From Guadalajara to Barra with No Reservations

The Ambivalent Optimist

When I told my mother I’d be taking an impromptu bus trip from San Miguel to Guadalajara and onto the Costa Alegre (Happy Coast) I could hear her cringe on the other end of the phone. The word happy eluded her and instead she heard only death wish. “Is it safe?” she rattled more than once, not unlike Lawrence Olivier in Marathon Man.

“Don’t worry, mom,” I reassured her, “I’ll be taking a series of rusted and dangerous toxic fume belching buses through lawless lands rife with gun toting bandits and fun loving drug lords who like to play hide the body part in the barrel and have a quirky affinity for decapitation and I’m sure there will be at least one dirty old man in the back of the bus near the toilet if they have a toilet and he’ll only be wearing a poncho and black socks with mismatched sandals and we have no reservations nor do we have any real destination or plan and we’re carrying scads of cash but I’m sure I’ll be just fine even though they don’t maintain the buses and they drive with flat tires and no brakes on potholed mountain passes and coastal cliffs at speeds that top 100 miles per hour and the drivers love to play chicken especially when chickens are crossing the road and they’re known to wear hip flasks filled with 180 proof tequila as do the bus drivers who are also wanted drug runners and the bus serves up a lunch offering your choice of rotten shrimp that’s been festering for days in the sweltering luggage compartment or drunken chicken beak enchiladas rojas that are still squawking and bottled water filled straight from the tap but other than that I’m sure I’ll be just fine and besides Benicio de Toro is in the country to promote his new movie Che so maybe I’ll see him on the bus.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” she said. “You always liked Benicio del Toro. And who are you going with?” “Janice’s husband,” I added. “Oh well then,” she rallied, “Sounds like the perfect getaway.” By now, my mother knew of my travel antics ~ travels which are often solo throughout Third World countries, my adventurous spirit, which still translates to her as major risk taker and target when in fact, I see them as nothing less than leaps of faith. When you’ve lost just about everything, the risk is no longer a risk when you have nothing left to lose. So my leaps of faith have become lighter, less angst-ridden. I look forward to the festering shrimp, but she worries, still. She is a mother after all.

Life is a Bus Ham Sandwich

Some people just go with the flow. When my friend, Janice, cyber arm-twisted her husband into taking me along on his unexpected bus adventure to the sea, I’m sure she heard a muffled head butt, or got an email chalk full of f-bombs. Back home in Oregon, Janice and their two little girls were experiencing one of the coldest, snowiest January’s on record. Greg was in San Miguel renewing his FM3 status, legal paperwork for gringos who own property and or reside in Mexico. Renters for their casa wanted to move in rápido but Greg still had a week long wait for his documents.
He, Janice and the girls had previously crisscrossed Mexico via bus, and were quick to point out that while neither they nor the bus line could control wanton vomiting or any other human bodily projectile, the ETN luxury bus line rivaled First Class accommodations on any airliner. The promise was of spacious, clean buses, large reclining seats with padded leg rests, bathrooms for both men and women, decent ham sandwiches and a beverage of your choice.

My last couple of weeks in town had not been bueno, in part thanks to hormones that were Cirque de Soleil-ing out of the big top. I needed a change of scenery, not to mention a bigger tent, and to get the hell out of Dodge before the authorities found me running naked in the bull ring just up the street on Recreo, clad only in red lipstick. You never want to be jailed in a foreign country, although it’s possible that a bare blond woman taunting bulls might actually be a crowd pleaser.

I had never seen the Mexican coast and was ready for a little adventure, but Greg and I hardly knew each other. Traveling with a stranger, my best amigas esposo, on a bus, no reservations or destination? Surely she was jesting or getting paid big pesos for a new reality series, “Triple M - Menopausal Mexican Meltdown – Bus Travel with a Deranged Stranger - or Volaré This.”

But if I saw my travels as leaps of faith, then I had to see Greg’s willingness to take along his wife’s friend who was nothing short of a Woman on Fire, and not in a good way, as nothing short of delusional. Travel with someone who looked normal and impressively well coiffed, but was the she-devil version of Médico Jekyll y Senor Hyde, full days on a hot bus, humid weather that would make my feet swell and my hair limp and cause me to weep uncontrollably or gouge my wrists with tortilla chips if there was too much salt on the rim of my margarita glass? The guy’s nuts, I thought, or an imbecile. I don’t want to travel with someone who is slow-witted, or nuts. Or I’m nuts. Well one of us is nuts. Maybe we’re both nuts. Okay, I was in. Rabid Zorro was off to pack her bags.

