La Manzanilla, Mexico
A
hundred kilometers north of Manzanillo, and 200 km south of Puerto Vallarta, lies
the little fishing village of La Manzanilla (Little Apple). Situated at the
south end of Bahia Tenacatita, a l0 km wide horseshoe shaped bay opening onto
the Pacific, and home to 500 or so fisherfolk , shopkeepers and retirees – much
of the village is built upon a rock outcropping, adjacent to a 5km long sandbar
whereon are a couple of primitive coco-palm shaded campgrounds squeezed between
the ocean and a large mangrove lagoon famous for its caiman (alligators).
Marnie
and I first saw La Manzanilla in Jan ’90 – long before sewers and sidewalks
were installed, and a most funky little place it then was. In early December
‘96, much of the village was smashed one mid-morning following a large
underwater earthquake with epicenter about 12 km due west, followed by three
tsunami waves, said by villagers to be 10, 6, and 3 meters high respectively.
It being daytime, the residents had seen the water rush out of the Bahia after
the earthquake, and knowing it would be coming back in with a vengeance, had
grabbed their families and headed for higher ground.
The
sandbar was nearly deserted at that time of year; a few parked rigs were washed
into the lagoon – one full time Mexican camper, located near the mid-point of
the sandbar, noted the oncoming wave and knew that there was no time for him to
make it to safety so he shinnied up a high coco-palm and watched his camp wash
into the lagoon, which itself emptied back out into the ocean in another 20
minutes. Thinking that was that and climbing down, he then noticed the water
continue to recede on out of the bay, so up the palm he went again and saw the
second wave pass under him – and later the third. He likened the experience to
being perched on the rim of a saucer of water, with the saucer being tilted
back and forth and its contents sloshing from one side to the other.
[Sometimes
when we camp on that sandbar adjacent La Manzanilla, so close to the booming
surf that at high tide the camper shudders a bit in the night, the stray
thought of nocturnal ocean surges does sometimes arise.]
Marnie and I had heard of a fresh spring back up in
the hills, so hiked out one morning to find it. Entering a gravel arroyo at the
upper end of the village, we followed a dry creek bed upward and inland for 3
or 4km, traversing several fincas (farms) and making sure to refasten wire
gates along the way so that livestock would not get loose. By this point we had
ascended a couple hundred meters, and were able to have a good overlook of the
bay, with the island pinnacle of ‘Father Time’ in the distance. The creek bed
was by now becoming damp, soon there were standing pools and later a rivulet
connecting the pools.
Following
the rivulet upwards, we came to our destination, a little grotto with a
waterfall dumping from a higher plateau into a clear pool about 10meters in
diameter, about 2 meters deep at the center and, we later discovered, very
cold. A school of tiny, tiny fish watched the two of us undress for our skinny
dip – we tossed them some broken crackers to divert their attention, and jumped
in. The shock was akin to falling through lake-ice back home, and I didn’t have
to worry about the little fish nibbling my parts because the parts had
instantly hibernated into my body in search of warmth.
When
we climbed out of the pool, re-robed and sat warming in a patch of sunlight
arcing through the grotto canopy, we observed huge butterflies descending and
arising over the pool on light thermals
– huge, white, pie plate sized creatures. Knowing that in telling this
tale we would need proof of the size of these gigantic beauties, we took this
picture wherein you can see me pointing the butterflies out to my Eve.
….. until
next time, Adam
Keith and Marnie
Elliott’s “REMEDY” Site
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