Beach Bungalow

We left Patzcuaro in search of a warmer climate. While driving down, from an altitude of two thousand meters to the Pacific coast, we could feel the temperature rise. On reaching the coast we left the highway and took the narrow road to Playa Azul, a fishing village and a local beach destination. The road ends on the sand where we parked, got on the beach, and stood barefoot to absorb the sun, the sound of the waves and the sea breeze. Close by, a group of women were sitting under a palm roof, around tables set on the sand. They were singing along with the Mariachi band that was serenading them. When they saw us, they beaconed, beer bottles in hand, for us to join their fiesta. They were a mother, two daughters (one of them an ex-model), and grand kids, all enjoying an outing from Morelia. Beer bottles were delivered by the bucket, and a couple of hours later, we were rested, quenched, and happy (except for the ex-model who was getting close to tears.) We excused ourselves, promised to visit them in Morelia, and walked along the beach looking for a place to sleep.

Choices made while intoxicated do not always turn out well, so the next morning we drove around the village looking for more comfortable lodgings, this time with hot water. Near the edge of the village, our brick, two-storied bungalow stood out from the adjoining tin-roofed shacks and huts. It was situated right on the beach, with only a small patch of lawn separating the house from the high-tide line. From the front porch we had a panoramic view of the beach that extended for miles in both directions. The picnic table and chairs on the lawn inspired visions of a leisurely beach life. The second floor too had a balcony, with a hammock strung between the pillars. Even our baby, as we started calling the pickup, had a cozy driveway, secured by a metal gate. The interior was less appealing. The two rooms (one on each floor), the tiny kitchen, and the bathroom were all in dire need of maintenance and cleaning. The electric range was so rusty that one element was dangling for lack of supporting structure. However, the shower had an electric heating head, and the sheets were fresh. We took it. By the time we realized that the hot water will never work and the old wooden-floored cabin will never be really clean, we were enjoying the beach too much to move.

In a South-facing shore, the sun both rises and sets in the sea. In the morning, I would greet the sun from the second floor balcony. After a short run and swim, we had breakfast on the lawn. We ate tropical fruit while watching the sand pipers scurry along the undulating line separating sea from sand, and the pelicans diving for fish in the foam of the breaking waves. Soon, the local surfers would begin their elegant dance on water. At sunset, we sipped Tequila cocktails on the porch.

Quickly, we got to know our neighbors. The father, living on our right, walks the beach each morning, a net on his shoulder. At an opportune moment, he wades into the surf, and casts his net. The sardines he catches, feed the whole family. One morning, the sound of the waves was drowned by bird squeals. Hundreds of birds were frantically diving into the surf just in front of our house. The father, who was further up the beach, came running towards the birds. This time, he netted several large Jurel (Yellow Tail Tuna). I selected the largest fish, which his boy cleaned and filleted. The thinly sliced sashimi was tender and tasty, even without wasabi in the soy sauce. I fried the rest of the fish with copious amounts of garlic and butter.

Esasana and her husband, a couple in their thirties, live in the shack to our left. They are part of an effort to save the endangered sea turtles. Each night, flashlight in hand, they scan their assigned segment of the beach for turtle nests. They dig the eggs out of the sand and bury them in their front yard, where they are protected from poachers. Most of the eggs are placed under a palm roof since incubation in the cooler sand produces female turtles. Each morning Esasana collects the hundreds of newly hatched babies, and releases them near the water. The tiny turtles scramble towards the waves on their weak flippers. Some get pushed back by a big wave, and others will get turned over on their backs, but eventually all of them make it to sea. In twelve years, the mature females will return to lay their eggs on this beach. Tourists and youth groups often arrive to witness the release ceremony. They help the weakest of the babies enter the water and watch the tiny heads bobbing in the waves until all the hatchlings disappear in the distance. The contributions help maintain the couple and their project. During the rest of the day, Esasana's husband is hard at work training his fighting cock. The fight is scheduled for Christmas.

Not all of our neighbors were friendly. For example, I never saw, nor could I establish where they came from, yet some insects frequently visited me, leaving red bumps on my skin. The bites are tolerable during the day, but at night they become distractingly itchy. Despite the bloody outcome, it was impossible for me to refrain from scratching. Each day the bite count got higher and the itching worse.

Other neighbors which we have felt but not met, entered the driveway one night, broke our baby's window and leisurely rummaged through the cabin. They took our passports, a card wallet, and the Lonely Planet guide to Mexico. In the morning, the real neighbors were not too surprised. This happened before. The thieves are probably drug addicts living in the village. When we flagged down the Local Police patrol, the commander and his M16-carrying squad were not impressed either. He wrote down the information on a tattered notebook, and sent us to the nearby town to make the official report in the State Police office. While in town, an ingenious carpenter fabricated a wood-laminate structure to replace the broken window. The next day, after six nights on the beach, we left our bungalow, and started the detour to the consulates in Mexico City.