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.

Volcan Paricutin

Angahuan is the closest village to Volcan Paricutin. At the village gate we were greeted by men offering guided horseback rides to the volcano. At an elevation of almost three thousand meters, volcano visitors are a large part of the village economy. During the holidays the guides are busy, but during our overnight stay, we were the only visitors to the village. Three thousand Pur’hepecha Indians live here. Their ancestors were a fierce and proud tribe who managed to resist the Aztec Empire. However, they were almost decimated by the Spanish conquistadors and the diseases they brought with them. In Patzcuaro we learned that the tribe descendants still keep some of their culture, but due to discrimination and shame, their language is almost lost. That did not happen in the more remote Angahuan. In the center of town, a tall loudspeaker continuously blared announcements in a language that was not Spanish. We were glad to learn that, in this village, Spanish is spoken only to visitors. Adults and kids alike, talk in Pur’hepecha. The loudspeaker, by the way, is a substitute for a market place. The various stores lining the dusty unpaved street use it to announce the daily specials. Luckily, the announcements cease for the night.

It was a cold night at that altitude. A fireplace and five blankets were barely enough to keep warm, but we managed to fall asleep. At eight, dressed in sweaters, jackets, and gloves, we met our guide Santiago, and set out for the two hour ride to the base of the volcano. Paricutin erupted in 1943, in the center of a fertile valley. It was active for ten years, and during that time, the lava flow covered two villages. No one was injured, but the villagers had to relocate to new settlements. We rode through lush Avocado groves, circling the vast impenetrable lava fields. At the base of the cone we dismounted and started climbing. On the way up we passed minor craters where the ground is warm, smoke comes out through cracks in the rocks, and rumbling and hissing can be heard from deep underground. It’s a short and easy hike to the rim, for an enjoyable view of the crater and the valley below. Angahuan can be viewed not too far in the distance, but the jagged lava rocks would make the direct path a very unpleasant hike. According to Santiago, last month a tourist attempted the return on her own. She lost her way in the lava maze and had to be rescued the next day. After circling the crater, it was time to go down. A path of grey volcanic ash leads straight down from the rim to the base. The path is steep and clear of rocks. It is a perfect place to bring a used snow board. Lacking the board, I pointed my Teva sandals downhill and started running. Each stride started with a leap, continued with a long slide, and ended knee-deep in the sand. Ofer would have loved it. I almost climbed back up to try it again.

On the ride back we passed the San Juan church. The lava here is nine meters deep covering all but the church towers. It flowed through the long church interior and stopped abruptly at the base of the altar. The altar was not touched. Milagro (Miracle.) Near the church, a Pur’hepecha woman prepared some quesadillas for us. The tortillas were made from blue corn flour which has a delicious taste and texture. As Doron says, it hit the spot.

We left Patzcuaro to escape the cold, and found ourselves in an even colder place. Santiago, likes the cold climate. Cold is better than hot, he says, though he admits that he never left the village. For us, it was time to head for the playas.

Yunuen

"Eight severed heads dumped in a bar." "Seventeen people die in a shootout." "The President vows to combat the violence." That's the face of Mexico you watch on TV or read in newspapers. Yet I saw a different Mexico. I saw a beautiful countryside, vibrant historic towns, and gentle people that greeted me with a smile, easy conversation, and often, an invitation to join in the fun and food of their fiesta. I believed that the violence is restricted to drug gangs, and does not affect regular people. That was last week.

In Patzcuaro, my temporary residence, no one locks their front door, nor talks about crime. In the Plaza, colorfully dressed indigenous villagers mingle with town folk, peacefully enjoying the evening. The Federales (Federal Police), patrolling the town holding M16 rifles at the ready, seem so out of place, that I attributed it to an overzealous reaction of bureaucrats in the Capital. That was last week. That was before I found out about Yunuen.

