PIE DE LA CUESTA, Mexico
There are times when life at the pace of a swaying hammock is just
the thing. And when that time comes, Pie de la Cuesta is the place.
It's the off-the-beaten-track alternative to the foam parties, discos
and gringo-ized thrum of Acapulco, just a half-hour away, where Hooters
and McDonald's face off across the concrete towers of the strip's hotel
row.
Here, the main attractions are watching the waves from a long stretch
of golden beach; sunsets; and slowing down enough to learn the local
custom of swinging the afternoon away in a hammock.
Perfect weather calls for an exploration of the freshwater lagoon on
the other side of the peninsula, in one of the innumerable launches
available from lagoon-side restaurants.
My destination is the locally famous Polita's, a restaurant reached
by boat, where 77-year-old Polita herself offers mud-pack cures along
with fish in garlic or chili sauce barbecued over a fire stoked with
coconuts split with an axe.
One of the best parts is getting there: Metro has nothing on the
ingenious, endlessly entrepreneurial transportation options of
small-town Mexico.
We ride along at a stately 10 miles an hour, just perfect for
watching life in Pie de la Cuesta go by: Branches of hibiscus blossoms
wave in the breeze; pigs trot by; chickens stroll; the ubiquitous,
free-range dogs stretch out and snooze in the dust, and front yards are
strewn with the brilliant litter of fallen bougainvillea petals.
Once at La Barra Cayuca a little light haggling wins me the services
of Armando Aparicio, a local fisherman with the profile of an Aztec god,
my captain for the afternoon for 150 pesos, or about US$15.
Aparicio commands a wooden boat painted bright teal, with a thatched
roof to rebuff the afternoon sun and a venerable outboard. He starts it
with a string he takes from his pocket after several furiously energetic
pulls.
We cruise the jade lagoon stalked by snowy white egrets until
Aparicio spies a large swathe of water plants with purple flowers. He
jumps overboard, and picks me an armful. Mexican machismo has its
pluses.
Soon Polita's comes into view, announced by plumes of barbecue smoke
and the bleating of sheep not yet barbecue size.
Once ashore we discover Hipolita Zuniga Valle - Polita herself -
painting mud that dries to a military fatigue green on the faces of Lori
and Matt Peck of Atlanta, here taking an afternoon off from water-ski
classes in Acapulco.
"It takes the sunburn right out of you," says Lori, a
devotee of Polita's cure.
Piglets scratch their rumps with a jaunty scritch-scritch against a
towering pile of coconuts split for the fire. Valle's restaurant has no
electricity; there's a cooler for drinks, a cistern for water and
coconuts for fuel.
Her daughters get cracking on my lunch of barbecued snapper in a
garlicky chile sauce, served with wedges of lime, sea salt and fresh
tortillas roasted on the grill. How delightful to sit under the palms,
eating this meal, listening to Polita's roosters crow, all the while
cooled by a steady breeze from the lagoon.
We head back to Pie de la Cuesta in time for the nightly sunset
ritual, when it seems the whole town turns out on the beach to watch the
sky flame. Unlike Acapulco, where headlands hem in the view of the
sunset, here the majestic procession unfolds unobstructed, the sun
dropping into the sea amid clouds blazing apricot and peach.
Barefoot caballeros, none older than 12, offer horseback rides along
the sea's edge, and the locals kick a soccer ball in the golden sand.
The village dogs come out to join us on the beach, where they continue
their complex and unending negotiations of rank and turf.
Local teenage boys defy the ripping undertow and steep, dumping
waves, charging beyond the surf line to float, spread-eagled, up the
aquamarine slope of the waves, their bodies backlit by the sun. Slick as
seals, they slide down the other side of the waves that slip out from
under them to roar on and break closer in.
As the sun sets, gilding the water and wet sand, great flocks of
zanates, a grackle-like bird, swirl across the sky in undulating
ribbons, making their nightly pilgrimage back from the lagoon. In the
morning they will repeat this migration, flying so close over my porch I
hear their wings rustle from my pillow.
Beach vendors, part of the nightly sunset ritual, peddle everything
from hammocks to woven baskets, sailing ships, and cut-up fresh fruit.
I save my appetite for ceviche at Restaurant Tres Marias
My third day it occurs to me it's time to enjoy what brings most
people here in the first place, a day at the beach. Armed with a straw
hat with a brim big around as a large pizza, a liter of water and
sunscreen one step short of wearing aluminum foil, I head out to the
beach.
I quickly discover two things:
The sun, even in February, is hot as a welding torch. And any woman
alone in Mexico is assumed by any passing male to be dying to be asked
"Are you alone?" and "Where is your husband?"
Good as this is for my middle-age ego, it does interfere with my
attempt to go native and nap.
Clearly, it was time to try the hammocks slung for us daily by the
good folks, up there in the shade of the thatched palapa.
I soon learn why I see hammocks in use everywhere in Pie de la
Cuesta, as the breeze wafts most sweetly through the loosely woven
fabric, and the hammock ticks back and forth with its hypnotic, manana
motion.
After a few hours of this, it's a tribute to journalistic resolve
that I can rouse myself at all, to go check out the market, the
heartbeat of this tiny village.
Open every day until noon, the market is one more way it seems
Mexicans have a knack for life far better than we do. Stack up, if you
will, the experience of that shopping cart tour of duty at the local
fluorescent-lit grocery against the open-air carnival of scents, sounds,
visiting and flavors that are the market stalls of Mexico.
I walk past great piles of fresh cilantro; tables mounded with bags
of local sea salt, and a stand festooned with plucked chickens, bright
yellow and hanging by their feet from a wire. Kids' clothing, pigs'
heads, clay cook pots, whatever, it's all here for the buying.
It's at the market that I get my idea for my last night's dinner in
Pie de la Cuesta, and it is the best yet: Barbecued chicken, bought
along with its searing chili sauce from a street vendor; fresh limes;
sea salt; and ripe avocado from the market stands.
I eat this on my terrace, by the light of candles purchased for 5
pesos, ripping into the chicken, juicy and delicious with liberal
dousings of the coarse salt, fresh lime and chile sauce. I devour four
pieces in no time, along with the entire avocado, then lie down in my
hammock just in time to watch the zanates begin their evening pilgrimage
just overhead.
As the sea purrs in the background, the local greeting in Pie de la
Cuesta comes to mind.
Here, when people say, "How are you?" ("Como estas?")
the customary answer is "Aqui estamos." ("We are
here.")
And the rejoinder: "Que bueno":
"How very good."