Bright Lights, Big City, Dry Taps and Only a Hairdresser Knows for Sure

First stop Guadalajara, a beautiful city with a bustling Centro Histórico with its impressive plazas, cathedrals, museums, and known for its murals by the renown Mexican muralist, José Clemente Orozco, a population of nearly four million, and Mexico’s second largest city.

Undaunted, we stepped from the comforting confines of the bus following a pleasant six hour trip and into the heart of Nuevo Central Station ~ with no idea where the diablo we were going. Taxis were at our beck and call and I swear the loudspeaker was playing the jaunty tune ~ “see the gringos without a clue, backpacks, water bottles and Frommer’s, too!” We had a couple ideas of where we might go; one, a nice sounding place but next door to a tranny bar, which might be noisy on a Friday night, and in the heart of the seedy section of town; two, an old convent near town but not close enough to make hoofin’ it to the zocalo ideal, and chances were good that it was cold, dank and had unnaturally if not unholy extra firm mattresses. There’d be no pleasure possibilities or joy seeking in these rooms ~ especially for those sinners alone in their habitaciónes and quite possibly, talking naughty to half empty tequila bottles.

We compromised, finding a good location, colonial atmosphere, and right price at approximately $30 per night. But instead of tranny’s we had a bout with dry faucets, showerheads and no flush toilets, and as a fair tradeoff for hard beds and evil nuns, I got a bed full of used sheets and a pillow case so covered with black curls from the last rooms’ resident, it appeared as though he had come in with a full, healthy head of hair, and checked out bald, sin plugs. Greg’s room faired a bit better, no hairpiece under the covers, but an area rug that mandated slipping into shoes when stepping out of bed. Other than that, the place was lovely and just down the street, a pastry shop with warm treats that filled our bag with a dozen delights for about one dollar. Sugar and butter and gracious Mexicans make up for many things, even sleeping on used sheets or deciding what body part gets washed with the last of your bottled water.

Note: Guadalajara is known as the birthplace of mariachis, the sombrero, and tequila. There wasn’t a mariachi or sombrero to be found ~ at least we don’t remember them. .

Barra de Navidad y Melaque

We caught an early morning bus for the coast, and actually enjoyed another soothing few hours on the road, passing through breathtaking scenery surrounding the city of Colima ~ a landscape punctuated by heathered violet mountains and jagged volcanic peaks jutting into clouds and fog, then turning at once into a tropical paradise lush with mile after mile of coconut palm and banana plantations. After a brief stop in the port city of Manzanillo, we were off to our dart on the map, Barra de Navidad, a small 17th century harbor village on the Costa Alegre, some three hours south of Puerto Vallarta.

We arrived a bit ahead of schedule getting off in the middle of town, a small cobbled street in Barra, population 5,000, a wave of hot humid air hitting us like a bucket of bath water. In wet jeans, we stood still and dripped, deciding whether to lurch left or right. An elderly gringo clad in what looked like a belted loin cloth from Survivor L.L. Bean and with a breath already smoldering with noon tequila, approached us. When he heard we arrived without reservations he laughed at our naiveté; it was high season after all, the weekend, this small vacation paradise would be tighter than the proverbial Botoxed forehead. He suggested the motel where he was staying and parted with a “good luck.”

As fortune would have it, we did find rooms, well kind of. The first hotel we approached had only one room available, but we needed a second. After much discussion and nervous looks ricocheting back and forth between the front desk clerks, they confirmed they did indeed have a second habitación. Upstairs, in the back and off the street, was a dark cave-like space, above the door an old sign read “reception.” We knew it wasn’t the office but more than likely an employee crash pad cum broom closet cum brothel, but it did have a bed and a bathroom, kind of. The lock on the bathroom door had been ripped off and the door kicked in, but again, there was a mattress. Greg, being the good-humored amigo that he was agreed to the broom closet. “Hey,” he laughed, “at less than fifteen bucks a night and a block from the beach, I can’t complain. Now let’s get the hell out of here and find a beer before I change my mind.”