Yunuen is a pretty, if diminutive, woman in her late thirties. Three times a week we occupy adjacent mats in a Pilates class, where we exchange furtive smiles of common suffering. At the end of each class she raises herself on her toes, extends her arms as far as she can reach, and gives me a long warm hug and a smiling Buenos Dias. It is a perfect start to my day. One evening, while strolling in town, I met Yunuen walking with a young man and a boy. She introduced me to her brother Miguel and to her son Sebastian. Miguel had a nice smile, but seemed too shy to speak much. Neither did the boy. Yunuen pointed to her pastry shop, and I promised to visit during working hours. That was last week. This Thursday, Yunuen did not come to class.

Tania, our instructor, took me aside and told me that Yunuen did not show up because her brother was killed. My heart stopped. Yesterday's extraordinary events raced through my mind. First, the morning quiet was interrupted by the incongruous sound of helicopter blades. The helicopter circled over the town center for a long time, obviously searching for something. Driving out of town, my car was stopped at a police road block. The cops told me that the Chief of Police was shot. Probably a corrupt cop, I thought, and went on with my day. Now, Tania confirmed my fears. Yunuen's brother was Patzcuaro's Chief of Police. I did not know how to reconcile my cynicism of yesterday, with the deep sympathy I felt now. Tania and I walked to town to visit my classmate.

A church stands at the corner where last week I met Yunuen and Miguel. The family was inside, participating in the mourning ritual. These rituals will be conducted for the next nine days. Outside, a group of men were engaged in a hot discussion. I moved closer, expecting to hear details of the crime, or maybe plans for neighborhood vigilance. I was wrong. They were discussing the new water pipes being laid in the street.

We entered the church. When the ceremony ended, I approached Yunuen's mother. She stood almost motionless. Her eyes were red, but depleted of tears. This is not her first casualty. Her husband, Yunuen's father, was a drug enforcement agent. A few years ago he was shot to death. She did not speak. In her trembling hands she held a photograph of Miguel, in camouflage uniform, a rifle across his chest, in the company of his police comrades. They were all smiling. My voice disappeared somewhere inside my throat. Without words I shook her hand, and then held her arm until, at last, I could whisper my sorrow. Yunuen was outside the church holding her son's hand. When she saw me she rose on her toes, extended her arms as far as she could reach, and we hugged. We held each other for a long time, Yunuen sobbing softly, and me trying not to do the same. When we finally let go, she took Sebastian in her arms, and introduced me to Ruben, her husband.

I asked Ruben about the events surrounding the shootings, but it was difficult to make myself understood. My Spanish does not contain the appropriate vocabulary, but I persisted. Finally, Ruben took me aside and explained, in perfect English, that Miguel arrested a gang member, the gang demanded his release, and when Miguel refused, he was shot. The shooters were not caught. Everyone is afraid to do anything. That was all he said. Tania later explained that I made an error asking such questions, "Walls have ears". We said our Goodbyes.

This week I understand the headlines and the M16 rifles. I understand that the violent side of Mexico affects everyone. It's just not talked about.

Kimchi in Alamos

A primal instinct compelled Eunkyong to look up from her laptop. Two figures stepped into the island of light that defined the outdoor café. The woman was much younger. They were both white. The woman was slender, and her face was quiet and kind. The man looked powerful, wore a salt and pepper beard, and grew shoulder-length curls. The new arrivals greeted the café owner in fluent Spanish and sat at the adjacent table. Eunkyong returned her attention to the email she was writing to her sister. She has been writing these letters since she left Korea two years ago. She hoped that by writing detailed descriptions of her travels, her family would eventually accept her decision to leave home, leave Korea, and abandon all prospects of a well-matched marriage. Maybe they will understand why she chose to travel with Isaac, a Weguk (foreigner) and worse, twenty years her senior. She wrote about meeting Isaac's friends in California, about the meditation seminar she attended, and about the jar of Kimchi she bought to keep a taste of home during their trip. She smiled thinking of the effort to keep it refrigerated while exploring Mexico.

