Thatched palapas, beach side restaurants, fishing boats taut between anchors holding the stern fast in the sea and a second rope stretched from the bow and tied to a palm tree. Kids were swimming in the surf. Parents watched as the sun set. It was all here. Two small hotels, a plaza, a second street, bungalows at the beach and hillside bungalows, or maybe condominiums, some old, some new and expensive.

From Puerto Vallarta to Manzanillo it was a long, winding drive on a good highway, uncongested, only inconvenienced by an occasional truck, bus or pickup that was going even slower than the Grand Marquis.

Curves and sunlight shadows feathering through the canopy of tropical trees gave the drive a mystical eerie sense of being on the road to somewhere and to nowhere.

Then I'd hit an open area, leaving the dappled tunnel, for a wide view of planted corn, or bananas among coconut palms silhouetted by cone shaped mountains. Mountains met the sea. Peninsula arms formed coves and sporadic roadside signs printed Playa (beach) pointed west.

And then the sun began to set. I looked at my watch, it was 6:30 and Manzanillo was far off, at least 2 hours away. I stopped at an open aired restaurant for a quick Pepsi, the men's room, and to ask about how long before I'd reach Manzanillo.

The Pepsi stop turned into a meal stop. As I was ordering I could smell the breaded shrimp frying and I asked the cook if I could get a half order. She gave me a big smile and quickly brought the still sizzling shrimp on a plate with an avocado and tomato salad plus tortillas doradas. The light meal was tasty perfection, but it cost me another few minutes as the sun dipped lower.

I got back into the Grand Marquis. There was no traffic. Then as if in answer to a silent hope, a hotel sign in blue, pointed west, one kilometer it said.

I turned down a mystery road. Was it paved dirt, or dirt once paved? If paved, it was now topped with sand and blown earth, but maybe it was just hard, beaten earth with a few stones on the surface.

The road took me to a seaside village and I thought I had arrived on the movie set for MGM`s South Pacific.

All it lacked were sailors in white.

Thatched palapas, beach side restaurants, fishing boats taut between anchors holding the stern fast in the sea and a second rope stretched from the bow and tied to a palm tree. Kids were swimming in the surf. Parents watched as the sun set. It was all here. Two small hotels, a plaza, a second street, bungalows at the beach and hillside bungalows, or maybe condominiums, some old, some new and expensive.

This was a strange land populated by people with strange stories. How did they find this spot of Eden? Is this the refuge of old hippies or the hope for young rebels?

At the end of the main street there was a hotel. It was satisfactory, close to the beach and the sand. But it only had a ceiling fan and I had hoped for some air-conditioning. Martin, the manager showed me a room and when I asked about the air-conditioning he suggested the Posada Tonalá.

The air-conditioning at Posada Tonalá was a swamp cooler, the old evaporator and water drip type cooler more suited for a dry climate. But Raquel, the owner-manager, turned on the two fans, the cooler and gave her blessing to the breeze.

I took the room. $250 pesos ($22.50) and wondered if my California plates had added an extra 50 pesos to the bill. But the room was spit-shined clean with bright new tile in both the bedroom and bath.

Next to the Posada Tonalá was Jolanda's Cafe. Leon and Jolanda were Dutch and ran a cafe on the ground floor, mainly beer and sofa drinks. Second floor, the kitchen on the right and 4 computers, internet service on the left, and the third floor, the roof top, a restaurant, open air, thatched roofed, and a view of the sunset, main street, plaza and beach.

"How did you ever end up here," I asked Jolanda. "We were motor cycling around the world. We had been through Asia and Australia. Then we came to Mexico. We came down the coast, and we stopped here. We loved it. We stayed. We've been here four years." Jolanda didn't look like a biker, but somehow I could imagine her and Leon holding on to a big Harley. She was marked with the attitude of independence and a touch of "so what."

Howard Carter was a short term resident. I met him at Martin's hotel. His Spanish had not advanced beyond the dictionary, yet when I stepped into Martin's patio, Howard was singing "Old MacDonald" to Martin's daughter and trying to get her to imitate the farm animal cries.

I saw him again at supper on Jolanda's roof top restaurant. Howard ordered spaghetti and meatballs. "Jolanda will fix anything you like that she knows and has the makings." Eating spaghetti and meatballs in a Mexican restaurant with the fishing fleet yards away, gave me ironic joy.

It seemed so right, and so out of place that it was unquestioningly Mexican to me.

Howard was down from Portland, Oregon. He came with a friend who was building a dream vacation home piece-by-piece, year-by-year as time and money allowed.

"What do you do in Portland?" I asked. "I sell illegal fireworks." I wasn't sure if he were joking.

"How did you get into that?"

"A telephone call. A friend of mine met this guy with a pick-up truck stuffed full of every possible fireworks you can explode. I called and the first question this guy asked was, "Are you a cop?"

"I'm not a cop" I said. And I got into the fireworks business. I shoot them off for special occasions, wedding, celebrations. I don't sell to, you know, irresponsible types. Guys that would drop a cherry bomb in a mail box for fun."

"Do you have a supplier in Mexico?" I had read that families in Mexico specialized in manufacturing fireworks. "No, I get them from the reservation. That's where the pickup truck got them. The chief likes me. I buy them in Washington."

Howard said, "Time goes slow here." We were seated next to a couple and the conversation was now 4 ways. At the next table there was a fellow Canadian from Vancouver. His girl friend, younger, quiet, was from Cuernavaca. She didn't fill-in any details.

Howard insisted that his watch, "15 dollars at Wal-Mart, a good watch," actually kept time but went slower in Mexico. "I look at the watch", he showed me stretching out his arm, "it says 10 a.m., I'm on the beach, I order a couple of beers, watch the waves, three hours go by, I look at the watch, it's 11 a.m. " The Canadian and his girl laughed.

I asked the Canadian, "What brought you here?" He's a biker he says. Bicycle not motor. He tells me that he loves to bike in Canada but the weather limits his season. So when he read an ad for a group tour from Puerto Vallarta to Manzanillo, he caught a plane in January and came touring down the coast with 13 in a pack.

"The heat nearly killed me. The first day was out of Puerto Vallarta and it's all up-hill. By the time we got down here, about 8 days, we stopped for lunch on the beach. It was hot and beautiful. And when the group got on their bikes. I said, 'I'm going to have a couple of more beers,' and I stayed."

Howard moved his chair back. It scooted and scraped the floor with some sand grit. Jolanda closed at 10 p.m. and it was past closing. She hadn't said a thing. "Next week I'll be back in Portland," Howard sounded regretful.

"But Howard," I said, "You're on Mexican time. When you get off that plane in Portland, look at the calendar, it will say April 2009." We all laughed and said goodnight.

This story is from my Forty Days in Mexico.
The previous story in the series is Huichol Indian Cultural Center Santiago Ixcuintla.
The next story in the series is A Surprise Behind the Curtain.