A pristine strip of white beach, prehistoric rock outcroppings rising from the sea, crashing surf frothing off a turquoise arc of bay, and cold cervezas served to us while we sat on the sand, made thoughts of stifling humidity and a foreboding dungeon hitch a ride on the back of a pelican who glided off, dissipating into the horizon.

If It’s Tuesday, We Must be Siblings

Next stop, Melaque, a more rustic, laid back version of Barra and known for its old hippie expat population. We hopped the local bus for the 5-minute ride around the soft sweep of the bahía. I had seen the hotel website online. Not only was I captivated by balconied rooms overlooking near empty beaches, but the website showed the owner smooching with their pet raccoon and in living color, the resident macaw ~ and a more handsome macaw I had never seen. An animal lover, how could I resist a balcony looking out to sea, empty stretches of coastline, Celadon green waters, and rooms teeming with wildlife? We had no reservations but as we had found, the slumping U.S. economy was wreaking havoc on Mexico as well, hotels and restaurants nearly empty during the height of the tourist season.

The 15 room hotel, however, was nearly full. There was one room left said the gracious owner, a beautiful middle aged Mexican woman who had her hands full with guests, cooking, bartending, kids, and the pair of resident macaws who perched at the entrance, side by side atop the wrought iron archway, greeting visitors with either a loud screech or an unwelcome splat. We opted to enter off to the side, not taking any chances walking beneath the feathered welcome wagon.

The place, funky, quirky, but a lovelier spot we would not find, posed a problem. “We really need two rooms,” we said. “Oh come on,” the owner smirked, “let me show you the room, then you decide. Besides, there are two beds.” This was not a situation we cared to be in. The top floor room was perfect with French doors opening onto a balcony that seemed to float across the beach and sea and a sky filled with pelicans, cormorants and terns.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Why?!” It was killing her not knowing what are problem might be. “He’s my brother,” I lied. “No he’s not!” she insisted. “Well, we’re just friends,” Greg chimed in. The language barrier was posing a problem. “C’mon,” she blurted, not buying any of it. So, we opted for the truth, “Well, we’re not siblings but he’s the husband of my friend who couldn’t be here and he didn’t want to travel alone and my friend suggested I come along, and…” By the look on her face, it was obvious that the truth sounded far more salacious and disgusting than the litany of previous falsehoods, and now weighted with way too much information, hands on hips, she shrugged, “Well then?”

“We’ll take it,” we said. There were two queen beds separated by a partial wall and a bathroom, each sleeping area affording limited privacy. Splitting the sixty dollars for a lovely room with a breathtaking view seemed like a good plan. We’d deal later with the issue of sharing a bathroom that had one small interior window that opened directly at the head of his bed, and things such as snoring or any other abrupt sounds that might rip through the still evening air surrounding two near strangers in a small stuffy hotel room on a humid stretch of coastline. Thank God there were fans near each bed.

Hotel Buena Vista or a Mexican Version of Colette’s Tale Bella-Vista

Unlike Colette’s characters in the hotel along the Mediterranean sea in Bella Vista, the clientele at this small Melaque establishment did not appear to be a mix of transvestites, bird killers and fugitives on the lam. This small group looked more like hard living, fun loving AARP gringos who over the decades had had too much sun, a tad too much tequila, smokes and pot, their combined cigarette chain smoking creating what looked like a constricted fog bank just in front of the hotel.

The complex, a maze of interior and exterior stairways, arched halls, nooks and crannies, and strange antechambers, reeked of weed. The pervasive aroma of marijuana packed a punch, a bite as pungent and as thick as the salt spray and heavier than the sultry coastal air. Walking the grounds, I felt like a mop stoned out of its stick. I didn’t know whether to drag myself across the tiled floor or stay upright, licking the cool stucco walls.

And all the while, I was being stalked by one horny macaw.

Yes, We Have no Frijoles Today

We decided to stay for two nights. It gave us time to relax, enjoy the natural beauty of the area and explore. The hotel’s outdoor restaurant, an open air palapa just steps from the sand, served up tangy margaritas at night, and a delicious breakfast each morning. The menu offered a good selection of Mexican specialties yet when Greg ordered the side of frijoles, the response was rather unexpected. “No! We don’t have any beans! We ran out of frijoles!” the owner chided. “No frijoles?” Greg smiled. How could any kitchen in Mexico run out of beans? Obviously, we had been misinformed. “Beans, beans, beans, that’s all gringos want are beans!” she exclaimed, unapologetically. It was as if he had asked for the Denny’s Grand Slam, an Egg McMuffin and a Starbucks nonfat cappuccino. “Okay,” he laughed, “I’ll have the side of toast.

