Do you remember the first time you ever went to the beach? The excitement you felt running into the ocean for the first time? You can re-live this vicariously on the weekends at Playa Chacala. With the exception of holidays (hordes of humanity), weekends become pleasantly packed with Mexican families, groups of friends or organizations having the most fun you’ll ever see at the beach. These people know how to play and have a genuinely fun time. As musicans stroll from palapa to palapa, five piece orchestras, for a small fee will play your favorite Mexican tune. Sometimes if you are lucky you”ll see a whale or two breach the surface of the water off in the distance. Or jumping fish, better still flocks of pelicans diving for their lunch. The vendors are there too, not too many to be annoying, just enough to do a little shopping. Ice Cream vendors, umbrellas for shade, patates made of straw to sit on, jewelry, ceramic plates, wooden bowls and tattoo vendors all add to the flavor. A cold beer or two and a plate of fresh seafood at any of the palapa restaurants and LIFE IS GOOD! It doesn’t get much better than this! Relive your childhood!
Cheryl from Montana
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Nervous Nellie vs. Mr. Wing-It
By M.L. Lyke
Special to The Washington PostSunday
March 25, 2007
I never thought of myself as a travel wuss, but there I was, busted, browsing for rentals at an Internet cafe in the little Mexican tourist town of Rincon de Guayabitos.
"Get off!" said my road partner, Bob, the man who loves nothing better than tooling down a Mexican highway on a local bus, prepared for nothing but the next big adventure. No itinerary, no plans, no reservations. That's travel heaven for Mr. Wing-It.
For me, it's travel hell. I'm a need-to-know girl.
We cut a deal. We had two weeks in Mexico to tour the sweet little beach towns north of Puerto Vallarta. The first week, we did it my way, staying at a multi-story villa in the surfing town of Sayulita with three other couples. Our friend Jay -- an uber-organizer who actually logs the contents of his freezer on a computer spreadsheet -- booked the stuccoed manse a year in advance. By Day 2, we were already planning breakfasts and dinners for the rest of the week. We had grocery lists, a book to tally expenses and Jay to work them out to the peso.
It was safe, comfy, predictable, right down to 5 o'clock happy hour. Guacamole, chips, margaritas, every night. The only variable was peanuts.
Everything was under control, including me. I'd taken precautionary antibiotics -- all I have to do is look at a map of Mexico to get turista -- and had an extra-large bottle of spray-on sunscreen. I arose every morning at 9 a.m. to watch the surf heave, crest and break below, then stretched, sipped coffee and lost myself in a novel.
Ahhh. The beauty of routine.
On Day 7, I kissed it all goodbye. It was Bob's turn.
Our friends taxied south to the Puerto Vallarta airport, dropping us off on the side of coastal Highway 200 to catch a bus north to . . . "Where exactly are we going, Bob?"
I believe, as we stood by the road, dusty, sweating in the midday heat, he said, "Trust me."
Maybe it was "Don't worry, be happy."
When the bus finally came, I bumbled on with my duffel and backpack. Old men reached up to help me with the bags. Young girls smiled, patting the seats next to them. "Hola." "Gracias." It was a bath of Mexican goodwill. I tried to relax, but questions niggled the Nervous Nellie inside me as we rattled up the highway on a Saturday afternoon toward Rincon de Guayabitos. It would be weekend, high season, in a hopping tourist beach town. Would there be room at the inn? Or would we end up in some cockroach-infested room with sagging mattresses, stained sheets and a view of the town dump?
Couldn't we just, like, call ahead?
I love planning trips. Browsing online on a gray winter day, I picture myself swinging in a hammock in the exotic Mexican garden spa found on Hotels.com, or catching the warmth of first morning sun through the arched windows of the cliffside condo on Vacation Rentals by Owner.
That's fantasyland to Bob. He likes his investigations on-site, eyeball to keyhole, and that's what we did after we stepped off the bus in Rincon, into the hotel zone. Boy, was I wrong. "Si Vacantes" signs were everywhere along the oceanfront. Nellie had a home for the night.
Our unit at Bungalows Anai, recommended in the guide, wasn't cheap for Mexico -- about $75 a night -- and it wasn't fancy. The light fixtures were crooked, the refrigerator rusted, the faucets oxidized and the glasses chipped. But the place was clean, with air conditioning and fans, and we had a nice view across a manicured garden and a pool to the busy beach, where vendors pedaled bicycle carts full of inflatable water toys and skewered shrimp, and volleyball players set and spiked. Water-bike hot-doggers made roostertails in the surf, the machine whine mingling with the tinkle of ice cream carts and the distant buh-boom of rap blasting from trucks cruising the main drag.
If Sayulita was Laguna Beach, this was Coney Island. We were soon longing for seclusion, peace and quiet. Bob pulled out his Lonely Planet guide, and his finger drifted north to Chacala, a fishing town on a cup of a bay surrounded by jungle. It was tiny, a speck, a guidebook paragraph -- so remote it didn't even merit a turn-off sign on the main highway. I was convinced we didn't have a chance at finding an empty room. And that's when I sneaked onto the computer in a Rincon Internet cafe and got busted. Bob looked at me with a mix of sympathy and disgust. He may have used the word "cheater." Contrite, I clocked off the computer, waved down a taxi and away we rumbled, leaving behind the buh-boom and blow-up beach toys and heading north into the lush groves of mango and jackfruit that crawled up the sides of an ancient boulder-strewn volcano overlooking remote Chacala Bay.
Six miles off the main highway, the taxi dropped us off on the dirt road serving as Chacala's main drag, in front of a deeply tanned couple who looked bemused when I asked them, a bit anxiously, if there was anywhere to stay in the town. They pointed at the cobbled side streets above us, to a hotel, condo rentals, the half-dozen Mexican homes that take in tourists. They pointed down the beach to a holistic retreat center called Mar de Jade. "There, and there, and there." Then they pointed to a place about 20 steps away. "And here." "Here" turned out to be a sweet beachside hotel called Las Brisas. "A hole diferent Vacations"(sic) read the hotel's brochure, in English translation.
For about $55 a night, we had a humble but pleasant little room with air conditioning, a DVD player and free movies, and two comfy queen-size beds. Downstairs, under the thatched roof, was a full bar, with good selection and generous pours, and a restaurant that served huevos rancheros for breakfast; fish, shrimp and lobster fresh off the boats for dinner. We ate barefoot, toes curling in the sand. Las Brisas drew a crew of regulars from Canada and the States who set up every day on the loungers out front, deep-tanning, working crosswords, splashing in the gentle surf -- one called it a "kiddie pool" -- and spending long hours staring across the fine golden beach and out to sea. Looking at what?
Maybe big waves, ships, whales. Maybe, after the second cerveza, marlin and mermaids. Maybe, after three, old loves and lost lives. I soon unfolded onto a lounger in this unexpected paradise and joined them in the Long Watch, eyes glued, mind unglued. As hours turned into days, and days melted away, I found myself mulling the nature of travel. I thought about all the great wanderers through time: Odysseus, Marco Polo, Kerouac, Frodo. I thought about the thrill of discovery that attends the adventurer, about the differences between trips and journeys, between tourists and travelers, between those who need to know and those who let it go.
