Say You Love Me, Sayulita

A stand of palm trees etched a silhouette against the last trace of sunset. We stopped for a moment on our hike into town to try to capture this photograph. Behind the palms a jetty of land stretched into the ocean. Clouds shrouded the true sunset and a blanket of soft darkness covered the sand and sky, water and rock. Mostly black and grey in the faded evening light, Sayulita, Mexico softened its edges for effect. Paradise in twilight offered itself before us. We stopped almost by instinct to witness and confirm a moment that came easy in the viewing, but so complex in understanding. The day, and indeed the entire week, settled into this moment’s memory, and that photograph is now a shared slice of history, all completely true and full of misconception.

Sayulita is the hot new destination in Mexico. Supposedly savvy tourists, longing to know what Puerto Vallarta was like thirty years ago, are discovering this quaint fishing and surfing village 20 miles north of the airport. Brochures and Internet blogs paint a lovely picture. Here is the real, authentic Mexico and way of life. The vacation homes are beautiful and tastefully decorated. The beach is clean, the waves are good, and the nightlife is original and fun. You would think most every good restaurant in Mexico had pulled up stakes and moved to Sayulita, from the sound of some articles. Sayulita is the sexy, mysterious new girl in school and the boys are checking her out. We found her in the palm tree photograph. But be warned, sometimes Sayulita can be coy and fickle. She is not, and never will be, “your girl.”

In travel, we agree on shared impressions more than fact. All history, and certainly travel, is interpretation. Who knows what truth is in a week’s visit? Tourists find what they look for. Dark palm trees are an instant warm magic and gentle balm to balance reality. We wanted a trip metaphor, and the twilight coughed up a shoreline and lacy palm branches. A clouded sun and busy surf played their part. For a moment, we were not coddled Americans tourists, out-of shape and constantly expecting to be served. And, for her part, Sayulita gave up her ubiquitous dust, barking dogs, constant challenges and menacing darkness. Time sputtered, then stopped. The miles that separate us from understanding a moment, ourselves, and other cultures simply collapsed. Improbably and fantastically we came face to face with our expectations. This is the gift of exploration. You find the prize and it’s everything - and nothing - that you wanted. We stood in silence and took our photograph. Later that same night, we ate one of the great meals of our lives in an open courtyard under crimson bougainvillea and blazing stars. Sayulita, Mexico offers both love and torment without promise. We offered back our best and took a photo like any good tourist should do.

Taxi to Sayulita
-or How We Learned We Were Not In Missouri Anymore

Be warned that when your plane lands in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico you will be besieged by earnest people hawking every dream of Mexico you have ever had. Time-shares on the beach, fantastic voyages to exotic islands, and zip lines through the jungle. Cheap treasures and romance at every turn are all just pesos away. Keep moving. Your job once off the plane is to find transportation. You will come to a booth where you must make a choice - official taxi or off-airport-save-money taxi. Supposedly the official taxi is the safer/easier way to go, even if it costs a few pesos more. We found out that was not the case for us. Here is our story.