Following breakfast while Greg took off for a swim, I retreated to the room to sit on the balcony and write. I heard the now familiar flap and energy of wings cutting at moist air, the huge, colorful macaw landing on my balcony ledge. Earlier that day, he had paid me another visit. He was squawking for me and as I stepped out of the room, he sat in wait on the walkway rail then hunkered toward me, stopping just inches from where I stood. Preened and shaved, he gurgled, giving me that flirtatious side swipe grin, his beady, black eyes penetrating mine. I gurgled back. He replied with a more guttural gurgle that seemed too close to regurgitation, or climax, or both. I wasn’t sure. But I could tell just then, he wanted a smoke. He was stalking me no doubt, seeing just how much I might give away, and behind the back of his feathered lady friend. The quirkiness of this place was growing on me, like a sweep of Crayola-colored feathers that had been colored outside the lines.

Beware the Aqua Bar ~ or Flashbacks of the Kiddy Pool

Just off the outdoor restaurant area and abutting the hotel walls was the “terraced” aqua bar, pint-sized pool areas more for cooling off or a light-hearted splash or bum dip when the heat and humidity cause those from more arid climes to flock toward shared wet spots. But upon closer inspection, these Lilliputian ponds appeared not so much for splashing but for relaxing and perhaps relieving oneself even, table-side, with a cocktail while ones lower extremities were submerged and hopefully, in chlorinated waters. A Westerner’s fantasy.

These public piss pots as I saw them, always empty, and rightfully so, made me flash upon my childhood days, swimming lessons at the high school pool. We small guppies would flock to the public pool, shoulder to shoulder, dog paddling and weeing our way from deep end to shallow. It was a child’s paradise; to pee with such reckless abandon in a public pool amongst friends, neighbors and hopefully, the school yard bully, but really more the fact that we couldn’t control our pea-sized bladders and only hoped that our playmates wouldn’t swim into our tiny warm secret, to which, like fish from a shark, we’d swim like mad, dog paddle, back stroke, butterfly from the tainted hot waters and to the cool, clean end of the pool.

So at that moment of “full circle,” I imagined a bevy of strange bums in the shared, still waters of an aqua bar, a handful of elderly gringos knocking back tequila shooters with the probability of weakened bladders and alcohol-related devil-may-care, and in this very small world, wondered if just maybe and unbeknownst to a few, some of the aged bar floaters had been pool playmates so many years ago. Somehow, that made all right with the aqua bar, as long as I wasn’t in it.

Macaw in Love

The morning of our departure, his no longer well-intentioned, amorous gurgling and tortilla tossing were not going unnoticed by his mate/wife/girlfriend/partner/significant other or Rainbow Squeeze. She had had just about enough. She squawked and attempted to pull at the corners of the rolled tortilla held firmly in his claws. They squabbled, beak tousled, got really pissed. His attention toward me and generous offerings of his meal only seemed to fuel her jealousy and as we well know, a jealous macaw is nearly as dangerous as a flirtatious macaw. They are known to mate for life, so his obvious displays of affection for this odd ostrich-looking bird, or la rubia as I’ve been called, all the while rubbing his Rainbow Squeeze’s beak right in it, made the hair on the back of my neck bristle.

I looked down at the bits of tortilla strewn about my feet, his sly display and coy temptation. I stepped aside and looked up and into his sideways glance, sizing him up as I remembered what my parents told me when I was just a fledgling. “Wee Baeolphus Bicolor” (tiny Tufted Titmouse) they said, “Beware the colorful bird in overly bright feathers. The macaw is really only a parrot in a fancier suit. Don’t be blinded by colors that pale the sun. There are plenty of other birds in the jungle.”

Aha! I thought. Finally, after all these decades, I knew what the hell my parents were talking about when they regurgitated what seemed like gibberish from the certifiably insane. They knew that someday I would cross paths with a Don Juan Macaw, and in that moment of clarity, I looked down at the scrap of tortilla that had landed smack dab in the middle of a dollop of macaw crap, and knew I deserved better.

