La Paz Street Scene

Mexico takes an easy-going approach to man-made noise.  So life in La Paz sounds much different than in El Norte.

I was jolted awake by a blaring loud speaker on my first morning in La Paz.  It was Trinidad selling newspapers.  Fourteen years later, he still drives by the house at 7:45 every morning.   If his car is old and dented, the speaker attached to his roof is positively ancient.  It crackles and distorts his words.  Although I’ve listened to his carefully, I understand very little but I know enough to realize that he’s trying to tempt potential customers with juicy headlines.  But I never buy his paper.

Shortly after Trinidad passes, the bottled water and propane trucks begin to arrive.    Each company has its own jingle and they play them – loudly.  The trucks seem to pass our house every hour. When we need water we listed for Sergio’s song, rush to our gate with 12 pesos ($1.00 U.S. plus tip). He smiles, carries the heavy bottle of water through the house and places it on the back patio.  We chat for a few minutes.  Meanwhile, his song blares on.

The ice cream truck parks in front of our house and waits. And waits.   Although I never buy an ice cream, his song is magical; it transports me back to my childhood.  My father used to take my hand and lead me toward the music.  I had three choices: Popsicle, Fudgesicle, or a Drumstick.  In those days, happiness could be bought for a nickel. 

Not all entrepreneurs have trucks or loud speakers in La Paz.  Some have bicycles. Others walk.  The donut man balances a huge tray on his head and calls out, “donas, donas” as he passes by.  I love to see this old man all around El Centro selling his donuts. I smile but I don’t buy.

When I hear the eerie tones of a flute I know the knife sharpener is nearing.   He carries his grinder and wooden stool with him.  But Alex sharpens our knives so, although I’m charmed by the lilt of his flute, I don’t give him my business.

During the winter I smell the wood smoke from the camote man’s cart from several blocks away.  Our cockatoo, Howlie, used to start screaming long before we could hear the steam-whistle approach.  Howlie and I would wait.  She’d be rigid with excitement.  She’d swallow large chunks of the smoky sweet potato topped with syrup.  And, if we were lucky, she’d leave a few bites for Alex and me. But Howlie is gone so we simply reminisce when we hear the whistle.

Although her unique sounds enchant me, La Paz also attracts me with her colors and odors.

I only have to walk a short block to the Malecon where the balloon vendor grips big bunches of colorful balloons. A lucky toddler pulls a balloon-doggie down the Malecon.  But children grow and become teenagers.  They fall in love.  Their devotion is tested.  Does the novio love his novia enough to buy her a red rose wrapped in cellophane?  From the look of delight on the girl’s face, I’d say her boyfriend passed the test.

Alex doesn’t buy me roses.  Now it’s ears of corn roasted over wood fires that get my juices flowing.  While I try to ignore this wonderful odor, Alex accepts a sample of Kettle corn. Occasionally, he buys a bag. The next morning I eat stale popcorn for breakfast.

Until recently, I’ve been delighted by Mexican vendors: the newspaper hawker, the water, propane and ice cream truck jingles, the people who sell donuts, roasted corn, sweet potatoes, popcorn, and roses.

 Then I began to notice their tired faces.  How could I be so naïve?  These men and women earn their living by selling these products. Many push heavy carts all day.  They do not exist for my entertainment. I was a voyeur peeking into a Mexican-style Rockwell painting and confusing it with reality.  These hard working people use colors, sounds and odors to attract buyers. What is their profit margin?  How much water does Sergio have to lug to buy a kilo of meat?  My smiles and nods do not put food in the mouths of their children. 

My fairy-tale world has cracked slightly but I have choices.  I can buy that balloon. And give it to a child.  Or the red rose and give it to an old woman.  I can even buy a newspaper.  It can serve as my Spanish lesson for a week.  I can’t afford the calories in donuts, ice cream, roasted corn, or sugary sweet potatoes; however, I can buy them occasionally and offer them to my neighbors.  And, in addition, I can choose to deepen my respect for these vendors who offer their goods at a price that I can’t afford to ignore.    

A Day at the Beach - Mexico Style

Bobbers’ Beach.  That’s what I call my favorite playa in La Paz. 

The first time I visited Coromuel was May 1992.

 I’d come to La Paz to finalize the purchase of our new home which was a block from the Bay of La Paz.  Never, in my most creative dream, did I imagine how little it would cost to live in paradise.

