The Real Mexico

When I arrived last week my face was white as a walnut, an English moon suddenly illuminated in this small, dark corner of the world. My experience of Mexico was five-star resorts in Cancun with complimentary buffets and Australian pool-boys. Instead, we had come to Las Brisas, an impoverished fishing village off the coast of Manzanillo with dirt roads, no cable, and nary a pale face in sight. This was the real Mexico.
Our guide leads us to a bar with no ceiling, a true novelty to us Northerners. Each meal is introduced with an appetizer of tacos, salsa, and the most scrumptious guacamole ever created. You have never tasted guacamole until you’ve been to Manzanillo. Fresh, zesty cilantro. Plump, crimson tomatoes. Peppers that taste like a summer fire. And the decadently rich avocado... I resolve to throw out my pre-packaged, department-store guacamole the second I get home.
We drink tall glasses of beer (no ice, por favour, as we don’t want to incur Montezuma’s revenge) along with our tortillas, watching the streets as old Shakira is pumped through the speakers. Smoke from outdoor barbecues lies heavily on my tongue, tasting of roasted, corn-fed chicken. The rubble roads are garnished with wild dahlias. The houses here are tropical colours, eye-smarting shades of egg-yolk yellow and Pepto-Bismol pink. They are flanked by monstrous palm trees, their dried leaves rustling in the breeze sounding like raindrops on a cedar roof. There is a battle to reach the future here; advertisements for cellphones and shopping centers are painted along glass-encrusted brick walls.
When the hottest part of the day has passed, we wander to the beach, beers still in hand. The combination of being Caucasian and female in Las Brisas is enough to draw me stares of amusement and curious ‘Hola’s. With only three Spanish words in my vocabulary, (all having to do with ordering tequila) I feel mute in this dusty corner of the world.
Stray dogs (gentle as butterflies) follow us for several blocks, fur mussed and covered in sores, before seeking more generous patrons. Little girls with long black braids and eyes the colour of spiced rum offer us exotic candies in exchange for a few pesos as we pass their mother’s taco stand. Roaming vendors shamelessly beg us to buy their gaudy jewellery and dime-store trinkets. Everything here fights for survival.
We arrive at the water, throats coated in dust and shoulders blushing. The Pacific is dusty blue and glitters like sugar. I’ve learned my lesson about swimming far into the surf: the ocean waves spin you like a dreidel, leaving you gasping and unable to tell which way is up. A vendor sells us his umbrella for one American dollar, and I greedily bathe in its shade. We watch the oil tankers glide across the horizon as the sun sets into a delicate fire. I smile and run my tongue along the edge of my glass. Everything’s a little saltier in Mexico.