotels and condos ugly!

Wouldn't you rather stay here?

The better option lies forty-five minutes south of PV: the tiny fishing village of Yelapa. Here are few phones and no TV. Electricity arrived only a few years ago. Oddly, broadband internet access is available via microwave link from the city.

The way to get here is by water taxi. You can catch one at the pier at the end of the romantic zone in Puerto Vallarta. A rudimentary road exists but nobody takes it; not unless they're delivering a load of bricks. Boats are quicker by a couple of hours and they're much more scenic.

We stayed at the Hotel lagunita, on the north shore of Yelapa's small bay. Low season started on the first of May, bringing with it promotions and deep discounts. Our palapa cost $180 USD for four nights—$45 per night. A local resident told us that May is Yelapa's best-kept secret. Rates are low and the hot weather hasn't yet kicked in.

No road connects the town of Yelapa with the resort area. Instead, the beach serves as a road. People deliver goods in wheelbarrows or on their heads.

Everyday necessities—fresh groceries, beer, coke, gasoline for the boats—all of it arrives via small boat, over the water and across the beach. On delivery day, empty gas cylinders are dragged out onto the sand to await exchange for full ones.

What comes in must go out. Boxes of empty beer bottles and bags of garbage get loaded onto pangas for return to PV.

A desultory fishing industry helps feed Yelapa's 2,000 residents. The fleet contains maybe a couple dozen boats. Most remain moored all day long. Sleepy Yelapa produces more dreams (of whatever kind) than fish.

The tanned guy in dishabille has been free-diving for abalone. He's throwing empty shells back into the water for tourists to step on. His friends are shelling the couple hundred baby mollusks he caught. In California, taking abalone this size can land you in jail.

I asked the guy on the right if I could take a photo of the catch. He replied, "Want some weed?"

 

Around noon every day one or two excursion boats arrive with a load of tourists from PV. Day trippers.

They're ferried to the beach by panga and steered to a couple of restaurants and gift shops that exist solely for the purpose of extracting their dollars. Barkers harangue blinking, disoriented visitors. A guy thrusts a large iguana into unsuspecting arms as he pitches a $10 photo-op. Around three in the afternoon when the boat leaves, all those umbrellas are folded. They get stowed away along with the beach chairs, and the restaurants shut down. Locals don't eat in these places: the food is mediocre and the drinks are overpriced.

Arrival of the tourist boat signals siesta time for us. We retire to our veranda to read, to nap, or just to sit back and take in the peaceful view.

That's what's so nice about a room on the beach. We can retreat while the crowds baste themselves with oil and lie in the sun, ordering yet another Pacifico and shooing away jewelry salesmen.

The other nice thing is that long after they're gone, we go back out on the deserted sand to watch the sunset.

Yelapa used to be an old hippie hangout. People came here for the laid back lifestyle and for the drug scene. A few old hippies remain, hanging on to fading dreams of the counterculture. Their presence ensures good food and good music, yoga sessions and excellent bodywork.

Old-timers complain that the place is becoming popular. They say that expatriates are being priced out of the market for beach houses and forced to move upriver into the jungle. But Yelapa remains a great, inexpensive getaway. Unless (God forbid) a good road gets put in, it's likely to remain that way.

Truth in Advertising

A poster on the fence surrounding the Rosewood Residences building site in San Miguel de Allende provides an impression of how the development will look: upholstered chairs on a terrace overlooking a gently curving street that leads to a view of the Parroquia in the distance.

The photograph below shows what it looks like today.

 

The uppermost spire of the Parroquia can just be made out behind the building on the right.

The Uruguayan Grill

At the top of the Salida a Querétaro between the Hotel Refugio del Molino and the Pemex station, a couple of small shopping centers have sprung up. One—Plaza Primavera—houses several casual restaurants; among them, an Uruguayan grill.

Uruguayans love grilled meat. Life is tough for vegetarians down in the southern cone.

Naturalmente Uruguay Restaurant will not disappoint meat lovers. The menu includes bife de chorizo (a thick steak), asado de tira (a huge, thin steak that blankets the entire plate), even a three-pound chunk of beef—intended for sharing, I think. For appetizers, there are several kinds of sausages, among them morcilla (blood sausage). There's organ meats too, such as mollejas (grilled sweetbreads).

