Eat, Dance, Swim, Acapulco

"Acapulco is very touristy.  You will not like it"
That was Kobi's verdict after his journey along the Pacific coast of Mexico.  I trust Kobi's judgement.  However, when our dance academy organized a trip to a Danzon convention there, Adi and I joined the group.

After spending most of the night  and some of the morning, in a small bus, we reached the congested streets of  Acapulco.  I crossed the busy avenue that separated our hotel from the beach, and stepped on the sand.  In front of me , the inviting blue bay was at the center of three concentric rings.  The white sands that curved around me, a tight semi-circle of high-rise hotels, and the steep green hills that accommodate the city's neighborhoods.  I immediately erased the hotels from my vision, and focused on the beach, which despite guide-book warnings, was less crowded than the one in Tel-Aviv.  A white-uniformed waiter approached with a menu in hand.  However, my mind was set on the water.  When I emerged, wet and grinning, the waiter was there.  He assured me that the red snapper was freshly caught.
"My name is Agustin." he said pointing to the badge on his chest,  "Ask for me."

1
In the late afternoon, Agustin arranged a table near the water, and served us a Coco Loco.  I went for a swim, then joined him in the kitchen to choose our fish.  The sun set as we leisurely sipped our cocktail, admired the beach, and discussed the advantages of low expectations.  Suddenly, I remembered the Mexican taste for over-cooked food.  I rushed to the kitchen and found the fish sizzling in the frying pan.  The cook, a skeptical expression on her face, consented to extract it from the hot oil.  I held my breath while cutting under the deeply tanned skin.  We were lucky.  A few more minutes, and the fish would have been on the other side of well-done.  After twenty-four hours without a meal, we devoured it down to the white bones.

The next evening, Agustin greeted us like old friends.  We ordered the red snapper again.
"Please explain to the cook," I told him, "that I like the meat wet, and ask her to fry it less than yesterday."
The result was deliciously crisp outside, and moist inside.  We were happy, full, and ready to shine in the Danzon Gala.

On the third and final day, we came for lunch.  We resisted the first impulse, and ordered shrimp.
"Remember yesterday's fish?" I asked Agustin, "It was good, but please, cook the shrimp even less."
The plump shrimp arrived soft, juicy, and sweet.  I am sure the cook thought she was serving cannibals.

2
The main event of the convention was held in a fancy hotel, on a balcony, perched on a cliff, overlooking the bay.  Warm air, stars above, and a twelve-piece orchestra, made this an elegant Cinderella ball.  I could have danced all night, and I did.  Never before did I feel so light and smooth.  I was relaxed, I was smiling, and not even once did I look at my feet.  Fireworks illuminated the sky as Adi and I celebrated our graduation from novice status.  We were the only foreigners in the ball, and we attracted much attention.  A handsome dance instructor, which we addressed as "Maestro", involved us in a little game.  He would glide next to us with one of the seven women he hosted at his table, and without a breaking his rhythm, he would swap his partner with mine.  I did not object, since this was a good opportunity to improve my skill in leading, but I think he got the better deal.

3
At the same time that I encountered Danzon, I began teaching myself to swim freestyle.  I was eager to swim in Acapulco Bay, and I was sure that whatever pollution it may contain, cannot be worse than our over-chlorinated pool.  The narrow entrance to the bay blocks the pacific waves that pound Mazunte, and keeps the sea shiny smooth, with only small ripples generated by the light breeze.  I plunged in, and to my delight, the temperature was perfect.  I knew then, that no matter what happens in the Danzon events, I will enjoy swimming here.  Each day, I increased the swim distance.  As my final objective, I chose an island which was far enough to be challenging.

On the morning after the ball, I woke up late and tired.  I forced myself to the beach, with freedom to abort.
'If I don't feel good,' I told myself 'I will just take a short dip.'
I started with a drill from my instruction CD.  I extended my hands, relaxed, and eased myself, face down, into the water.  It was a matter of physics, but it felt like a miracle.  Unlike the pool, I did not have to flutter my feet to stop my legs from sinking.  I took a breath, tried again, and achieved the same results.  I began swimming with the same sense of calm and relaxation, and within a few strokes I decided to swim to the island.  As I swam, a school of tiny fish surrounded me and nibbled on my calm legs.  I enjoyed the tickle massage and dismissed any thoughts of bigger fish that may be interested too.  I concentrated on my stroke  with a  a meditation-like focus, until a group of kayakers interrupted my meditation.  We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I continued on.  I arrived at the island feeling better than at the start, needing only a pause(at my age, it's hard to pee while swimming), before returning to shore.  Google maps confirmed the distance to the island as 1200 meters.

Kobi was right.  Acapulco is very touristy, but I liked it.
     

P.S.  Acapulco's trademark, the cliff divers, should not to be missed.

The Last Dance

It was a warm Wednesday night in the Zocalo.  An excellent Danzon orchestra was playing 'Nereidas', which is traditionally the last dance of the evening.    I was absorbed in leading Adi with as much grace as I could master, when a new sound slowly emerged into my awareness. It was the bright syncopated chirps of claves, weaving their happy tempo above the measured notes of the orchestra.  The sound emanated from somwhere on the dance floor, and the musician was obscured by the other dancers.