Sometimes when we’re hungry we make do with scraps. But when the real deal comes along, the full meal with all the trimmings, dessert even, we know we’ve found the Real Macaw, and suddenly, crumbs just won’t do.

Back in Barra, Obama and Lavinia

We decided to spend our last seaside night in Barra. We splurged and stayed at the beautiful Hotel Barra de Navidad; huge, clean rooms with balconies above the sand and sea, the deafening crash of waves, swaying coconut palms offering dappled spots of shade across our balconies.

The small town was thick with restaurants, bars, tiendas and small shops selling the usual tourist items from shells to jewelry, t-shirts to ceramics. But it was the true local speciality ~ all things coconut ~ that crowded the shops and were piled high in proud displays on the cobbled walkways. This was coconut territory and from refreshing drinks of coco frio offered along the water’s edge, to thousands of cellophane packages of homemade macaroons and candies, anyone with a weakness for the coconut flake could not resist.

Just outside one particularly modest tienda was a t.v. set. An antiquated model, barely working, had been dragged outside into the somewhat cooler air, and through a mass of tangled cables and wires, was plugged into a highly suspicious looking outlet. The owner of the tienda sat in his rickety plastic share along the narrow sidewalk beneath a thatched roof and mesmerized, watched the inauguration of Barack Obama. It was a sight to behold.

It warranted the purchase of a bag of light, sweet coconut macaroons.

Later at dinner as we sat in the thatched rooftop dining room of a restaurant overlooking a watery sunset of coral and scarlet melting into the darkening bay, we were treated to the remarkable talent of a young local performer, Lavinia Negrete, whose smooth, sultry voice and guitar capped a perfect adventure for two, now good friends.

A Thousand Splendid Macaroons

We had taken a leap of faith and were not disappointed. We had been rewarded by the always generous and friendly Mexican people, a bounty of glorious land and seascapes, more than we could have wished for in accommodations and services. Sometimes, the most wonderful experiences and memories come when one has no plan, no expectations or real destination. It’s the tossing of the stone across the water’s surface, the kite released into the wind ~ the getting there, and the lovely surprise that awaits is what a leap of faith is all about. It’s about the beautiful found shell along an empty stretch of beach, smooth and perfect, that we admire but leave behind for the next ~ knowing that someday we shall return, and find another.

In my suitcase heading home, I carried one small thing ~ a bag of tiny suns, sweet mounds of coconut ~ all I would need once back in town to remind me of the lightness of the leap.

* Para mi familia ~ mi hermana Janice y mi hermano Greg aka Tao ~ gracias.

** The Mexican bus line ETN offered the finest, cleanest buses and service I’ve ever experienced. Recommended places to stay in Barra or Melaque: The Hotel Barra de Navidad; large, clean rooms with king beds and balconies jutting across the sand, private beach, pool, restaurant, approx. $60 U.S. per night; and the Hotel San Felipe in Melaque, small family-run establishment, beautiful oceanfront rooms, good restaurant, very private beach, friendly and gracious owners, sea front rooms with balcony, some with kitchenettes at approx. $60 U.S. per night. Fabulous view, seafood and live music at The Sea Master restaurant off the main street in Barra, where we had the privilege of listening to the remarkable talent of Lavinia Negrete, click on her link to hear a few cuts from her CD, well worth your time:

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A native Californian, Jan Baumgartner is a freelance writer dividing her time between surviving in Maine and living in Mexico. Her background includes scriptwriting, comedy writing for the Northern California Emmy Awards in S.F., and travel writing for The New York Times. She has worked as a grant writer for the non-profit sector in the fields of academia, AIDS, and wildlife conservation and anti-poaching for NGO's in the U.S. and Africa. Her articles and essays have appeared in numerous online and print publications including the NYT, Bangor Daily News, SCOOP New Zealand, Wolf Moon Journal, Media for Freedom Nepal, and Banderas News in Mexico. Her writings on Mexico will be included in the new literary journal, Lady Jane (San Francisco Bay Press, 2009). She's finishing a memoir about her husband's death from ALS and how travels in Africa became one of her greatest sources of inspiration. She is a Managing Editor for OpEdNews. www.opednews.com/author/author2241.html

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