All the food is prepared on a two-part grill. Mesquite logs burn in a U-shaped metal basket. Coals drop onto the bricks. These then are raked under the canted parrilla, where they provide intense heat and smoky flavor.

Good grilling requires lots of heat. Ponytailed owner-chef Alonzo (El Rojo) intensifies his fire with a blowpipe, putting blasts of oxygen right where they're needed.

All that meat would be problematical for Laura and me. We describe ourselves as piscetarians—fish-eating vegetarians. (Laura does better at this than I do. Every other month or so I sneak off to Vicente's for carnitas.) Fortunately the menu at Naturalmente Uruguay Restaurant includes tuna and salmon and even pizza cooked right on the parrilla.

But the real secret to this restaurant is that when Alonzo isn't cooking, he's entertaining the customers. Wearing a gorra (asador's cap) and surgeon's mask, he sings Cuban and Veracruzana songs in a rich, resonant baritone. Here he's imitating the sound of a trombone by humming through pressed-together lips.

He calls his instrument a jarama, and says it was carved from a single piece of cedar with a machete. It carries eight strings in five courses: the top and bottom strings are single, the three inner ones are doubled as in a mandolin. Weird.

With a pair of Indonesian maracas tied to his strumming hand, El Red draws bouncy rhythms from his jarama—and smiles from his audience.

Hospedaje en Salvatierra

I've been reading Jeff Greenwald's backpacker book The Size of the World and longing for the simple kind of travel of my younger days. Sleeping in plastic tourist-class hotels, schlepping through airports—there's no romance in that. I recall last year's excursion to Jodhpur by train—second class, no air conditioning, sharing tiffin with Indian families. Man, that's real travel.

Laura and I are planning a bus trip to Tulum with a long detour through the state of Veracruz. We're going to carry our backpacks and stay in modest hotels. For a foretaste of traveling like this in Mexico, we made an overnight trip to Salvatierra.

On a previous visit, the appearance of the Hotel Isabel made a favorable impression on me. The colorful courtyard restaurant hinted at appealing rooms beyond.

The hotel features are listed in a brochure headed with a notice that the place is under "new management." "Under new management" means "it's better than it used to be" —never a strong slogan.

A list of features include:

• Swimming Pool
• Gym
• Laundry
• Hot Water (!)
• Garden Area.
• Internet
• Big Screen TVs

... and best of all, international cuisine in that lovely restaurant. All this for $420 pesos—$32 US.

Of course, at that price it was too good to be true. The clerk showed us cramped, dark and dingy rooms—nothing like the recamera pictured in the brochure. We upgraded to a four-bedroom suite for $590 pesos. Inquiring about dinner, the clerk told us the restaurant would not be serving international cuisine that night. In fact, they no longer served dinner at all. But we were welcome to come down to breakfast at eight Sunday morning.

Hotel Isabel tested my resolve for minimalist travel. We bedded down between sheets studded with fuzzy black lint, trying to ignore the occasional thick black hairs and the red spider mites. (Note to self: inspect beds before booking, and bring sleep sacks for backup.) A midnight trip to the bathroom sent the resident cockroach skittering.

To our good fortune we weren't hoping to watch fútbol on the big screen.

There is a television in the room. You can just make it out on the left.

We woke up scratching tiny red bites—spider mites? Badly needing showers, we discovered—no hot water. Not even a trickle. The open tap emitted a dry, gurgling sound.

We had no intention of sampling breakfast. Quick learners, we realized that eating at the Isabel risked introducing unwanted life forms to our insides, much as they already had been to our outsides. Just as well: No staff awaited us in the dining room, nor were any patrons seated there. (Another traveler's note: If you're the only patrons in a restaurant, ask yourself why.)

How could we resolve the brochure's claims with our experience. Perhaps we had failed to read the fine print. It was posted right there in our room, complete with lots of official stamps.

Unfortunately, ours was an unreadable fifth-generation photocopy mounted upside-down in its frame. But I bet it included something to the effect that hot water was available only between 10 AM and 8 PM.

Located a block away, the Hotel San Andrés might have been a better bet.