I finally put niggling Nellie to rest on Day 5 of Week 2 during a crazy side trip that started with an early-afternoon taxi-dash to nearby Las Varas for a look around. Once there, we spotted the big bus station across the main highway. We wandered inside and, for the heck of it, plopped down 50 pesos each to bus it to the inland colonial capital city of Tepic. We thought the trip might take a half-hour. It took almost two. I started worrying: We'd have to return in the dark, the buses wouldn't be running, we'd never find a cab back to Chacala from the station.
I was alternately chewing on my fingernails and gazing at my watch when I suddenly stopped and actually looked out the window at the beauty passing by. There were lush jungles, fields of sugar cane, rugged volcanic peaks. I saw pretty little towns with walls painted bus yellow and rose red. I saw bullrings and cemeteries with giant white crosses and pink memorial wreaths still wrapped in plastic. There were big blue birds with long tails and lush green trees fruited with tangerines. There was a world going by, begging my attention. And it didn't requireadvance booking. I took a deep breath and settled in. Finally, I got it. I wasn't a hundred miles down the highway heading home; I was here, on a bus, off the clock, going nowhere in particular.
In all my fretting over the future, I'd been missing out on the romance of the moment.
We arrived in Tepic about 3 p.m. and quickly caught a taxi to the Plaza Principal, a town square surrounded by stately stucco buildings from the 1800s and a large neo-Gothic cathedral, dedicated in 1750. At one end of the plaza, we found shy Huichol artists, down from the mountains, selling intricate beaded masks and shamanistic yarn paintings at prices half those in Sayulita galleries. On recommendation of a government guard, we climbed up to the roof of a 200-year-old hotel to dine on velvety filet mignon in an excellent open-air restaurant, La Gloria, overlooking the town square. Down below, as the sun set and the old wrought-iron lamps went on, couples gathered, a mariachi band began to play and dancers in big ruffled skirts and hand-tooled cowboy boots high-stepped and twirled in the fading light. We wandered down, and I, too, found myself dancing in the dark, not giving a thought to when, or if, we would ever get back.
We did, easily enough. The buses ran. The taxis were waiting at the station. I arrived back in little Chacala feeling light, liberated, ready for more adventure.
Mr. Wing-It caught my smile and couldn't help putting in the last word. "See?" he said. "It all works out."
Special to The Washington PostSunday
March 25, 2007
I never thought of myself as a travel wuss, but there I was, busted, browsing for rentals at an Internet cafe in the little Mexican tourist town of Rincon de Guayabitos.
"Get off!" said my road partner, Bob, the man who loves nothing better than tooling down a Mexican highway on a local bus, prepared for nothing but the next big adventure. No itinerary, no plans, no reservations. That's travel heaven for Mr. Wing-It.
For me, it's travel hell. I'm a need-to-know girl.
We cut a deal. We had two weeks in Mexico to tour the sweet little beach towns north of Puerto Vallarta. The first week, we did it my way, staying at a multi-story villa in the surfing town of Sayulita with three other couples. Our friend Jay -- an uber-organizer who actually logs the contents of his freezer on a computer spreadsheet -- booked the stuccoed manse a year in advance. By Day 2, we were already planning breakfasts and dinners for the rest of the week. We had grocery lists, a book to tally expenses and Jay to work them out to the peso.
It was safe, comfy, predictable, right down to 5 o'clock happy hour. Guacamole, chips, margaritas, every night. The only variable was peanuts.
Everything was under control, including me. I'd taken precautionary antibiotics -- all I have to do is look at a map of Mexico to get turista -- and had an extra-large bottle of spray-on sunscreen. I arose every morning at 9 a.m. to watch the surf heave, crest and break below, then stretched, sipped coffee and lost myself in a novel.
Ahhh. The beauty of routine.
On Day 7, I kissed it all goodbye. It was Bob's turn.
Our friends taxied south to the Puerto Vallarta airport, dropping us off on the side of coastal Highway 200 to catch a bus north to . . . "Where exactly are we going, Bob?"
I believe, as we stood by the road, dusty, sweating in the midday heat, he said, "Trust me."
Maybe it was "Don't worry, be happy."
When the bus finally came, I bumbled on with my duffel and backpack. Old men reached up to help me with the bags. Young girls smiled, patting the seats next to them. "Hola." "Gracias." It was a bath of Mexican goodwill. I tried to relax, but questions niggled the Nervous Nellie inside me as we rattled up the highway on a Saturday afternoon toward Rincon de Guayabitos. It would be weekend, high season, in a hopping tourist beach town. Would there be room at the inn? Or would we end up in some cockroach-infested room with sagging mattresses, stained sheets and a view of the town dump?
Couldn't we just, like, call ahead?
I love planning trips. Browsing online on a gray winter day, I picture myself swinging in a hammock in the exotic Mexican garden spa found on Hotels.com, or catching the warmth of first morning sun through the arched windows of the cliffside condo on Vacation Rentals by Owner.
That's fantasyland to Bob. He likes his investigations on-site, eyeball to keyhole, and that's what we did after we stepped off the bus in Rincon, into the hotel zone. Boy, was I wrong. "Si Vacantes" signs were everywhere along the oceanfront. Nellie had a home for the night.
Our unit at Bungalows Anai, recommended in the guide, wasn't cheap for Mexico -- about $75 a night -- and it wasn't fancy. The light fixtures were crooked, the refrigerator rusted, the faucets oxidized and the glasses chipped. But the place was clean, with air conditioning and fans, and we had a nice view across a manicured garden and a pool to the busy beach, where vendors pedaled bicycle carts full of inflatable water toys and skewered shrimp, and volleyball players set and spiked. Water-bike hot-doggers made roostertails in the surf, the machine whine mingling with the tinkle of ice cream carts and the distant buh-boom of rap blasting from trucks cruising the main drag.
If Sayulita was Laguna Beach, this was Coney Island. We were soon longing for seclusion, peace and quiet. Bob pulled out his Lonely Planet guide, and his finger drifted north to Chacala, a fishing town on a cup of a bay surrounded by jungle. It was tiny, a speck, a guidebook paragraph -- so remote it didn't even merit a turn-off sign on the main highway. I was convinced we didn't have a chance at finding an empty room. And that's when I sneaked onto the computer in a Rincon Internet cafe and got busted. Bob looked at me with a mix of sympathy and disgust. He may have used the word "cheater." Contrite, I clocked off the computer, waved down a taxi and away we rumbled, leaving behind the buh-boom and blow-up beach toys and heading north into the lush groves of mango and jackfruit that crawled up the sides of an ancient boulder-strewn volcano overlooking remote Chacala Bay.
Six miles off the main highway, the taxi dropped us off on the dirt road serving as Chacala's main drag, in front of a deeply tanned couple who looked bemused when I asked them, a bit anxiously, if there was anywhere to stay in the town. They pointed at the cobbled side streets above us, to a hotel, condo rentals, the half-dozen Mexican homes that take in tourists. They pointed down the beach to a holistic retreat center called Mar de Jade. "There, and there, and there." Then they pointed to a place about 20 steps away. "And here." "Here" turned out to be a sweet beachside hotel called Las Brisas. "A hole diferent Vacations"(sic) read the hotel's brochure, in English translation.
