Every morning when Vince and I go for our walk, I am struck
by the contrasts. From roadways to lanes, from buildings to homes, our little
suburb of Manzanillo, Mexico, contains contradictions that seem to dominate the
country. Industry and commerce versus laid-back attitudes and “manana”
philosophy.
We walk along stubbly rock-strewn roads to the main
thoroughfare. Cabs, trucks, cars and military vehicles speed by, the latter on
their way to and from the port. Here the sidewalks display beautiful brickwork, hand laid,
designs forming diamonds of grey, red and white. The street itself is brick. A
medium that cuts through the centre is dotted with palms and planters. Red and
pink flowers flourish alongside little green, red-tinged bushes and grass. Well-spaced
trees form umbrellas of bean pods and gnarled limbs.
As we amble along, we are met by all kinds of people. You
can see the Spanish heritage in some of the faces, the native influence, the
gringo mix. Most of them, Mexican or gringo, nod, smile, and say Buenos Dias.
Moms with babies, people off to work, men gathering cans and bottles from the
streets.
Businesses are spread out over the sidewalk, leaving the pedestrian to
travel through or find a way around. Restaurant owners set up tables or serve
breakfast. A hardware store opens its sliding metal doors for customers, a
medical clinic, a wide-open church, a laundry, an Internet café. Someone sells
camarones (shrimp) and pesca (fish) out of coolers in front of his house. Tires
are piled next door to a small family restaurant, the oil smells dominating
over the coffee aroma.
One of our favourite places to get dinner is an ash pit on
the same lot as a car wash. (Vehicles are water blasted and scrubbed and
polished by hand.) Chicken and ribs are often splayed on poles in the fire pit
and we know from experience that they are delicious. Another place we like to
eat is what we call the garden restaurant. That’s because it’s bordered by a
beautiful lot of fruit trees and flowers.
One building is crumbling, its windows broken and the
forlorn interior echoing its grim present. Next door, the plaster is painted a
brilliant white. A beautiful young Mexican girl sweeps the sidewalk.
Behind the
wrought iron gates further on, we can spy a traditional hacienda, done in a
soft yellow with dark wooden trim and doors. Bougainvillea grace the decks and
balconies. Palms wave in the breeze and always, there is the sound of the
Pacific beyond.
Construction is booming. A building slowly rises from the
sand, its grey concrete bricks with no straight edges propped up by wooden
beams and rebar. Men are spread everywhere, hammering and shaping. At a condo
site, two men sit on a platform and place a stunning marble mosaic façade
across the future balconies. Local hotels, restaurants, offices, and roadways
are either beautifully improved or in the process. Sometimes these edifices
have been in the process for years, though.
Curved orange clay tiles cover many of the rooftops. Little
hotels, pristine restaurants, lovely residences stand next to abandoned lots
strewn with garbage, broken glass and shredded plaster walls. Another huge lot
appears to be empty, until you look back and see a makeshift shed that houses a
sleek brown horse. Down the street, there’s a lot with huge truck cabs gleaming
and ready to go. They’re here every day, though, so perhaps their transport business is not so
great.
A soft brown Spanish home displays a neat garden of cactus,
palms, and flowers. A tiled wading pool sparkles in the sun. One fence is
topped with brass statues, all carved into various human shapes and poses. From
another doorway, a huge dark skinned woman, her dress tented around her
enormous belly and hips, stares out at the sidewalk. A man in a wheelchair sits
inside the courtyard of a small hotel and restaurant. He always waves and calls
out Buenos Dias in a deep, hearty voice.
Huddled amongst a couple of beautiful
haciendas is a small square house with a dirt floor and muddy yard. Inside, we
can glimpse a bed, a couple of chairs, and several people. They don’t seem to
talk much.
We can walk past rubble, cracked cement, salt-eroded walls
one moment and be surrounded by brown, yellow or brilliant white haciendas the
next. Dog shit and litter mingle with rose petals and palm leaves.
The air is usually fresh, with its salty ocean taste, and
the sun (although this year it disappeared for over a week) is normally
brilliant. The plants are lush. The people are friendly. The ocean roars all
around us. Stark contrasts aside, the bottom line is that Las Brisas is vivid,
alive and beautiful.
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