From appearances, their accommodations are rudimentary. But they advertise 24-hour hot water. That the San Andrés makes a point of this suggests a need to inquire when sizing up small Mexican hotels.

Like the sign says, "attention, cleanliness and comfort." We were looking for nothing more.

Apparently we need to sharpen our backpacking skills. But we are in no way discouraged. Coping with problems and enduring difficult situations are part of travel. Jeff Greenwald writes about sailing from Dubai to Karachi on a small freighter that got lost and almost ran out of food and fuel.

All we ran out of was hot water.

A Bit of India Comes to Mexico

People come to San Miguel de Allende for the “year-round spring-like climate” touted in brochures, for the colonial architecture, or to join the community of artists and intellectuals who already live here. No place in Mexico is easier on immigrants. In fact, many would say that coming to live here isn’t really coming to live in Mexico at all. Five thousand native English speakers and thousands more ESL Mexicanos make learning Spanish unnecessary. Some call San Miguel de Allende “Mexico Lite.”

Personally, I’d rather plunge into Mexican life, speaking bad but improving Spanish, attending bautizas and quinceaneras, reading Juan Rulfo.

At least one person has come here to find—not Mexico—but India. Chicago transplant Brett is consummating her love of the subcontinent by building her little bit of India: Shanti.

Driving out the Doctor Mora Road, I knew I was nearing Shanti when I ran across a cantera Ganesh meditating in front of a nopal.

Shanti is a day spa, an oasis where visitors can seek respite from the social and cultural whirl of San Miguel.

An alcove beside the pool offers games and books.

A shaded rooftop invites meditation or scrabble, your pick. Yoga classes are held two mornings a week. Two rooms contain carved Indian massage tables. A small shop offers Indian fabrics and art.

Water flowing in a small garden provides welcome contrast to the arid semi-desert of the surrounding Bahio.

A friend invited us to meet with her for a late Sunday lunch at Masala, Shanti’s Indian restaurant. I was pleasantly surprised to find good, authentic Indian cuisine in Mexico—aloo korma, channa masala, thali, garlic naan. The day I visited, the banana-cardamom lassie wasn’t available—a minor disappointment. To compensate, I imbibed two mango lassies.

Brett says “I’m all about India.” Unable to make a life in India, she brought the feel of India to Mexico: the mountain to Mohammed.

It’s said that people come to San Miguel to reinvent themselves. The place exudes an energy that enables some—among them Brett—to turn their dreams into reality.

Comments:

I can only imagine what Richard is going to do with this. The Bengal Gang?
Steve Cotton | Homepage | 07.14.09 - 10:35 pm | #

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Beautiful place. It relaxes me just looking at your pictures. San Miguel never ceases to amaze me.
Rick | 07.15.09 - 1:56 pm |

A Strolling Garden

The first type of traditional Japanese garden we visited was a Viewing Garden (posted on 5/14/06). A few days later, we visited the other type—a Strolling Garden, at a Buddhist Temple. The entrance to this temple featured the usual Torii Gate.

The temple contained a shrine, which we briefly viewed.




But the shrine was not the attraction. We spent nearly a half day looking at the garden, and could have spent even more time there.

As you might expect, a Strolling Garden also can function as a Viewing Garden.




This window and the garden beyond were created as part of a single design, so that the esthetic pleasure of the view would be optimized. But strolling gardens include paths, so people can get out into them and explore.




Gravel paths and stone stairs lead through maples and azaleas. Occasional benches facilitate stopping along the way, to rest or to spend time in viewing and contemplation.




Covered walkways permit visiting even on rainy days. The construction of this one is a masterful expression of the Japanese temple builders' art.




Nothing seems more natural than a Japanese garden. Yet nothing could be more contrived. Here a gardener is sweeping up those pesky azalea blossoms.




She wears an old-fashioned but practical bonnet with traditional top and not-so-traditional jeans. She holds her handmade whisk broom with her Yokohama Rubber Company, Ltd. gloves. Drat! Those flowers sure are messy!

This fence design is hundreds of years old. In modern Japan, with its high wages, to make them must be very expensive.




But it's oh so worth it.

Paths permit a close-up inspection of objects that can only be seen from a distance in a Viewing Garden.




This incredible place has so much more to show. For additional pictures and notes, check out this flickr photoset.