Ignoring the lies that cry danger
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- October 29, 2023
- 1689
I see them, couples like us, just a little bit older, careworn and carefree. I know the kids see us and think, “Oh, there go Mom and Dad on another trip again,” and get back to their jobs, families and the pressing matters that make up a life.
But this trip, it’s been slow on purpose. Despite doing some reno at the family compound, it’s been languid, intentional. I have examined the creases of George’s face in more detail than I have in years.
We are at the bottom of Mexico, the tip that juts down into the Pacific and brings all the humidity of the tropics. There is no TV at this hotel on the beach in Zipolite, Oaxaca, and the mornings bring coffee, beach, afternoon siestas, dinner and more sleep. I don’t want to go back to my in-laws house and a normal schedule.
We backpacked on buses, vans and taxis through dense jungle from Acapulco to Pinotepa Nacional to Puerto Escondido to Los Bahias de Huatulco (Zipolite, Mazunte, Puerto Angel). We will move north through treacherous, mountainous switchbacks and into Oaxaca city, then on to Mexico City and home to Maquixco.
Moving through each day reminded me to breathe and take more steps forward than I ever thought I could. I realized I walked at least 20 miles and drank approximately 100 bottles of water this week. The heat and humidity here are brutal, and hours at the beach require hours of resting inside hotel rooms that have air-conditioning, if you can find it. If you do, you pay extra for the luxury.
The waves are rushing the shore this morning outside my door. A small air-conditioning unit has made us pull the sheets over our tanned bodies for comfort. I would never trade these gorgeous, natural, undeveloped stretches of coastline for all the resorts in the world.
Every taxi we get into George asks the same question: "How is the day? Have you been busy?"
This almost always evolves into what’s new in the area, what’s being built, are developers trying to buy land and turn it into Cancun or Tulum, areas that have sold their soul to the gods of tourism.
Oaxacans are a mighty and fierce people. They haven’t sold out their coastline and protect it at all costs. I’ve seen signs painted on cement walls warning against selling to profiteers who do not care. And it remains rugged, safely ensconced in the arms of those who live here, love here. The scraggly tourists that come here blend into the culture that exists here, not the other way around.
Some folks never leave, choosing instead this slow burn of a life instead of the rat race. It’s like falling in love with a heat that burns so hot it’ll scorch you. It’s mesmerizing in the solitude and tranquility it offers, always being true to itself without turning into something it’s not.
Without critique, I sometimes long for what my own town once was, instead of turning itself inside out, and in doing so, losing the people who made it what it was.
But I find myself in the autumn of my life, still rich with color and promise, not quite winter. I want to burn brightly too in shades of rusty splendor. I am going places and seeing other faces, those in that same phase, and we catch each other's eye and nod, knowing we’ve ignored the lies that cry danger — small crinkles of a smile acknowledging we are here because we want to be, because there’s so much to see, all while knowing the embrace of a grandchild or a beloved pet still awaits us at travel’s end.
We can do it all, not in a flashy way, but an intentional one, until my spine will no longer carry the weight of a backpack or suitcase. But today I’m strong, my knees are sure and the unmarked path here in Mexico still has much to be uncovered.
Today, the best artisanal coffee in the world awaits me before we board a bus north. I can taste it now.
Melissa Herrera is a published author and opinion columnist. She is a curator of vintage mugs and all things spooky, and her book, "TOÑO LIVES," can be found at www.tinyurl.com/Tonolives. For inquiries, to purchase her book or anything else on your mind, email her at junkbabe68@gmail.com or find her in the thrift aisles.