For about $55 a night, we had a humble but pleasant little room with air conditioning, a DVD player and free movies, and two comfy queen-size beds. Downstairs, under the thatched roof, was a full bar, with good selection and generous pours, and a restaurant that served huevos rancheros for breakfast; fish, shrimp and lobster fresh off the boats for dinner. We ate barefoot, toes curling in the sand. Las Brisas drew a crew of regulars from Canada and the States who set up every day on the loungers out front, deep-tanning, working crosswords, splashing in the gentle surf -- one called it a "kiddie pool" -- and spending long hours staring across the fine golden beach and out to sea. Looking at what?
Maybe big waves, ships, whales. Maybe, after the second cerveza, marlin and mermaids. Maybe, after three, old loves and lost lives. I soon unfolded onto a lounger in this unexpected paradise and joined them in the Long Watch, eyes glued, mind unglued. As hours turned into days, and days melted away, I found myself mulling the nature of travel. I thought about all the great wanderers through time: Odysseus, Marco Polo, Kerouac, Frodo. I thought about the thrill of discovery that attends the adventurer, about the differences between trips and journeys, between tourists and travelers, between those who need to know and those who let it go.
I finally put niggling Nellie to rest on Day 5 of Week 2 during a crazy side trip that started with an early-afternoon taxi-dash to nearby Las Varas for a look around. Once there, we spotted the big bus station across the main highway. We wandered inside and, for the heck of it, plopped down 50 pesos each to bus it to the inland colonial capital city of Tepic. We thought the trip might take a half-hour. It took almost two. I started worrying: We'd have to return in the dark, the buses wouldn't be running, we'd never find a cab back to Chacala from the station.
I was alternately chewing on my fingernails and gazing at my watch when I suddenly stopped and actually looked out the window at the beauty passing by. There were lush jungles, fields of sugar cane, rugged volcanic peaks. I saw pretty little towns with walls painted bus yellow and rose red. I saw bullrings and cemeteries with giant white crosses and pink memorial wreaths still wrapped in plastic. There were big blue birds with long tails and lush green trees fruited with tangerines. There was a world going by, begging my attention. And it didn't requireadvance booking. I took a deep breath and settled in. Finally, I got it. I wasn't a hundred miles down the highway heading home; I was here, on a bus, off the clock, going nowhere in particular.
In all my fretting over the future, I'd been missing out on the romance of the moment.
We arrived in Tepic about 3 p.m. and quickly caught a taxi to the Plaza Principal, a town square surrounded by stately stucco buildings from the 1800s and a large neo-Gothic cathedral, dedicated in 1750. At one end of the plaza, we found shy Huichol artists, down from the mountains, selling intricate beaded masks and shamanistic yarn paintings at prices half those in Sayulita galleries. On recommendation of a government guard, we climbed up to the roof of a 200-year-old hotel to dine on velvety filet mignon in an excellent open-air restaurant, La Gloria, overlooking the town square. Down below, as the sun set and the old wrought-iron lamps went on, couples gathered, a mariachi band began to play and dancers in big ruffled skirts and hand-tooled cowboy boots high-stepped and twirled in the fading light. We wandered down, and I, too, found myself dancing in the dark, not giving a thought to when, or if, we would ever get back.
We did, easily enough. The buses ran. The taxis were waiting at the station. I arrived back in little Chacala feeling light, liberated, ready for more adventure.
Mr. Wing-It caught my smile and couldn't help putting in the last word. "See?" he said. "It all works out."
Monday, March 19, 2007
Only leave your footprints in the sand!
We came for a day but wound up staying a week. Our first impression of Chacala was how friendly the Chacalans are. They treat you like you are part of their family. And if you spend any amount of time here you do become “adopted” by at least one, if not several families. And each year we return it’s like we are coming home, we get such a warm, fuzzy feeling. ”You’re back-Bienvenidos! That’s Spanish for Welcome! That’s the main reason we keep coming back to this friendly community. We feel right at home with our Mexican Families! The best motto when visiting here is: –Only leave your footprints in the sand!
Cheryl y Michel in their 7th year to Chacala
Cheryl y Michel in their 7th year to Chacala
Friday, March 16, 2007
Ana's Return to Chacala
Mahuajua Chacala, Nayarit
We walk down the early morning beach, footprints wiped clean by the tide, pristine.
A couple hundred pelicans float the shallow waters, rising and dive-bombing the unsuspecting sardines and other bait fish, packed tight near the shore.
A feeding frenzy for three days now.
The magnificent frigates shadow the pelicans, looking for a dropped fish, or snatching a piece from a pelican’s immense beak.
They can’t dive, so only hang around for the leftovers.
We climb the steep path to Mahuajua, snaking back and forth to the restaurant perched high on the cliff.
The owners, Jose and Carmen, have placed a vase of ferns at the first turn.
Then a silk-screened banner of birds, hung above the path.
Then a broken, decorative plate placed in a niche in the rock.
A black and red butterfly hovers by the side of the path, following us for a bit.
We emerge on a gravel patio and sit at a small wooden table by the edge of the cliff.
The waves crash below us onto the lava rocks strewn across the beach, with occasional heaps of rock interrupting the flatness of the pattern.
The giant hand of the volcano above sprinkled them artfully across the landscape.
We have come, my friend and I, to write our thoughts, enjoy a little solitude and share random conversation.
A white carafe of coffee sits on the table between us.
A lovely woven tray bears a small flowered pitcher of milk, a couple of spoons, tiny napkins, sugar.
I read from May Sarton’s House By the Sea: “Solitude like a long love, deepens with time, and, I trust, will not fail me if my own powers of creation diminish.
For growing into solitude is one way of growing to the end.”
Hmmm. I like that.
I realize it reflects my strategy.
Can we do solitude together?, my friend and I ask each other.
We sip the rich coffee, laced with cinnamon, and bend to write.
I have been taking in my familiar pueblo for a week without attempting to write about it.
My journal is blank.
I need time to figure out what I feel.
“I feel more at home here than anywhere,” Gordon told me.
I know exactly what he means.
Chacala has always been that for me.
A wave of peace washes over me as I look out to sea.
A large cruiser comes into my vision, motoring out of the bay.
In the foreground, just below us, a giant fig tree wraps around a palm, weaving a gnarly pattern upward until just the palm branches emerge at the top.
Writing is easy solitude.
Providing focus, guiding my thoughts, inviting me to look around and take in the setting.
I have been craving solitude here, sleeping, walking the cobblestone streets, avoiding too much time with my gringo friends.
I am healing more each day, getting strong from the walking and swimming, feeling nurtured by the juicy weather.
My heart raced with exhilaration the first day I waded into the water, timing the waves, shooing the pelicans, running to dive under at the exact moment a tremendous wave breaks.
Then surfacing on the other side of the crashing waves and swimming laps back and forth, floating easily with toes sticking out of the water, perusing the incredible sky.
I startle when a pelican dives from 30 feet above just to my side, or when one skims the surface of the water directly in my path.
I trust their accuracy.
Sometimes they float quietly near me, watching me carefully.
I wonder what they are thinking.
Concha, my best Mexican friend here, had a small benign tumor removed from her uterus three months ago and is still in chronic pain.
Gringa friends are taking her to the doctor again this week, pushing for a diagnosis.
Aurora, my Mexican daughter, from a nearby town, shows up with her new husband, Miguel, and three-month-old baby Miguelito.
She is very happy, despite her parents divorce, and the circumstance of this marriage.