She started writing about Alamos, their present location. She recalled her feelings at dusk, as she and Isaac entered Alamos main plaza. The bell tower of the large Cathedral was illuminated by the sun, while the other colonial buildings enclosing the plaza were dark outlines against the red sky. In the central garden, a couple sat on a bench holding hands. On the opposite side of the garden, a young man was softly strumming his guitar. A thin dog lazily moved between the two benches. They lingered in this romantic place, and then wandered off into a narrow cobblestone alley. It was getting dark. The only noise they heard was their footsteps echoing off the high walls. It was the perfect atmosphere for a town that is designated as one of Mexico's "Magic Pueblos". Ahead, a café sign illuminated the tables placed in the alley. The comfortable chairs predicted good coffee and the "WiFi" painted on the wall made the place ideal. They sat down besides the colorful cactus mural, she, to work on the laptop, Isaac, to study Lonely Planet.

"Do you live in town?"

The question-mark interrupted her concentration. She asked the bearded man to repeat. He did so. However, the alley acoustics still made communication difficult. She got up and approached his table. After a few sentences both couples were seated together, engaged in casual information exchange.

Fellow travelers develop a quick and efficient way of describing themselves. Andrea and Allandra were also world travelers. Andrea is from California, Allandra is from Louisiana. They have been travelling for four years. They too do not have a home base. They are not married. As the foursome exchanged questions and answers, Eunkyong felt an increasing sense of excitement and anticipation. Each new detail revealed another unlikely similarity between the two couples. Soon, everyone was caught in her excitement. The questions became more personal and the answers more detailed. Eunkyong could not stop herself from asking about their age difference, and was startled to hear that they were twenty years apart. When Eunkyong cited Korea as her origin, it was Andrea's turn to be excited. He described his intimate connection with Korea. He was a practitioner of Kuk Sul Won, a Korean martial art that emphasized the control of Ki (Life Energy) rather than physical force. Students of Kuk Sul Won can demonstrate incredible gymnastics skills such as running up a wall all the way to the ceiling. Through his Korean master, Andrea learned to love Korean philosophy, culture, and food.

"I felt there was something special waiting for me here" said Andrea looking at Eun Kyong. "I felt your Energy even before I saw you".

Eunkyong remembered her involuntary glance into the darkness, but said nothing.

With each question, Andrea's answers became more elaborate. He spoke eloquently, using his arms and hands to illustrate his story, while Allandra affirmed his descriptions with her active silence. Eunkyong listened intently.

Under the tutelage of his Korean master, Andrea attained a sixth-level black belt and opened his own Kuk Sul Won school. After twenty six years of practice, he knew he had to change his life. He closed the school, parted from his wife and grown children and left home. "Another similarity." thought Eun Kyong. One night, on an Alaskan ferry, he felt restless. He got up to the stern and watched the sea churning. Besides him he saw a young woman doing the same thing. As he learned later, Allandra felt a similar urge. That night they stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, feeling each other's presence as they watched the water. They have been together since then.

"Where did you two meet?" Interrupted Allandra.

"We met in Korea, on a tour bus. Soon thereafter, I was in love" Replied Eun Kyong.

Andrea went on. For the last four years he and Allandra were exploring the globe, letting each new place provide them with new knowledge. Their shared belief in a higher power, and their common interest in spiritual development, made their twenty year age difference, irrelevant. He continued to develop his mastery of the Energy force, using his own understanding, rather than the methods of his former martial art. However, individual practice has it dangers. One day while practicing, he inadvertently directed an energy field towards Allandra. He watched in trepidation as it hurtled forward and entered her chest. He could see Allandra flailing at the entry point. She then became weak and started shivering. He knew she was dying. To his frustration, nothing he did made her better. Eventually, he summoned his old Korean master, who brought Allandra back to health. This incident did not deter him from continuing to practice. With time he gathered
more power, while at the same time growing more comfortable with the world around him.