“It is a problem for me,” Marcos said in his broken English.
He pointed to his watch and then pushed his palms into the steering wheel of his Mexican taxicab. In any language, you could tell Marcos was not happy. My Spanish was worse than broken.
“Por favor, hablo (Please, I talk) con su jeffe (with your boss). Primero, vamanos (first, we go to) Sam’s Club, y segundo, (and second) vamanos a la Sayulita (we go to Sayulita), es verdad (is the truth).” I actually gave my own English translations to my horrendous Spanish.
Marcos pointed at his watch. “400 mas pesos, por favor. Is problem for me.”
I already had paid 650 pesos, 500 pesos for the trip to Sayulita from Puerto Vallarta, and 150 pesos for the stop at Sam’s Club. I had been very careful to make sure everybody knew where we wanted to go and had not questioned the price.
Now, it was just Marcos and me in the cab, and that understanding was lost. Matthew and his mom were inside buying beer, tequila and anything else useful to a week’s residence in Mexico. These complex international negotiations had been going for 20 minutes by now. Months of careful planning, reading and preparations were helplessly falling into the cultural cracks of reality. “Who comes to a new country and makes their first stop at Sam’s Club?” I thought to myself. I can barely work my way through life in Liberty, MO. Why did I think this would be different, I wondered?
“No mas dinero!” I said digging the hole deeper. Something in me felt a fair bargain had been reached, and now I wanted to stand on that sinking hole.
Marcos signed and checked the rear view mirror. “Es problem para me,” he said, and showed me the receipt he had been given. It had 500 pesos written on it, and nothing about Sam’s Club. I sighed and looked desperately for Kathy and Matt.
“Vamanos a la Sayulita, OK (We go to Sayulita), “tip” para usted (and there is a tip for you); pero primero, vamanos al la Sayulita (but first we go to Sayulita),” I said knowing I was butchering Marcos’s language. But now, fairness was not the issue. I just wanted to make it to Sayulita without forever paying and promising as I went.
“400 Pesos!” Marcos said.
“Tip,” I said, “Grande tip a Sayulita,” hoping it made any sense. Now it was really tense. Marcos was making two fists on his steering wheel.
I caved in.
“Marcos, estoy un hombre, bueno (I am a good man). Tu es un hombre bueno (you are a good man). Es me famialia vacationes (It is my family vacation). Quiero vacationes estar simpatico para me esposa y me nino (I want the vacation to be good for my wife and child). No problemos. (No problems, and here I put my two fists together as a gesture). “Vamanos a la Sayulita. Grande tip. Verdad.” (We go to Sayulita, big tip, I promise).
Marcos stared hard into my eyes, and then his whole presence changed. He smiled and lifted up his palms as if saying, “What’s a person to do?”
“No problems”, he said. “Vamanos a la Sayulita. He shook my hand, and then the only tension left in the cab was in me.

Matthew and Kathy returned, laughing and excited; and we loaded beer, tequila and prune granola bars into the cab. I tried to alert Kathy to the issue with the taxi, but by now, Marcos was smiling and helping, moving on to another part of the day.

We traveled a city highway and out into the hills. Lush jungle claimed our attention as the first of many sites we had not seen before. Marcos wanted to talk, and all of us matched Spanish and English ideas as best we could. Our packed taxi raced around traffic like a miniature NASCAR winner on the final lap. The exhilaration of putting oneself “on the line” and shifting perspective and expectation with the car’s gears was amazing. Things went so well, Kathy even asked if Marcos would come back to pick us up in a week.

And then we were off the highway, going over a small stone bridge, and finding Sayulita right before our eyes. Narrow, crowded streets and an assault of people, movement, dust and decisions do not make for a thoughtful arrival or transition. Bags, boxes, bottles and people were unloaded like abandoned refugees. It was time to resolve the tension of Sam’s Club’s parking lot, and Marcos and I struck our deal. His broad smile and generous hug meant the tide had turned for good.

The search for our house and house manager was opened in earnest, but would not be resolved easily – until Marcos claimed the role of unexpected guiding force. To be certain he could find us for our return trip to the airport, he offered to take us to the house. A frenetic exchange of information between Marcos and a local real estate agent produced the bare bones of directions. We re-packed and re-claimed our taxi and headed to the north end of town. Our road was gouged by deep ruts. Street signs were haphazard in appearance – if around at all. Key landmarks came into site, and we began climbing what would become a very well-known hill. Then we were there – Casa Kai. A two-story palapa-roofed house, nestled against the hillside, facing the ocean.

The Sense of Sayulita
-- or How to Leave Expectations and Find a Gift

Sayulita, Mexico is a town of contradictions to any hometown North America sensibilities. The beach is astonishingly beautiful. Palm trees grow at water’s edge. Clouds linger in the deep blues of ocean and air, whimsically dismantling our cherished concepts of time and space. Time becomes a function of sunlight and stars unmarked by minutes, hours or days. You lose track, and once free, the privileges of living fully in each moment are offered without charge. There is no reality quite like the present.

Sayulita, Mexico is also sweating out-of-shape and overdressed tourists lugging huge suitcases on cobbled dusty roads; each worried sick about the safety of their priceless possessions and who will be there to meet them in the next seven minutes and 16 seconds. These earnest, untested, and gullible Internet travelers’ first impression of Sayulita is most often: “My God, what have I gotten my family and friends into!?” After that first impression, Sayulita is a beach town mixed with taut young surfers, free spirits and locals in an eclectic gumbo of extremes and world/life views. Savvy, free roaming dogs, claim full ownership of the town and everything in it. The ubiquitous dust, a base layer of beach sand, and an open sewer of a river/lagoon give the town a third world feel and odor that is at first alarming and shocking. Your ability to enjoy what is beautiful about Sayulita will be dominated by this first impression. From then on, your vacation will be judged by how by much these trials become irrelevant.