They take me to Platanitos, another small bay up the coast.
I have never been there before and am happy to know about it.
We drive up the cliff to a miramar and look out over an estuary winding back towards the highway.
Afterwards, we sit at a restaurant on the bay and drink cokes.
Miguel orders civeche, then oysters on their shell, then raw camerones en aqua picante.
I eat the civeche on fresh, hot, greasy tostados, but pass on the rest.
My stomach is still making friends with the food.
Aurora and Migel are returning to Tepic tomorrow to start their classes.
Aurora to become a dentist, Miguel a biologist.
I was lucky to catch them before classes start.
Pepe and Maribel, friends from Guadalajara, stop to see me on Sunday.
They are returning from Puerto Vallarta, only passing through.
They look for me at my house, are told I am visiting someone and go there, and finally go to Gordon’s, where I am staying.
Gordon brings them to find me at the beach.
This is the way here.
You can find anyone, but must track them down.
So many families to visit.
Each walk takes me by homes of old friends and children I no longer recognize.
The little girls I danced and sang with 8 years ago are young women.
They greet and hug me openly.
The boys I played Ochos Locos with in the little library so many years ago, are swaggering, young men.
Some greet me with a shy smile or extended hand.
Some I grab for a hug and kiss, much to their embarrassment.
A few, now part of the “bad boy” gang, look the other way when I pass.
I teasingly call their names, making them glance at me, grinning.
Dona Lupe makes pozole Saturday night in her small puesto.
Several of us go down for an impossibly large bowl of the delicious soup, sprinkled liberally with shredded chicken and lettuce.
Don Elijio, her husband, is sober, for a change, and even helpful.
Blanca, their retarded teen-age daughter, now taller than I, lingers near our table, swaying and smiling toothlessly.
Lupe hugs me and demands to know about my health.
How do I explain?
“Muy bien,” I usually say.
With some I add “mas o menos.” and explain that tratimiento is ongoing.
Lupe reminds me of the dried snake meat that I am supposed to be chewing daily.
Lupita, another friend and motel owner, tells me that she knows by my espíritu that I will be fine.
She is proud to show me that she has completed the ESL workbook that I left for her two years ago.
Her English is a little better.
When I go to see Chapa, the familiar stick house behind the school is gone.
I find her in back in a new cement block house with cement floor.
I remember sitting on a wooden chair in the old house, watching her unfold spotlessly clean pajamas from huge baskets, and dress her children for bed.
They would hop from chair to cot to cot to keep clean, bare feet off the dirt floor, and climb under their mosquito netting on their cots in the corner.
Now she has separate rooms for kitchen and bedroom.
The gardens surrounding my little casa/terraza are more beautiful that I could have imagined. In two years, the bougainvillea and other flowering vines have covered the fence and boulders. An assortment of flowers, hibiscus, gerber daisies, and other things I can’t name, bloom in pots and in the garden.
Palms and banana trees I planted 2 years ago are 12 and 15 feet high.
The lemon tree is full of fruit, not quite ripe.
Juan, my caretaker, has a enormous new tent, erected smack in the middle of the terraza.
He is proud of the gardens.
He carefully shows me the signs of disrepair, the crumbling grout around the tile at the edge of the terrace floor, a few cracked tiles, the rust on the wrought iron circular staircase leading to the roof.
I unpack plastic storage containers in my kitchen and bathroom, giving things away, packing up others to send home, preparing my house to be sold.
feeling sad and nostalgic and mad that I can’t spend my winters here.
I talk with several Mexicans who might be interested in buying.
At the final hour, my sons, who have visited but shown little interest in my house or my pueblo, write and say, “Mom, don’t sell.
We will buy it and build some bedrooms so we can all stay there.”
La Casa de Ana will take on new life.
I will keep returning, if only a week at a time.
-Ana
We walk down the early morning beach, footprints wiped clean by the tide, pristine.
A couple hundred pelicans float the shallow waters, rising and dive-bombing the unsuspecting sardines and other bait fish, packed tight near the shore.
A feeding frenzy for three days now.
The magnificent frigates shadow the pelicans, looking for a dropped fish, or snatching a piece from a pelican’s immense beak.
They can’t dive, so only hang around for the leftovers.
We climb the steep path to Mahuajua, snaking back and forth to the restaurant perched high on the cliff.
The owners, Jose and Carmen, have placed a vase of ferns at the first turn.
Then a silk-screened banner of birds, hung above the path.
Then a broken, decorative plate placed in a niche in the rock.
A black and red butterfly hovers by the side of the path, following us for a bit.
We emerge on a gravel patio and sit at a small wooden table by the edge of the cliff.
The waves crash below us onto the lava rocks strewn across the beach, with occasional heaps of rock interrupting the flatness of the pattern.
The giant hand of the volcano above sprinkled them artfully across the landscape.
We have come, my friend and I, to write our thoughts, enjoy a little solitude and share random conversation.
A white carafe of coffee sits on the table between us.
A lovely woven tray bears a small flowered pitcher of milk, a couple of spoons, tiny napkins, sugar.
I read from May Sarton’s House By the Sea: “Solitude like a long love, deepens with time, and, I trust, will not fail me if my own powers of creation diminish.
For growing into solitude is one way of growing to the end.”
Hmmm. I like that.
I realize it reflects my strategy.
Can we do solitude together?, my friend and I ask each other.
We sip the rich coffee, laced with cinnamon, and bend to write.
I have been taking in my familiar pueblo for a week without attempting to write about it.
My journal is blank.
I need time to figure out what I feel.
“I feel more at home here than anywhere,” Gordon told me.
I know exactly what he means.
Chacala has always been that for me.
A wave of peace washes over me as I look out to sea.
A large cruiser comes into my vision, motoring out of the bay.
In the foreground, just below us, a giant fig tree wraps around a palm, weaving a gnarly pattern upward until just the palm branches emerge at the top.
Writing is easy solitude.
Providing focus, guiding my thoughts, inviting me to look around and take in the setting.
I have been craving solitude here, sleeping, walking the cobblestone streets, avoiding too much time with my gringo friends.
I am healing more each day, getting strong from the walking and swimming, feeling nurtured by the juicy weather.
My heart raced with exhilaration the first day I waded into the water, timing the waves, shooing the pelicans, running to dive under at the exact moment a tremendous wave breaks.
Then surfacing on the other side of the crashing waves and swimming laps back and forth, floating easily with toes sticking out of the water, perusing the incredible sky.
I startle when a pelican dives from 30 feet above just to my side, or when one skims the surface of the water directly in my path.
I trust their accuracy.
Sometimes they float quietly near me, watching me carefully.
I wonder what they are thinking.
Concha, my best Mexican friend here, had a small benign tumor removed from her uterus three months ago and is still in chronic pain.
Gringa friends are taking her to the doctor again this week, pushing for a diagnosis.
Aurora, my Mexican daughter, from a nearby town, shows up with her new husband, Miguel, and three-month-old baby Miguelito.
She is very happy, despite her parents divorce, and the circumstance of this marriage.
They take me to Platanitos, another small bay up the coast.
I have never been there before and am happy to know about it.
We drive up the cliff to a miramar and look out over an estuary winding back towards the highway.
Afterwards, we sit at a restaurant on the bay and drink cokes.
