In Search of a Gringo Free Mexico

Or, A Week in Manzanilla

Far removed from the shouts of street hawkers and the gaggle of American tourists, lies a tiny, Mexican beach town on the Costa Alegre, popular with families from Guadalajara. Here, visits to ATM machines must be strategically planned, self-taught Spanish might possibly get you by, and when you order Agua expecting to receive a glass of water, the essence of life, you might get coconut milk which says a little something about the essence of life in the rural beach towns of Mexico.

My husband and I dreamed of finding a place beyond the gringo-invaded resort towns and the carefully managed tourist experience.

We found what we wanted in La Manzanilla, a village of about 1,000 residents 3 hours south of Puerto Vallarta. Each morning, we sat on the patio of our rented beach cottage and watched the beach slowly awake as the restaurant owners set out their tables and colorful umbrellas. We’d kayak and snorkel, then return to enjoy a plate of ceviche by the beach. In the evenings, we’d walk down to the Zocalo (town square). Sleepy during the day, the Zocalo took me by surprise the first night – it springs alive well after I’d be in bed if I were home. The locals emerge from their shaded shelters, dressed up, laughing, listening to the live music and playing games with their kids.

So much happiness.

The journey to La Manzanilla was as fun as the destination. We flew into Puerto Vallarta and rented a small convertible roughly the size of a refrigerator. The 2-lane highway that winds along the shoreline and crosses the open plains to the Costa Alegre wove us through numerous small towns with sporadic glimpses and freeze frames of Mexican life as they blurred past us, or rather as we blurred past them, careening in our sideways refrigerator.

Not being planners, or thinkers for that matter, we found ourselves on the evening we arrived, with 40 pesos (approx $4) in our pockets and the nearest ATM machine about 20 kilometers south. I thought our first real Mexican dinner would have to be saltines and peanut butter but little did we know we were in for the best dinner of the trip. We found a little roadside cart just off the Zocalo with a man busily grilling aromatic seasoned meats. I managed in my very limited Spanish – ie the Spanish I taught myself on the flight down – to order for us. Our 40 pesos got us a plate each of pork tacos with onion, cilantro, lime and sea salt, plus a beer, and even a glass of coconut milk.

By the end of the week, I had learned to buy freshly made tortillas at the tortilleria, and to negotiate for fish fresh off the skiff that just returned from sea. Time felt like it stood still, and I relished this as I lazily put on my flip-flops and walked to the corner store for a six-pack of Pacificos. I felt a jolt as the shop owner turned to help me, revealing his Krispy Kreme t-shirt from Spokane, Washington.

Well, it was time to go home anyway.

Lisa Gerber is a PR practitioner in Sandpoint, Idaho. She flies in and out of Spokane, Washington International Airport. Sigh. She blogs about PR and business here but she wants to be a travel writer when she grows up.

Why I like this story: Because it’s got that “No matter where you go, there you are” kind of twist. Globalization, it’s unavoidable.