There is, on the other hand, so much to enjoy in Sayulita. So much is authentic. It is a real paradise at times. Birds roam morning skies to the calming presence of almost perfect surfing waves. At no time, ever, is anyone rude or pushing. We never felt afraid walking in town, or coming and going. Dogs bark, birds sing, and people offer their presence to a faithful warming sun. Winds blow in and out, and the day turns.

What is urgent in another life is not important here; and the important things are not urgent in Sayulita. Our deeply ingrained otherworld biases; the need to keep track of every little thing, to make comprehensive lists, to plan away spontaneity, or keep a constant sharp focus on today’s goals falter and then lose purpose and meaning. As a result, books get read, hands get held, blow driers turn off, and sports/news fades in meaning. The once necessary winter garments of protection and regret are left on the hanger. Walking five blocks to use the phone seems just about right, a proper trade for privacy. A daily drink of tequila to greet the sunset seems as normal as the now standard afternoon nap. Each day a few more closely held notions are shed. The talk among friends becomes more open and natural. A live-and-let-live mentality smoothes down the rough edges of relationships. You discover you need each other again and remember why you were drawn together in the first place. Lovers make love for no reason at all.

I think it was Tuesday when I got sick. My bowels groaned and bloated; streaks of heat and sweat lined my forehead. A dull ache settled in my head and the walk to town on the dusty cobblestones became unbearable. Miniature dams broke on the hour, signaling pain and brief relief. The diarrhea drove me to the bed next to the bathroom. An orange and black centipede-like bug waited on my bed to sting my foot. The misery index rose. By sunset I could not open my eyes and slipped in and out of sweat and cold -- the new passing of time.

You do not flush toilet paper in Sayulita, and the house water heater, like everything else in town, including electricity, worked occasionally. In attempts to remain human, I took shockingly cold showers to a full stadium of cheering jungle bugs. Another round of diarrhea would hit. My eyes closed. The only reality left was sound - the steady roll of ocean waves. The cacophony of waves became dump trucks, trains, loose boulders, landing planes, and terrorist bombs all rolling in through the darkness of my imagination. Slowly, however, each fear and ache was ground down to the fine sand of an alternative meaning. The hard rocks of pain and broken shells of disappointment were churned into a level layer of walkable sand. The sound of the ocean eventually defined hope and continuation. It washed out the impurities. I slept unaware and at peace; still sick but attended to, and calmed by, the sound of the ocean waves.

In the end it was the ocean and the promise of seeing whales that marked a truce with Montezuma and his revenge. Thursday morning we were to go out on a boat to visit an island, snorkel, fish and see whales. Montezuma granted a day’s truce based on sheer mind over matter.

The first whale we saw seemed to be a lumbering spinal chord sewing its way though inky water. Fidel, our boat captain guided the five us along side the enormous creature. Fidel was as real as the ocean, and he could tell we were delighted and a bit afraid to be so close to earth’s largest living creature. That same day Fidel led us on visits to ocean islands and private beaches, snorkeling in flowerbeds of colorful fish, and then we watched in awe as Fidel caught us foot long fish for bait to fish the open ocean waters. From Fidel’s boat we could see that along the shoreline new house after new house lined the once pristine beach.

The second whale was a youngster swimming playfully next to its mom. While mom threaded her way in a slow undulation, the calf leaped out of the water, it’s entire head lifted above the water line. By now four boats were following, cameras popping. We pointed and wowed, clapped approval, treating nature as our circus show.

They say Sayulita is what Puerto Vallarta was 30 years ago. Zoning laws forbid the high rise beach hotels of the south in Banderas Bay, but it is clear things are changing. As if sensing things were getting too crowded here, Fidel left the entourage of boats following the mother whale and its calf and we headed for home. It was a jarring ride in rough water going home, and we were quiet. The cost of convenience was on my mind. The dirty, rocky roads of Sayulita were a price we paid for this moment. The cold showers, loss of electricity, bugs, raw odors, disorientation, sickness and bad water had been a down payment. Our collective memory now holds a day on the ocean with Fidel in an era that is slipping away. The young calf, lifting its head out of the water as if to watch for its mother hangs in my mind’s eye. Who will know these things when the last house is built? the last fish is caught? and people move on once again? The ride home is a wonder to me.