While listening to Andrea, Eunkyong reflected on her encounter with Ki. During meditation practice in a Korean temple, she managed to generate an Energy ball between her palms. She could move it, spin it, and change its shape. She did not repeat the experiment, despite Isaac's encouragement to improve this skill. Now, listening to Andrea, she could remember the exhilarating feeling of this energy field. She could almost feel the texture, the pressure it exerted when she pressed her palms closer and the pulling force when she separated her hands. She told Andrea and the others of her experience.

"Please generate the Energy now"

Eunkyong extended her hands across the table, closed her eyes, and started feeling the Energy gathering between her palms. Andrea put his hands above and below hers.

"I feel it." He said. "Relax. Breath"… he guided her gently.

The Energy grew stronger. Eunkyong started sensing Andrea's field, and so they sat for a while, silent, joined without touching.

The café was closing but Andrea and Eunkyong could not part. The foursome agreed to walk a bit. Eunkyong and Andrea strolled close to each other, talking softly. Eunkyong described her sensations and Andrea, in turn, provided her with advice and guidance for future practice. They were almost oblivious to Allandra and Isaac walking in front, obscured by the dark night.

"Do you think our meeting is a coincidence?"

To Andrea it was clearly predestined. He needed to meet a Korean who, like him, rebelled against age- old traditions and went her own way. It will help him absolve the guilt he felt for abandoning his practice.

Eunkyong remained silent. She was not so sure.

Eventually, it was time to say Goodnight and Goodbye, yet Eunkyong felt something was missing. In her culture, a student should always pay for his learning, but what can she gift Andrea that would be meaningful? Then she knew. She offered the jar of Kimchi she loved and nurtured all the way here. Andrea was overjoyed. Kimchi in Alamos was a delight beyond his dreams.

That night, before going to sleep, Eunkyong generated her strongest Energy ball.

Noche Del Muertos (Halloween in Michoacan)

On the week before Dia del Muertos, Patzcuaro turns gold. Temporary stalls on the sidewalks are heaped with Marigolds and Flowers of the Soul (type of Orchid) in a continuous tapestry of orange and violet. Indigenous women from the surrounding villages, wearing their traditional embroidered attire, add their own colors to the flower display. By the end of the week, both the city dwellers and the villagers will have purchase these huge quantities of flowers. In the city, the flowers are used to decorate elaborate home altars for the deceased family members. The villagers use the flowers for the Noche Del Muertos (Night of the Dead).

The village of Ihuatzio, like others around Lake Patzcuaro, is populated by the P’urhepecha, which are descendants of the original inhabitants of this region. They celebrate the Noche del Muertos in a creative mix of their indigenous rituals and the Catholic religion. On that evening, families arrive in the cemetery with wheel barrows full of flowers. They overlay the crosses with marigolds, cover the graves with marigold petals, and place the violet orchids for added effect. Fruits, sugar skulls, and the deceased favorite drink, are placed near the headstone as offerings. They believe that tonight, the spirits of the deceased are coming from the underworld for a visit. It’s a long journey, and they are making sure that the spirit is well-fed and happy. When darkness falls, they light candles around the gravesite as a beacon to light the way. Most families will spend the entire night in the cemetery to participate in the “Vigil for the Spirits”.

We came to Ihuatzio because we hoped that unlike some of the bigger villages, the Vigil will not be spoiled by tourist buses and drunken parties. We were not disappointed. The atmosphere was quiet and solemn, but at the same time, full of joy. The few other tourist that arrived, were also quiet and respectful. As we walked among the graves, the families returned our greetings with enthusiasm and asked us to join them. Exchange of the offerings is one of the customs of this night. As part of this custom, we were given some of the fruits and sugar skulls. We, in return, did our share by gifting those to the next family we visited. As the night grew colder we were happy to accept not just fruit but hot Pozole, a corn-based stew. It warmed my body, and surprisingly, tasted great. Up the street from the cemetery, the village provides activities for residents with shorter attention spans. Kids played in Inflatable trampolines and on an outdoor stage, local groups displayed their singing and dancing skills. We endured a couple of the performances, and walked back to the cemetery. As we left (alas, before dawn) I took one last look at the families huddled together around the glowing grave sites. It is a sight I will not forget.

