by Richard Coleman
Twelve or fourteen years ago, when I was in Manzanillo, I was encumbered by the possession of trucks, cars, and boats. I drove everywhere and sailed the coast. Now I am without these things, and it’s liberating. I’m also at the age where I’d rather have someone else behind the wheel or at the helm.
I walk down the hill from Colonia Las Flores, to shop produce stands, browse markets, and enjoy a taco or two in Santiago; and now I am learning the city.
The next-door neighbor and his wife watch out for the street dogs. They bring out healthy food, water, and tend to canine medical issues. Needless to say, word has gotten around in the mongrel world, that this is Mecca.
I have shopped the local abarrote enough now that the owner is offering me the local price structure. I’m embarrassed to say it took me a while to figure out that the numbers were arbitrary.
A little further down the hill is a brightly colored concrete and masonry home owned by Marie and Victor. They always say good morning and, on occasion, have invited me in to share chilaquiles and fresh jamaica. Their little girl always has a lot of questions; where is your family, do I like dogs, what’s it like in the United States. It’s a simple sincerity that’s important in life, and I’m reminded of an Italian saying, dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing.
Continuing down the hill, I pass an enormous gray structure. It looms up high over the street and is flat, Soviet-era looking. It is secured behind tall concrete retaining walls and razor wire. The neighbor kids tell me Canadians live there and jokingly refer to the place as Puente Grande. I think if the real Puente Grande had been this fortified, El Chapo would never been able to escape. I haven’t seen any sign of life yet, but it is still the summer months.
Further along, I pass a lumber dealer, and there are often contractors and their trucks in front of the place. It is mostly boards and posts for concrete formwork. The guard dog is white or was. Now he’s more dirt-stained off-white. Well-patinated is how he would be described in the antique world. His name is Gringo, and he loves back scratches and hands-on regard.
So if you want to know the town, I recommend walking. I also recommend high-top shoes for ankle support. This will be my next purchase. And no, I don’t usually walk back up the hill.
It’s crazy steep, and I’m too darned old.