"Could it be Manolo?" I asked Adi.

The sound drew nearer, and Manolo, the two short Mahogany sticks in his hands was standing next to us.  We last saw him more than two years ago, yet here he was, just as I remembered him.  A bit wrinkled, a bit bent, and with the same childish joy in his eyes.  We would have hugged him right then, but interrupting a dance is a serious breach of etiquette.  We continued to dance while Manolo circled around us, smiling and  marking the 2-3 rhythm with his claves.

Manolo was a good friend of Gabriel Domingo, the founder of the "Danzon Wednesday" event.  They both loved this  traditional dance.  Gabriel was the businessman and organizer, while Manolo worked the crowds.  Manolo, striking his cuban-made claves, would circulate among the dancers, and with great enthusiasm encourage the spectators to join in.  Together, they made Oaxaca one of the top Danzon spots in Mexico.  When Gabriel Domingo died, Manolo assumed the role of organizer and  master of ceremonies.  He was in that role when we  first arrived in Oaxaca, fell in love with the dance style, and became Danzoneros.  We, or more accurately, Adi, stood out among the dancers, and Manolo used us to promote the event.

"Danzon is international!" he would exclaim during a break in the music, "Here in the corner", he would continue, pointing at us, "wearing black, is a couple of dancers from South Korea!"

Adi would join her palms, raise her hands to her chest in the traditional Asian gesture, and smilingly bow to the cheering spectators.  Next summer, while we were traveling, Gabriel Domingo's daughter returned to Oaxaca to claim her father's event and the significant government subsidy that came with it.  Manolo was not allowed near the microphone, nor did the daughter give him the small amount that he used to receive from her father.  He stayed for a while, but eventually his spirit was broken.  When we came back to Oaxaca, he was not there.  We were told that he is ill, and staying in his distant home town.

The music ended with a flourish.  As we turned to hug Manolo, he was gone.  We looked around, but he was nowhere in sight.  Strangely, none of the other dancers has seen him.  A few days later, friends told us the sad news.  Despite his deteriorating condition, Manolo left the hospital and disappeared.  He was last seen Wednesday afternoon, walking on the road to Oaxaca.

Fire-art in Oaxaca

My thanks to Yossi and Edna, a sparkling couple.

Music, fireworks, and art are embedded in the tapestry of life in Oaxaca.  Throughout the day, we are never far from a source of energetic music.  At night, the smallest celebration can generate loud booms and colorful flashes. Artists are attracted to this city, and their work is displayed in sidewalk stalls and fancy galleries.

So, what happens when three prominent Oaxacan artists collaborate to create a musical fireworks display?   Like Oaxaca itself, their creation was a mixture of tradition and creativity.  Colorful, loud, and so unashamedly naive that I could not help but love it.

The spectacle took place in the large Plaza de la Danza.  When we arrived, much of the audience was already seated on the stone bleachers built into the hillside.  Bright floodlights illuminated the carved facades of the colonial churches that flank the square, and the village lights in the valley below provided the backdrop.  At the designated start time, workers were still clambering up the scaffolding to hang the soon-to-be-lighted works, yet the audience which was busy buying dulces (sweets) from the circulating vendors, displayed no signs of impatience.

Eventually, the lights dimmed, and a wind ensemble began playing a fusion of atonal, modern-style music, and local traditional melodies.  After the prelude, the dramatic staccato sounds continued to accompany the light show.  A loud swoosh, and a long tunnel-like structure erupted into sparkling light.  Visible inside were models of a hare and a tortoise. Propelled by colorful rockets they rolled on to the floor.  Unfortunately, the story of the chase was not too clear since, despite the assistants frantic efforts, the hare turned to the right, while the tortoise insisted on going left.  As the flames of the first display wound down, the scaffolding evolved into fiery scenarios of sea and air. On the floor below, traditional fire dancers whirled with the music.  Fire dancers carry over their head large paper-mâché figures of animals, decorated with burning, swirling and exploding fireworks.  The scene concluded with a crowd-pleasing white fire-fall tumbling from the top of the church.  For the show's finale, we were treated to large airborne rockets.

A couple of summers ago, along the Vancouver shoreline, Adi and I watched an international fireworks competition.  Each night, a different country tried to increase the "Wow factor".  The amount of gunpowder ignited in the first salvo of each show, exceeded by far the whole of the Oaxaca event.  However, judging by the behavior of the Vancouver audience, the awesome display did not replace the stress generated in the overcrowded environment.  In Oaxaca, the happy faces of families, leisurely chatting their  way out of the plaza, were clear evidence that satisfaction is not a function of the money spent on state-of the-art rockets.  In Oaxaca, relaxed living and unsophisticated expectations result in people that are always ready to accept and experience pleasure.


Below is a clip of the event.
ttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwl0BuPo3TA