Miguel orders civeche, then oysters on their shell, then raw camerones en aqua picante.
I eat the civeche on fresh, hot, greasy tostados, but pass on the rest.
My stomach is still making friends with the food.
Aurora and Migel are returning to Tepic tomorrow to start their classes.
Aurora to become a dentist, Miguel a biologist.
I was lucky to catch them before classes start.
Pepe and Maribel, friends from Guadalajara, stop to see me on Sunday.
They are returning from Puerto Vallarta, only passing through.
They look for me at my house, are told I am visiting someone and go there, and finally go to Gordon’s, where I am staying.
Gordon brings them to find me at the beach.
This is the way here.
You can find anyone, but must track them down.
So many families to visit.
Each walk takes me by homes of old friends and children I no longer recognize.
The little girls I danced and sang with 8 years ago are young women.
They greet and hug me openly.
The boys I played Ochos Locos with in the little library so many years ago, are swaggering, young men.
Some greet me with a shy smile or extended hand.
Some I grab for a hug and kiss, much to their embarrassment.
A few, now part of the “bad boy” gang, look the other way when I pass.
I teasingly call their names, making them glance at me, grinning.
Dona Lupe makes pozole Saturday night in her small puesto.
Several of us go down for an impossibly large bowl of the delicious soup, sprinkled liberally with shredded chicken and lettuce.
Don Elijio, her husband, is sober, for a change, and even helpful.
Blanca, their retarded teen-age daughter, now taller than I, lingers near our table, swaying and smiling toothlessly.
Lupe hugs me and demands to know about my health.
How do I explain?
“Muy bien,” I usually say.
With some I add “mas o menos.” and explain that tratimiento is ongoing.
Lupe reminds me of the dried snake meat that I am supposed to be chewing daily.
Lupita, another friend and motel owner, tells me that she knows by my espíritu that I will be fine.
She is proud to show me that she has completed the ESL workbook that I left for her two years ago.
Her English is a little better.
When I go to see Chapa, the familiar stick house behind the school is gone.
I find her in back in a new cement block house with cement floor.
I remember sitting on a wooden chair in the old house, watching her unfold spotlessly clean pajamas from huge baskets, and dress her children for bed.
They would hop from chair to cot to cot to keep clean, bare feet off the dirt floor, and climb under their mosquito netting on their cots in the corner.
Now she has separate rooms for kitchen and bedroom.
The gardens surrounding my little casa/terraza are more beautiful that I could have imagined. In two years, the bougainvillea and other flowering vines have covered the fence and boulders. An assortment of flowers, hibiscus, gerber daisies, and other things I can’t name, bloom in pots and in the garden.
Palms and banana trees I planted 2 years ago are 12 and 15 feet high.
The lemon tree is full of fruit, not quite ripe.
Juan, my caretaker, has a enormous new tent, erected smack in the middle of the terraza.
He is proud of the gardens.
He carefully shows me the signs of disrepair, the crumbling grout around the tile at the edge of the terrace floor, a few cracked tiles, the rust on the wrought iron circular staircase leading to the roof.
I unpack plastic storage containers in my kitchen and bathroom, giving things away, packing up others to send home, preparing my house to be sold.
feeling sad and nostalgic and mad that I can’t spend my winters here.
I talk with several Mexicans who might be interested in buying.
At the final hour, my sons, who have visited but shown little interest in my house or my pueblo, write and say, “Mom, don’t sell.
We will buy it and build some bedrooms so we can all stay there.”
La Casa de Ana will take on new life.
I will keep returning, if only a week at a time.
-Ana
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Visitors help Mexicans build stable futures
WORLD BRIEFINGS
By Tom Carter
THE WASHINGTON TIMES
March 13, 2007
CHACALA, Mexico
Nine years ago, Aurora Hernandez Blancarte's family lived in a dirt-floor shack, six miles from a paved road, and although her husband is a fisherman, the fam- ily sometimes went hungry. "During the rainy season, when the fishing is no good, we didn't even have enough money for tortillas," said Mrs. Hernandez Blancarte.
"Now, we eat well. I can send my girls to private school. I can take them to the doctor. And that is our first car," she said, proudly, pointing to the family's new Toyota pickup. Mrs. Hernandez Blancarte owes her family's bright orange home, adjacent guesthouse and fortune to a program called Techos de Mexico -- Roofs Over Mexico -- founded by Mexican social activists from the 1960s and modeled after Habitat for Humanity, but designed to meet the needs of Mexico's poor. Twenty-seven years ago, Laura del Valle, a medical doctor, and her brother Jose Enrique bought a piece of jungle property at the south end of the beach at Chacala, a small fishing village of about 300 people overlooking a scenic bay about 60 miles north of Puerto Vallarta. Dr. Laura, as she is universally known in Chacala, studied medicine in Mexico City during the turbulent 1960s. She lived with a Japanese Zen master who took his students to the rural poor in the mountains of Oaxaca. Influenced by the social consciousness at the medical school, she took her skills into the Mexico City slums. After buying the property, Dr. del Valle invited Mexican and U.S. medical students to Chacala to spend their summers in palapa huts -- covered with hand-woven fan-palm leaves -- on the beach and volunteer in local clinics. The experience taught the students how to record health histories in Spanish, exposed them to primitive medicine and gave Chacala residents much-needed health care.
Volunteering in luxury The palapa huts have evolved into a luxurious hotel, spa and conference center. At Dr. del Valle's Mar de Jade, Birkenstocks, yoga pants and New Age patter among aging U.S. baby boomers is the norm -- as is the tradition of volunteering in the community. Dr. del Valle said Mar de Jade has brought in "easily over 1,000 medical students," hundreds of volunteer builders from U.S. Rotary clubs, as well as New Agers who want to practice yoga, lie on the beach, and make a social contribution on their vacation.
Mary Ann Day, a retired merchant seaman from Alaska's ferry system, began visiting Chacala 17 years ago. "I started volunteering here before Mar de Jade was a spa. I did translation for the medical students. Laura and Jose are just the best people. They inspired me to come here and help," Miss Day said. She bought a home and now spends her retirement working the Internet, soliciting donations and corralling Canadian and American tourists to paint, or work in the sparkling new book-and-tools lending library, built by Rotarians, or teach local youngsters how to use a computer or pick up trash.