I cannot say I am sorry enough to my family. Our long dreamed vacation was not what we expected. The help our homeowner promised was not available. The Sayulita on the Internet and travel books is all coded in messages I did not understand. We were, at first, just not ready for the bigger journey that we took. So we hung in. We called our setbacks adventures. We found great restaurants. We lost our cool and then found our peace. We named the bugs in the bathroom and tried to tame the geckos on the wall. I fished out the misplaced toilet paper and admitted to my fears that I had ruined everyone’s long-awaited vacation.

To my everlasting thanks and appreciation, nobody in the family seems too mad, and I think I need to get well and get over it. I was the clueless Internet traveler, flabby and over-packed, wanting to be served and coddled, but the rest of my family was better that that. We took our lickings, but we did not spoil in the heat. Instead of bitter we got better. I was proud to be with my family, especially my sister and brother in law.

We all took bets on whether Marcos would return at the end of our week. Kathy was the only one to truly believe he would come; I had contingency plans in my head so we could still get back for our plane. Kathy first heard the car crunching gravel in the driveway. And looking over the wall upstairs, we saw Marcos, fresh and smiling and ready to handle the chore of returning us to reality.

Driving back to Puerto Vallarta with our new friend, we conversed in broken Spanish and communicated rather well. We ventured into politics, families and the beauty of Mexico, which brought forth Marcos’ deep pride in his country. We talked food and found that he had been a chef and loved to cook. In a deeply generous gesture, Marcos invited us to join him at his home, meet his family, and share a meal – “one year from today; you come to my house; big fiesta.” It was a high honor, and we cheered the opportunity to dream of drinking cervezas and indulging in Mexican specialties together. Should it be hard to leave your taxi driver at the end of a trip?? There is a special joy in finding the goodness in people in unusual places. We received this unique gift gratefully – and parted with genuine affection shared among us.

“It is a problem for me” Marcos had told us that first day in the taxi at Sam’s Club. But then he dropped it, and we became friends. We learned to drop a lot of things in those seven vacation days, and now it feels good to tell the story. Say hello to Sayulita for us if you ever get a chance to go there. Capture the photograph that tells your story and send it on. Accept what is given without too many preconditions. I put too many expectations on Sayulita. She was on a pedestal no vacation would ever deliver. Sayulita was to be the surfing safari of my youth; the Girl From Ipanema walking on the beach, sunsets with green flashes; and the honeymoon we never really took. I wanted to show my in-laws how “cool” I was; instead, they showed me how to be “cool.” I expected to hike for miles on bum knees and it never occurred to me that I was the one who would get sick. This was to be my retirement celebration after 35 years in education. This was to be my time. This was to be all about me. “It was a problem for me!”

“Say you love me Sayulita,” I had whispered in my dreams. She did not whisper back. Instead, there is a photograph of palm trees against a clouded and setting sun. Take what is offered the travel books say. All this obvious truth that I should have learned so long ago lingers now in this photograph. The beautiful Mexican girl, Sayulita, had looked me in the eye, held my every expectation, and then given me only what she had to offer. The photograph we took that January night was a mirror of my self-centered expectations. What I saw that evening was not all that I had wanted, but it was more than I had hoped to find. Sayulita did not say she loved me, but she did hold my hand. For an old guy who had behaved so badly, just the chance to learn about another culture and way of doing things meant a lot. The Mexican night turned all purple and dark with guitar music and flowers riding the evening waves. Here I danced with Sayulita.

We now hear there are islands off of Costa Rica with great surfing where you can see both an ocean sunrise and sunset on the same day. There are beautiful beaches for hiking and the fishing is fantastic. But now I think, who needs the pressure of all those expectations. Now I’m thankful for the chance and health to go anywhere, and the hope my family and friends can come along. Whatever is offered will be more than I expected. Whatever small pleasures we get will be our gift. If we are offered a picture, we’ll pass it on.