Ixtapa Zihuatanejo

I was headed back to Zihuatanejo's mainland when the offer was made by the boat's captain. Like a net cast onto the water's surface, he threw out the idea that I accompany him and his crew on a trip to the countryside for some leisurely time spent on a friend's fruit farm, ready for harvest. Before we went, we would pass by for his wife and kids, and on the way back they could drop me off at the hostel. I was already needing to take a taxi, so it sounded enticing. But would I take the bait?

It could be the perfect end to an already amazing day, for I was just returning from snorkeling off the coast of Ixtapa Island. The expedition had brought me face-to-face with brilliantly-colored aquatic life, inviting and playful in their movements, along with less-approachable needle fish, and even a green moray eel. But the offer also held potential for disaster: hadn't I heard multiple times about the numerous homicides, the kidnappings that occur on the other side of the border?

Soon we were back on the shore, and after making it clear that I only had a couple bucks and would be counting on them to bring me back, I decided to join the crew.

Although the events of the afternoon occurred according to what had been promised, there were still plenty of surprises. I was a little shaken when the captain (now driver) told me that his name was Tony Macaroni, and that he had learned to speak English by serving a sentence in a state penitentiary. Whether he read fear in my own face
or noticed it in the response of others, he quickly assured me that all of that was behind him now, and that all he wanted to do was enjoy loving his family.

While I knew that we were going to stop by his house, I was not expecting it to be a structure barely standing. It resembled the plywood shelters that I had helped replace with buildings of brick for more fortunate families during mission trips I had made to other parts of the country. Yet the family that inhabited it was just as warm and welcoming as anyone could be.

On the road, we must have set a record, for never had I (nor have I since) fit into a truck bed with so many people.

And on the farm, the fruit was ready to be picked indeed: baskets of guayabas and mangos, collected with ease.

That night, when they brought me back to the hostel, with a belly too-full to be comfortable, I realized that not only did I still have all of my money, but that I had returned with much more than what I had left with.