Miss Day's efforts have evolved into a $40,000-a-year scholarship program called Cambiando Vidas (Changing Lives), for the children of Chacala. It now has 29 children in junior high, high school and college, including four of the first college graduates in Chacala's history. Housing and income With Dr. del Valle addressing medical needs at the Mar de Jade clinic in nearby Las Varas and Miss Day supporting education, Jose Enrique was interested in local housing issues. Many of Chacala's 300 residents lived in log huts, with dirt floors and palm-frond roofs. Many still do. "I did my thesis is engineering, social psychology and housing. We live in a country that has many problems in housing," said Mr. del Valle, Techos founder and the proprietor of the upscale Majahua bed, breakfast and spa, next door to Mar de Jade, in the jungle above the beach. In 1995, Mr. del Valle was introduced to Habitat for Humanity, the U.S. charity that organizes volunteers and builds homes for the poor. It seemed a natural for Chacala. Mexicans value land and housing, and there is a long tradition of stocking bricks and mortar, rather than putting money in the bank. When enough raw material has accumulated, Mexicans gather friends and neighbors to "self-build" their homes, but for Techos de Mexico he made a major change. "Habitat for Humanity does not allow their houses to be used for commercial purposes. I believe that a house can be used for business," he said. His idea was to use microloans to build small homes, plus two or three budget-style rooms that could be rented to tourists, giving the family a home, as well as an income. "Many countries have bed and breakfasts. France, Italy -- why not Mexico?" asked Mr. del Valle. He called a meeting to outline his idea, and 35 Chacala families attended. Points to the poor "We formed a committee and developed criteria. We visited each family. It was all open and transparent. Basically, the worse your house, the more points you got," he said, in determining the building order. If the applicant had a dirt floor, the family was awarded five points, a cement floor, three points, and a tile floor, zero points. If the dwelling had a rough-hewn log walls, five points, brick walls, three points, plaster walls, zero points, and so on. The family's social condition also was evaluated. A woman with an absent husband -- perhaps seeking work in the United States -- and two or three children younger than 11, or with disabilities, would earn high points. Newlyweds living with their parents were awarded big points. "But this is a fishing village. Even if you were living in a shack, if your family had three boats and 1,000-horsepower engines, this would bring your points down," Mr. del Valle said. The fact that U.S. tourists in Mar de Jade financed the $4,000 to $9,000 Techos loans scared some families from the program. "Because Americans were putting up the money, many were afraid Americans would come down and take their homes, so only five of the original 35 stayed in," said Mrs. Hernandez Blancarte, whose Casa Aurora was the third Techos built. Another of the five was Concha Velazquez, who had three youngsters and a husband in the United States. All Techos rooms are tiled. "It is like a home-stay. We have become part of Concha's family," said Cheryl Watts, of Kalispell, Mont., who has been spending winters at Casa Concha for the past few years. Booming B&Bs The del Valles recruited volunteer labor from their guest registries, and Techos bed-and- breakfasts began springing up. In all, seven were built, and other families who did not participate in the Techos program, simply copied the idea and built on their own. Now, nearly 20 B&Bs operate in Chacala. Lodging originally cost about $10 per night, but now runs $25 to $50 a night for the larger rooms with private bath, kitchen and a view of the bay. By contrast, rooms at Mar de Jade and Majahua start at $100 a night and go beyond $300 a night. "We had to put in our own labor. But I was lucky. American plumbers and electricians were volunteering when my Techos was built," said Mrs. Hernandez Blancarte. "If it weren't for Techos, we'd still be living in that shack," she said, pointing at the one-room log hut with a dirt floor and tin roof where she and her family once lived. She said her three guest rooms are filled almost all year, many with long-term rentals. She has repaid the $7,000 loan used to build her house. Because she is considered good with money and scrupulously honest, Mrs. Hernandez Blancarte has been drafted to act as accountant and treasurer for several of Chacala's civic organizations. "Our guests come back every year. We now have to turn people away. Even in the rainy season, I am full. I had a good September this year because we had good surf," she added. With Chacala transformed into a growing tourist destination, Mr. del Valle is in discussions with several Mexican and U.S. universities, hoping one will adopt the Chacala model and use university resources and students to reproduce the Habitat for Humanity and B&B hybrid throughout rural Mexico. "I am 50 years old and exhausted," said Mr. del Valle, sitting on his shaded terrace overlooking the Pacific. "I want a university to take this over. To take it further. "To make this work, you need lawyers, architects, social workers, volunteers."
By Tom Carter
THE WASHINGTON TIMES
March 13, 2007
CHACALA, Mexico
Nine years ago, Aurora Hernandez Blancarte's family lived in a dirt-floor shack, six miles from a paved road, and although her husband is a fisherman, the fam- ily sometimes went hungry. "During the rainy season, when the fishing is no good, we didn't even have enough money for tortillas," said Mrs. Hernandez Blancarte.
"Now, we eat well. I can send my girls to private school. I can take them to the doctor. And that is our first car," she said, proudly, pointing to the family's new Toyota pickup. Mrs. Hernandez Blancarte owes her family's bright orange home, adjacent guesthouse and fortune to a program called Techos de Mexico -- Roofs Over Mexico -- founded by Mexican social activists from the 1960s and modeled after Habitat for Humanity, but designed to meet the needs of Mexico's poor. Twenty-seven years ago, Laura del Valle, a medical doctor, and her brother Jose Enrique bought a piece of jungle property at the south end of the beach at Chacala, a small fishing village of about 300 people overlooking a scenic bay about 60 miles north of Puerto Vallarta. Dr. Laura, as she is universally known in Chacala, studied medicine in Mexico City during the turbulent 1960s. She lived with a Japanese Zen master who took his students to the rural poor in the mountains of Oaxaca. Influenced by the social consciousness at the medical school, she took her skills into the Mexico City slums. After buying the property, Dr. del Valle invited Mexican and U.S. medical students to Chacala to spend their summers in palapa huts -- covered with hand-woven fan-palm leaves -- on the beach and volunteer in local clinics. The experience taught the students how to record health histories in Spanish, exposed them to primitive medicine and gave Chacala residents much-needed health care.
Volunteering in luxury The palapa huts have evolved into a luxurious hotel, spa and conference center. At Dr. del Valle's Mar de Jade, Birkenstocks, yoga pants and New Age patter among aging U.S. baby boomers is the norm -- as is the tradition of volunteering in the community. Dr. del Valle said Mar de Jade has brought in "easily over 1,000 medical students," hundreds of volunteer builders from U.S. Rotary clubs, as well as New Agers who want to practice yoga, lie on the beach, and make a social contribution on their vacation.
Mary Ann Day, a retired merchant seaman from Alaska's ferry system, began visiting Chacala 17 years ago. "I started volunteering here before Mar de Jade was a spa. I did translation for the medical students. Laura and Jose are just the best people. They inspired me to come here and help," Miss Day said. She bought a home and now spends her retirement working the Internet, soliciting donations and corralling Canadian and American tourists to paint, or work in the sparkling new book-and-tools lending library, built by Rotarians, or teach local youngsters how to use a computer or pick up trash.