Because Alex couldn’t get away from his job, my friend Jeannie flew down with me. After months of Washington rain, Jeannie and I were ready for a strong dose of sunshine. 

At the first opportunity Jeannie and I filled a big beach bag with sunscreen, novels, and towels.   “Donde esta la playa?” I asked my neighbor in near-perfect Spanish.  I listened carefully to his reply but unfortunately, I couldn’t understand a thing he said.  Eager to help, he pointed northward.

We each grasped a handle of the heavy bag and began to walk. I started to sweat; Jeannie began to glow.  We heard wolf whistles.  Jeannie was a young, willowy redhead.  Guys hung out of truck windows.  Jeannie ignored them.  It took fifteen minutes to reach Marina Palmira.  We were sweltering when we arrived so we plopped onto plastic Pacifico chairs.  (Actually, I plopped; Jeannie lowered herself).  We ordered pina coladas (after all, it was a vacation).  I asked the waiter, Por Favor, donde esta la playa?”  He pointed north. Refreshed, we walked on.

Finally, we saw a large round building situated on a huge rock slab.  Worn stone steps led to the turquoise water.  And in that sea were hundreds of bobbing bodies.

We looked for a spot to spread our towels but the sand was littered with plastic bags, cigarette butts and broken glass.   Jeannie picked up a few pieces of glass and put them into a plastic bag.  In seconds, six or seven children followed her example. She’d invented a game and they wanted to play.  Together they filled one bag.  Then a second. And a third.  They placed the bags at the base of the only trash basket on the beach.  The barrel was overflowing.

Even though the sand was littered and the building was run down, laughter surrounded us.  Boys splashed each other. Mothers wearing brightly colored dresses cradled babies.  Grandmothers placed Bimbo-bread sandwiches into hungry hands. I didn’t see one person swimming laps.  No, exercise wasn’t the goal.  They were bobbing for fun. 

As the sun began to set, we repacked our sunscreen, wet towels and unopened novels. We joined families walking southward. I was tired but happy.  Thrilled to be living in the tropics.

Nineteen years later.  Good Friday, 2011.  Half the city headed toward Coromuel.  Alex and I joined them. We went to the same beach but Jeannie wouldn’t have recognized it.

Alex and I carried our sunscreen, chairs, and two novels down the new faux-wood stairs.  The round building on the rock is gone.  But now there are two small shady restaurants.  Edith, who works at Mariscos El Coromuel, served us fish tacos and draft beer for twenty-five pesos ($2.00 U.S.). The new- improved Coromuel has plenty of shaded areas, large bathrooms, a first-aid center, and a long dock from which teenage boys dare each other to jump into the sea far below. 

And, the broken glass and litter have nearly disappeared. Now there are sufficient trash barrels. 

 Alex and I arrived very early so we found an unoccupied palapa.  Soon, families filled the beach.  Teenage boys teased each other.  Grandmothers passed out sandwiches.  Fathers helped little girls make castles using Styrofoam cups, sand and a little salty water.  I looked right and left. There was laughter from every direction.  A sea of happiness. 

Suddenly, a shadow blocked the sun.  A Mexican Adonis.  He spread his towel directly in front of us.  Took off his shirt.  This guy spent serious time at the gym.  He looked toward the sea.  I looked at his shoulders, arms and back.  After I admired his muscles for a few minutes (or was it hours?), I noticed something more remarkable than his physique.  He was completely alone.  He gazed toward the sea.  Was he, like me, mesmerized as the gentle waves lifted people up and down which gave the impression that they were bobbing like beach balls?

Unexpectedly, he turned onto his stomach, and he looked directly into my eyes.  In the split second before I could look away, I saw his loneliness. Or was he simply reflecting my own?

In that moment, I realized that for fourteen years I’ve lived in a neighborhood full of children but I know none of them.  In that moment, I longed to kiss the salty cheek of a three-year-old.  In that moment, I wanted to be the grandmother who handed out white-bread sandwiches.  In that moment, I wanted Alex to close his novel, fill a cup with wet sand, and teach children the wonders of creating a castle.

But that moment passed.  Or did it?  Alex and I repacked our sunscreen, chairs and books.  As we drove home Alex asked if anything was wrong.  How could I explain?  Even though the beach is no longer littered with glass, it was as if a tiny shard of loneliness had nicked my heart.  How could I explain that being away from our family is the unintended price we pay to live in paradise?