We’re riding from Nuevo Vallarta to Sayulita in Jalisco, Mexico, passing a cemetery. Flowers, wreaths, paintings and mausoleums with decorated walls mark the gravestones. Pinks, reds, blues and yellows drip across the sloping cemetery; it’s a celebration.
Like the rest of Mexico– the Mexico I’ve seen — even death does not stop the color. It’s still cloudy, humid and gloriously tropical– not the Denver chill that’d normally rattle my bones during the first week of the new year.
We drove through Bucerias’ busy main drag and commercial district. New construction is everywhere–enough to make me ponder new beginnings and a life as a purse maker selling her wares at the La Cruz farmers’ market on the marina. Still, dilapidated properties dot the frontage roads– walls fall and weeds monopolize.
Concrete is common and many homes, stores and businesses are mere boxes, some with tiled walls and intricate facade, others water stained and institutional gray.
Mexico’s Route 200 weaves through misty jungle, home of jaguars, before the left turn on Av Revolucion to Sayulita.
Sayulita is the “Alcupolco for gypsies.” Shops of all sorts rise from the boardwalk up the hill toward homes stacked among the foothills. A shopper’s delight, Sayulita is a bustling place to stock up on beautiful handmade clothing, housewares and crafts.
We couldn’t leave without a few Pacificos, a Choco Banana and a long browse through Estudio Galeria Liz y Luriel, “the best art in the Pacific Coast.”
Lurial’s art stopped me in my tracks — his paintings carve a knife through a facade of good fortune and safety. His pieces asked, “are you the devil in disguise?” — complete with mirror. Christ mourned the new year of 2000, shoulders rounded, face in his palm, next to a heroin needle in the dirt. Where have the past 2,000 years gone?
A final stop in a darkened accessory store yielded a wonderful find: an orange wool handbag with hand stitching. At $20 US, I wouldn’t leave it behind, despite marks of age.
The pleasant store owner bargained, smiled and offered a plastic bag to carry it. “No gracias,” I said, and we headed to San Pancho.
San Francisco was renamed San Pancho, and surfers know this town well.
New development lines the streets of this quiet town that boasts the best sunsets in Mexico. It’s quaint, full of bed and breakfasts– and quite well appointed.
We found tasty margaritas and fish tacos at a restaurant called Baja, recently opened by owners Jerry and Julio.
An overcast day and waning holiday traffic provided us a clear view of San Pancho’s sleepy aura, jackfruit tree-lined streets and neighbors slowly gathering on front porches. Jerry lived in San Pancho for four years and attributes his excellent English to a childhood in Colorado.
I could live in San Pancho. I still dream of the beaches with waves that smack and crush the sand in curly rolls that give San Pancho its surfing fame. It also takes its place among sunset favorites with rocky peninsulas of Sayulita in the south and a dramatic cliff with bone-white monoliths.
Fine homes in concrete brick and stone line the steep, sandy beach, which give way to tented restaurant tables and more iced buckets of Pacifico. The waves pummel on.