Miss Day's efforts have evolved into a $40,000-a-year scholarship program called Cambiando Vidas (Changing Lives), for the children of Chacala. It now has 29 children in junior high, high school and college, including four of the first college graduates in Chacala's history. Housing and income With Dr. del Valle addressing medical needs at the Mar de Jade clinic in nearby Las Varas and Miss Day supporting education, Jose Enrique was interested in local housing issues. Many of Chacala's 300 residents lived in log huts, with dirt floors and palm-frond roofs. Many still do. "I did my thesis is engineering, social psychology and housing. We live in a country that has many problems in housing," said Mr. del Valle, Techos founder and the proprietor of the upscale Majahua bed, breakfast and spa, next door to Mar de Jade, in the jungle above the beach. In 1995, Mr. del Valle was introduced to Habitat for Humanity, the U.S. charity that organizes volunteers and builds homes for the poor. It seemed a natural for Chacala. Mexicans value land and housing, and there is a long tradition of stocking bricks and mortar, rather than putting money in the bank. When enough raw material has accumulated, Mexicans gather friends and neighbors to "self-build" their homes, but for Techos de Mexico he made a major change. "Habitat for Humanity does not allow their houses to be used for commercial purposes. I believe that a house can be used for business," he said. His idea was to use microloans to build small homes, plus two or three budget-style rooms that could be rented to tourists, giving the family a home, as well as an income. "Many countries have bed and breakfasts. France, Italy -- why not Mexico?" asked Mr. del Valle. He called a meeting to outline his idea, and 35 Chacala families attended. Points to the poor "We formed a committee and developed criteria. We visited each family. It was all open and transparent. Basically, the worse your house, the more points you got," he said, in determining the building order. If the applicant had a dirt floor, the family was awarded five points, a cement floor, three points, and a tile floor, zero points. If the dwelling had a rough-hewn log walls, five points, brick walls, three points, plaster walls, zero points, and so on. The family's social condition also was evaluated. A woman with an absent husband -- perhaps seeking work in the United States -- and two or three children younger than 11, or with disabilities, would earn high points. Newlyweds living with their parents were awarded big points. "But this is a fishing village. Even if you were living in a shack, if your family had three boats and 1,000-horsepower engines, this would bring your points down," Mr. del Valle said. The fact that U.S. tourists in Mar de Jade financed the $4,000 to $9,000 Techos loans scared some families from the program. "Because Americans were putting up the money, many were afraid Americans would come down and take their homes, so only five of the original 35 stayed in," said Mrs. Hernandez Blancarte, whose Casa Aurora was the third Techos built. Another of the five was Concha Velazquez, who had three youngsters and a husband in the United States. All Techos rooms are tiled. "It is like a home-stay. We have become part of Concha's family," said Cheryl Watts, of Kalispell, Mont., who has been spending winters at Casa Concha for the past few years. Booming B&Bs The del Valles recruited volunteer labor from their guest registries, and Techos bed-and- breakfasts began springing up. In all, seven were built, and other families who did not participate in the Techos program, simply copied the idea and built on their own. Now, nearly 20 B&Bs operate in Chacala. Lodging originally cost about $10 per night, but now runs $25 to $50 a night for the larger rooms with private bath, kitchen and a view of the bay. By contrast, rooms at Mar de Jade and Majahua start at $100 a night and go beyond $300 a night. "We had to put in our own labor. But I was lucky. American plumbers and electricians were volunteering when my Techos was built," said Mrs. Hernandez Blancarte. "If it weren't for Techos, we'd still be living in that shack," she said, pointing at the one-room log hut with a dirt floor and tin roof where she and her family once lived. She said her three guest rooms are filled almost all year, many with long-term rentals. She has repaid the $7,000 loan used to build her house. Because she is considered good with money and scrupulously honest, Mrs. Hernandez Blancarte has been drafted to act as accountant and treasurer for several of Chacala's civic organizations. "Our guests come back every year. We now have to turn people away. Even in the rainy season, I am full. I had a good September this year because we had good surf," she added. With Chacala transformed into a growing tourist destination, Mr. del Valle is in discussions with several Mexican and U.S. universities, hoping one will adopt the Chacala model and use university resources and students to reproduce the Habitat for Humanity and B&B hybrid throughout rural Mexico. "I am 50 years old and exhausted," said Mr. del Valle, sitting on his shaded terrace overlooking the Pacific. "I want a university to take this over. To take it further. "To make this work, you need lawyers, architects, social workers, volunteers."
Saturday, March 10, 2007
LA Times Feb. 26, by Christopher Reynolds
Sure, there's a great beach here, fresh fish, tall palms and only about 400 locals to share them with. But let's start with the treachery and deception.
"You wouldn't believe the snakes. Snakes as big as your head," says Ben Laird, a Wisconsonite who bought a vacation home here last year.
"People are poisoned in Chacala every day," deadpans Richard Laskin of Hornby Island, Canada, who has been coming here for 10 years.
"Are you sure that was a whale?" asks Laskin's friend Stu Reid, gazing offshore. "Could have been drums of toxic material."
Then — having done their best to deter the reading public from invading their winter haven — these good-natured liars go back to their tropical idylls. Laskin and Reid tuck into their breakfast at the Mauna Kea Café, one of about 10 restaurants in Chacala, as they gaze down upon a canopy of green, a deep blue sea, a deep blue sky and a few dozen pelicans, swoop-commuting between the two.
Sometimes, a lie is really just an invitation. And the truth about Chacala is just as intriguing, especially for a traveler who wants to actually meet Mexicans while vacationing in Mexico, who likes his coconuts straight from the tree, who doesn't need the bright lights of Los Cabos or Cancún.
Chacala, a village 60 miles north of Puerto Vallarta on Mexico's Pacific Coast, is built around the beach, a handsome half-mile crescent of jungle-adjacent sand. At the southern end of the beach, black volcanic rocks murmur in gentle surf. In the middle of the crescent, half a dozen palm-shaded restaurants serve fresh fish and shrimp (and keep a machete on hand for those new-fallen coconuts). To the north, two dozen battered little fishing boats are tied up at a modest dock.
In town, several lodgings have popped up in the last few years, most offering ocean views, modest amenities and nightly rates from $50 to $90. A little farther north, more than two-dozen luxury vacation homes, some of which rent by the night, have gone up in a gated compound called Marina Chacala.
But what sets Chacala apart from so many other modest but growing Mexican beach destinations is this: Thanks to the arrival of three hippie siblings here at the end of the 1970s, the town is awash in social experiments, many of them built around the idea that locals and tourists need to meet and learn from one another.
Under one 11-year-old program, called Techos de México (Roofs of Mexico), half a dozen villagers have added upstairs rooms and terraces, most with ocean views, none more than a five-minute stroll from the beach. When not snapped up for the season by wintering Canadians, most of these rooms rent for $22.50 to $60 a night.
Other tourists can volunteer on community projects, attend yoga or meditation seminars or learn Spanish as guests at a 24-year-old beachfront retreat called Mar de Jade (pronounced Hah-day), which in winter is usually priced at $120 to $135 per person per night, double occupancy, meals included.
But you don't have to volunteer. Instead, you can spend $50 a night on a hotel room with an ocean view and lie around. Or spend $625 a night on a mansion that sleeps 10 and lie around in splendor .
You can take a $10-per-person boat trip to snorkel by the rocks off Chacalilla beach. You can fish for dorado or sierra or surf at La Caleta Point. You can kayak between rock formations and secluded beaches, go birding in a mangrove swamp to the north or drive half an hour east to the petroglyphs at Alta Vista. You can ride a horse through jungle to a secluded beach or drive about two hours into the hills and see Lake Santa María, its waters collected in the caldera of an ancient volcano. Or you can stroll back and forth, with refreshment breaks, on that grand crescent of sand.
Ahhh, seclusion
Until the first paved road connected the village to Highway 200 seven years ago, the only way into Chacala was by dirt road or boat. Now, business is picking up and the occasional RV, rental car and taxi has joined the local traffic, including the cab that delivered me to my lodgings at dusk one day.
It had been a three-hour flight from LAX to Puerto Vallarta, then a 90-minute ride, and my first thought, rolling into town, was, "Uh oh." Two blocks of dirt roads, sleeping dogs and ramshackle storefronts. That was the commercial district.
Ahhh, but then I stepped out to the beach. It was nearly empty, a slight breeze blowing. The tall palms, the quiet, the loop of the beach between the rocky points at either end — this was a landscape to banish worry. In the restaurants along the sand, a small band of Canadian snowbirds nursed seafood and cervezas. A little way up the beach , 20 RVs were parked in the palm grove next to the beach, their owners paying $5 a night for the privilege.