For more of my Noche de los Muertos photos go to the link below. (You may have to copy and paste this on your browser.)

http://picasaweb.google.com/isaac.ohel/Patzcuaro#slideshow/5264519631517419266

Alamos

Alamos was our first destination in Mexico. It was designated as as one of Mexico's Magic Towns. A few quick questions led us to a campground just outside of town. We pitched the tent and headed to the center.

We walked a quiet cobblestone alley which was almost deserted. The alley opens to the main Plaza which is surrounded by restored colonial buildings. In its center is an impressive Cathedral. The setting sun colored the sky red, while the buildings were getting darker. In the Plaza, a couple was holding hands, a young man strummed the guitar, and a dog watched the action. We sat in silence and absorbed the atmosphere. Magic was in the air.

The next day we explored the town in the daylight. This was our first colonial city, and we were curious. We found the bustling market, walked even narrower alleys, and visited the Cathedral. On our way we were showered with flower petals by schoolchildren on their way home. At night we returned to the magic of the Plaza. That night we met Andrea and Leandra. Their life story combined with ours in a magical way that deserves a special treatment (to be published later)

Old Love

I fell in love with Chiang Mai twenty years ago after escaping from Bangkok's excessive sights, sex, and smog. Pleasant, friendly, and interesting, Chiang Mai was also a convenient gateway for adventures in other parts of Northern Thailand. The attraction persisted for several years. I even considered teaching in the local university. Then, as often happens in love, I found new interests, and stopped coming.

Many years later, in search of a place to call home, I am back. Approaching Chiang Mai, I braced myself for the encounter with an old love, when the sight of the wrinkled face and grey hair are a painful reminder of our own transitions. The heavy traffic was the first sign of aging, but it was anticipated, and therefore tolerable. Walking in the walled town center, I was dismayed by the throngs of tourists that over-filled the streets and alleys. They were not the young Israeli and European backpackers of my time, but Laptop-toting "flashpackers" of all nationalities who come to Chiang Mai for conveniently packaged, safe adventures. She is no longer mine alone. Maybe she never was. It took a couple more days for me to notice that Chiang Mai has also lost its friendly Thai smile. The years of dealing with grumpy tourists have taken their toll.

My young passion is gone, but is Chiang Mai still lovable? To many who call it home, the answer is a clear Yes. Some found employment here. Others just enjoy the low cost and pleasant climate. I met several of the latter at our guesthouse which offers social networking in addition to monthly rates. Trish and Gary retired nine years ago from teaching in the US. They stay here year-round, and even convinced their adult children to come. They enjoy the culinary adventures of Chiang Mai. The street stalls still provide cheap and tasty Thai staples, while a large number of new restaurants offer a choice of high quality Thai or international cuisine. Hedva and Yoram, on the other hand, avoid the hot and smoky spring which they spend in Israel. They love to travel, and during their stay here, they set out to other Asian destinations. To them Chiang Mai, though small in size, offers a cultural scene that compares well to major metropolitan areas. Clubs and classes are available in everything from A (Art) to Z (Zen). Cooking and Massage classes are the most popular. Bill, a bearded Vietnam Vet, like many other single men residing here, loves Thai women. In fact, over the years, he had five "wives". He visits his wives and children in the houses he built for them in their native villages. Young or old, married or single, they all love Chiang Mai and were happy to share their enthusiasm.

As for me? I can appreciate and enjoy the wide array of activities offered here. I still miss the smile. However, from time to time, usually after a halting attempt to say something in Thai, I can see it shining on my host face. I believe that another, more mature, love can grow again.