The street below our balcony is made of cobblestone as are all the small narrow streets in centro. At rush hour multitudes of buses rumble and clang down the cobblestones, stopping under our balcony belching up their fumes from antiquated exhaust systems. The garbage trucks, the bottled water carriers, cement trucks, trucks carrying building bricks and half-tons with the back full of workers, all pass by. Then there are the turistas in their jeeps and their rented VW convertables - driving, gawking and hanging on at the same time.
People watching on the street is interesting too. Directly across from us on the corner is a small portable street food cart. The smells which emanate from its' direction are tantalizing, however, we are afraid our bodies might object, so we dare not try it. Down the street, two doors on the other side is a liquor store. The young male clerk spends most of his time gazing longingly at our daughter as we sit on our balcony. On the other corner a Mexican sells coconuts all day. He chops off the outside shell, sticks a straw in it and hands it to his customer who drinks the milk. It's obviously refreshing and he does a swift business. Sometimes I see him chop the coconut in half, neatly stripping out the meat all in one piece - handing it over in the half shell.
Everyday, the man and his burrows go by. He spends time filling up the bags on their backs with sand and walks them to building sites where the sand is needed for construction. There are 4 burrows. The first three carry only the bags - one on each side. The last little burro carries the sand, and also the masters shovel.
Each night groups of horses and their masters clip clop up our street on their way home from a day at the beach carrying tourists on their backs. The masters stops at the coconut seller for a fresh drink and picks up a bag of feed for his horses.
I try and imagine what it must have been like -- just the ocean, the jungle, magnificently coloured birds, my little iguanas (well, some of them are huge!) and the small fishing village that was PV before the 50's. Before the invasion of John Huston and his "Night of the Iguana". Above the roar of traffic I can still hear the call of exotic birds, also trying to recollect a forgotten past.
Saturday night on the Malecon. Everyone comes to parade, to see and be seen, to share, to gossip and to enjoy a cob of corn. Old and young, families and couples - mostly though the teenagers - the future of Mexico. It makes me wonder what the future generation holds for this country. No longer the old ways - the old customs - the traditional dress. Very Americanized with American ideas of money and success, dressed in their black leather jackets and mini skirts - able to live a higher standard of living than their fishing fathers ever dreamed of. The touristos, the Americanos, the Canadians, the Europeans - all here to spend their money and push Mexico into an unknown future. No doubt a future which will include "progress" the "American way".
Since our last visit to PV two years ago, we have seen shovels and wheel barrows turn into huge cement mixer trucks bearing the name "Guadaladorn Concrete". Oversized loads of bricks and building materials lumber along the streets on their way to finish new and better hotels, condos, and gorgeous homes along the gold coast which houses the wealthy foreigners, now retired to the 'good life'.
The narrow streets of centro now boast ritzy designer shops and galleries of expensive art, expensive sculpture, and expensive jewelery. You can see the old being chiseled away as the mega tour buses, motor homes and cadillacs roll down the cobblestone streets. There is still the shoe makers shop on the corner though. Leather shoes and sandals made to order. Give him four days and you can take them home. The washing still hangs picturesquely on small balconies and roof tops. Underneath, the teenagers walk to the beat of their sony walkmans. ... and so it goes.
H is reading his book "Smiley's People" stretched out in his chair, feet resting on the wrought iron railing. He looks very handsome and relaxed except for the occasional nibbling assault to one of his finger nails. It's nice to see him looking so peaceful. He needed this holiday very much. Since we arrived I've heard perhaps two sentences involving computers and absolutely nothing about his work -- a good sign!
The beach was wonderful today, as it is everyday. Somehow the sky seems higher here. H laughs at me when I say that - but it's true. I think it has something to do with the colour. That clear sparkling turquoise and not a cloud in the sky. It simply goes on and on - up and up forever. I never get a chill here - the sun warms my bones and in the evening the warm winds caress me.
The beach is a colourful place. It's filled with Mexicans and their families - especially on the weekends. During the week you see more of the Mexican mothers and their preschool children. Their babies are absolutely stunning - round and chubby, dark skinned, black eyed delights that you long to pick up and cuddle. I watch them playing contentedly in the sand - running and falling into the waves, laughing happily with their playmates. Perhaps their material possessions fall far short of ours, but all that sun, sand, waves, laughter and love must count for a lot that we perhaps miss. I'm really not sure we've got it 'right' at all! I wonder if they know how lucky they are.
The peddlers roam the beaches dressed in white, under their heavy loads of cloths, carvings or a suitcase filled with silver. This year the sales pitch seems to be 'cheaper than K Mart', and if we are still lingering on the beach enjoying a cocktail while the sun goes down - they pass by declaring "Happy hour Senora - two for one". It's impossible for me to become annoyed or disconcerted with these beautiful people. Dark eyes and quick bright smiles, and even quicker to make a joke with a gringo.
In the afternoon the children peddle sumptuous bowls of fresh fruit, cut and ready to enjoy. Others appear with kabobs laden with chunks of cooked fish and shrimp. Still others come with huge baskets full of peanuts. You simply cannot to go hungry at the beach.
The ocean is captivating - never the same and somehow never different. On a few occasions the waves have been quite spectacular since our arrival. A and H delight in frolicing in them - the bigger the better. My personal interpretation is they are pumeling themselves to death - but then my idea of the ocean at its very best for swimming is absolutely no rougher than 'dead calm'! H has to absolutely drag me in - however now I am comfortable and I love floating in the blue pacific feeling my body at the mercy of the gentle ebb and flow of the waves. It always takes me a little while to adjust to the power of the ocean - but once that is accomplished - I never want to get out!
We usually walk to the far end of the beach after breakfast - playing in the waves along the way. At the end of the beach, smooth lovely huge rocks form an interesting coastline creating tidal pools filled with all sorts of interesting sea life. We make ourselves comfortable on one of the rocks smoothed by years of thunderous waves - or lie in a sandy crevasse between the rocks, feeling the spray splashing from the crashing white surf - the water covering our bodies as the tide comes in.
Today, a Mexican woman was at the rocks - detaching muscles from the surface with a stone. That will to be their dinner.
Today we lingered over an early diner at Los Arcos reveling in the sun set over the blue pacific.
The little street outside our balcony was interesting today as well. The coconut man brought his huge exotic parrot out for a breath of fresh air. He sat proudly on a limb squawking and occasionally flapping his wings in a feeble attempt to return to the freedom of the jungle. He was very handsome indeed. I want to hold him.
A little later, an old Mexican man appeared. Dressed in a divine old mellow panama hat, brown shirt, brown pants, a burlap sack slung over this shoulder and bare feet in his Mexican made sandals he looked like a book character. He totes fresh red snapper on either end of a long pole which he carries across his shoulders - not unlike a native would carry two gourds of water. As he walks he beats rhythmically on the pole with a huge knife, announcing the arrival of the 'fish man'. I wish so much I could have had a photo. He would have made a magnificent painting. His build was stocky and strong, not too tall. His black eyes made contact with mine as I sat on the balcony. Once you lock eyes with a Mexican you're hooked. His eyes gripped mine, he tapped his poll with that intoxicating rhythm and without uttering word, he smilingly and sensuously invited me to come and buy a fish.
Today we moved from our room over the interesting but noisy street and have settled into our larger room with balcony over the pool and an ocean view. I'm writing now from this location enjoying the piano music, laughter and chatter drifting up from the restaurant below. Ah, H is here with an outstretched hand. He gently takes mine -- it's time for cocktails! It's been over eight years since we met, and it still makes me smile just to see his face!
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