Looking for a meal one night at about 7:30, I found nearly every restaurant closed. They've had electricity here for years, but from the look and sound of the beachfront after sunset, you'd think they were still waiting for it.
Intrigued by the gated luxury homes of Marina Chacala, I greeted one homeowner from Seattle and soon was getting a tour of his nearly completed villa, the onyx spiral staircase as well as the 400-square-foot bathroom in the upstairs master bedroom.
Remember, however, that the nearest ATM is six miles up the road in Las Varas. Dozens of residents still live in dirt-floor houses, roosters greet each dawn, and the dominant architectural style is brick box, not Spanish Colonial. Outside of Las Brisas restaurant, the gated grounds of Marina Chacala and the lodgings Mar de Jade and Majahua (where I stayed), little English is spoken.
But in four days, I never met anybody from Southern California, saw only one jet-powered ski in use and was never invited to go parasailing or purchase a time share.
"It's still real Mexico down there," said Ben Laird, he of the imaginary snakes, gazing out at the town one afternoon from his hilltop home in Marina Chacala. "Chickens at your feet. And everybody knows everybody."
"You wouldn't believe the snakes. Snakes as big as your head," says Ben Laird, a Wisconsonite who bought a vacation home here last year.
"People are poisoned in Chacala every day," deadpans Richard Laskin of Hornby Island, Canada, who has been coming here for 10 years.
"Are you sure that was a whale?" asks Laskin's friend Stu Reid, gazing offshore. "Could have been drums of toxic material."
Then — having done their best to deter the reading public from invading their winter haven — these good-natured liars go back to their tropical idylls. Laskin and Reid tuck into their breakfast at the Mauna Kea Café, one of about 10 restaurants in Chacala, as they gaze down upon a canopy of green, a deep blue sea, a deep blue sky and a few dozen pelicans, swoop-commuting between the two.
Sometimes, a lie is really just an invitation. And the truth about Chacala is just as intriguing, especially for a traveler who wants to actually meet Mexicans while vacationing in Mexico, who likes his coconuts straight from the tree, who doesn't need the bright lights of Los Cabos or Cancún.
Chacala, a village 60 miles north of Puerto Vallarta on Mexico's Pacific Coast, is built around the beach, a handsome half-mile crescent of jungle-adjacent sand. At the southern end of the beach, black volcanic rocks murmur in gentle surf. In the middle of the crescent, half a dozen palm-shaded restaurants serve fresh fish and shrimp (and keep a machete on hand for those new-fallen coconuts). To the north, two dozen battered little fishing boats are tied up at a modest dock.
In town, several lodgings have popped up in the last few years, most offering ocean views, modest amenities and nightly rates from $50 to $90. A little farther north, more than two-dozen luxury vacation homes, some of which rent by the night, have gone up in a gated compound called Marina Chacala.
But what sets Chacala apart from so many other modest but growing Mexican beach destinations is this: Thanks to the arrival of three hippie siblings here at the end of the 1970s, the town is awash in social experiments, many of them built around the idea that locals and tourists need to meet and learn from one another.
Under one 11-year-old program, called Techos de México (Roofs of Mexico), half a dozen villagers have added upstairs rooms and terraces, most with ocean views, none more than a five-minute stroll from the beach. When not snapped up for the season by wintering Canadians, most of these rooms rent for $22.50 to $60 a night.
Other tourists can volunteer on community projects, attend yoga or meditation seminars or learn Spanish as guests at a 24-year-old beachfront retreat called Mar de Jade (pronounced Hah-day), which in winter is usually priced at $120 to $135 per person per night, double occupancy, meals included.
But you don't have to volunteer. Instead, you can spend $50 a night on a hotel room with an ocean view and lie around. Or spend $625 a night on a mansion that sleeps 10 and lie around in splendor .
You can take a $10-per-person boat trip to snorkel by the rocks off Chacalilla beach. You can fish for dorado or sierra or surf at La Caleta Point. You can kayak between rock formations and secluded beaches, go birding in a mangrove swamp to the north or drive half an hour east to the petroglyphs at Alta Vista. You can ride a horse through jungle to a secluded beach or drive about two hours into the hills and see Lake Santa María, its waters collected in the caldera of an ancient volcano. Or you can stroll back and forth, with refreshment breaks, on that grand crescent of sand.
Ahhh, seclusion
Until the first paved road connected the village to Highway 200 seven years ago, the only way into Chacala was by dirt road or boat. Now, business is picking up and the occasional RV, rental car and taxi has joined the local traffic, including the cab that delivered me to my lodgings at dusk one day.
It had been a three-hour flight from LAX to Puerto Vallarta, then a 90-minute ride, and my first thought, rolling into town, was, "Uh oh." Two blocks of dirt roads, sleeping dogs and ramshackle storefronts. That was the commercial district.
Ahhh, but then I stepped out to the beach. It was nearly empty, a slight breeze blowing. The tall palms, the quiet, the loop of the beach between the rocky points at either end — this was a landscape to banish worry. In the restaurants along the sand, a small band of Canadian snowbirds nursed seafood and cervezas. A little way up the beach , 20 RVs were parked in the palm grove next to the beach, their owners paying $5 a night for the privilege.
Looking for a meal one night at about 7:30, I found nearly every restaurant closed. They've had electricity here for years, but from the look and sound of the beachfront after sunset, you'd think they were still waiting for it.
Intrigued by the gated luxury homes of Marina Chacala, I greeted one homeowner from Seattle and soon was getting a tour of his nearly completed villa, the onyx spiral staircase as well as the 400-square-foot bathroom in the upstairs master bedroom.
Remember, however, that the nearest ATM is six miles up the road in Las Varas. Dozens of residents still live in dirt-floor houses, roosters greet each dawn, and the dominant architectural style is brick box, not Spanish Colonial. Outside of Las Brisas restaurant, the gated grounds of Marina Chacala and the lodgings Mar de Jade and Majahua (where I stayed), little English is spoken.
But in four days, I never met anybody from Southern California, saw only one jet-powered ski in use and was never invited to go parasailing or purchase a time share.
"It's still real Mexico down there," said Ben Laird, he of the imaginary snakes, gazing out at the town one afternoon from his hilltop home in Marina Chacala. "Chickens at your feet. And everybody knows everybody."
Gordon's 80th B-Day
Today, March 9, 2007 is my 80th birthday and today is the birth date of the Chacala Life blog. In Chacala some refer to me as the O.G. of Chacala – the oldest gringo or original gringo. Oldest perhaps, original, that’s debatable. Gringo’s visited Chacala long before I did, long before the paved road and long before places to stay were available. I haven’t missed spending a winter here for more than a dozen years-here’s hoping for a dozen more.
It used to be said about the Italian City “See Naples and Die”. I say “see Chacala and live to see it again.” Perfect it isn’t but it is good enough for me.
Viva Chacala Life
Posted by Gordon P., the OG of Chacala
It used to be said about the Italian City “See Naples and Die”. I say “see Chacala and live to see it again.” Perfect it isn’t but it is good enough for me.
Viva Chacala Life
Posted by Gordon P., the OG of Chacala
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)