puerto madero / the port of madero

makes you think that god was fucked up when he made this town

-there you are by the flaming lips

it is a centro turistico of the state, one man told me when i asked about puerto madero. others commented, with out much enthusiasm, that yes, it was a good place to bathe. so i came, and found a has been.

the combi dropped me off at an intersection where bici-taxis competed to take me anywhere, even to help me find a hotel. i can do that myself, i informed the eager, young man. el puerto was to the left and playa san benito to the right and the ocean straight ahead; i could see it slightly.

it was obvious that this was a stop over, but according to the locals, there was no lodging in any of the further locations i named. i could possibly ask to stay with a family in san simon or ......., but the driver didn't look too happy to take me and i wasnt feeling too adventurous with out a partner. thus, i resigned myself to search for a hostel in this town no longer accustomed to the foriegner in its streets. the couple at the taco stand sent me to look for a room in a place that no longer had service (maybe because a wave had wiped its color and solid structure to a minimum) and in a store front where no body came to assist me. i made a deal with one lady for a three night stay, but in the end, i was willing to pay more to be with the lying missionaries next to the police station and the catholic candle shop. i think the court yard with the hammock sold me.

to arrive to the closest beach that is not obstructed by a wall of boulders, i walked down a dirt road with restaruants on the left and a cemetery on the right. the restaurants carried names such as charly, palapa eddy, palapa paty, and palapa yasmin. each bellowed different sounds from empty patios opening up to a valley of sand rising to a peak of rocks that hid the sea. to compensate for the loss of the quick access to the ocean, many had built block pools. a voice from with in one of the establishement called to me, pase, but i couldn't find the woman behind the voice to look her in the eye and say, no gracias, not now. i learned later that only on saturday and sunday were the majority of the chairs taken from their tilted position and occupied.

i have seen cementeries in mexico and guatemala that are walled mini-cities with tombs rising several levels taking the form of houses and churches set along perpendicular pathways. however, this cemetery's structures laid low to the ground with tombs scattered here and there, facing this way and that. three wires stretched along slender sticks formed the boundary. the bright pink, blue, green, and purple paper streamers and cut outs, remnants of a previous day of the dead celebration, were now faded and sulking upon tombstones of similar colors. flowers were dried and fallen; plastic decor, dull and forgotten. some tombs were piles of rumble next to piles of plastic and leaves. it looked as if long ago there had been a wild party that no body bothered to cleaned up completely. the disorder had mounted with the reckless throwing of bags, bottles and diapers, the new offering to the dead.

at the end of this road, i came to a beach that was a bowl. the waves were confused in their pulling and throwing. i walked along the lip of sand, running occasionally from water overflow, questioning often the empty palapas and abandoned buildings, most without roofs or windows.

i walked out and back, timing it just right to arrive at charito's store front, buy a beer, walk through her living space, her valley of sand, and up on to the rocks to watch the sun in its final setting. however, i didn't make it pass the counter because there we stood: she with a tired indignation explaining her town, as i with a sad curiosity listened and inquired.

it used to be beautiful, she said, like the beaches up north. my father had a hotel, right out there, she pointed out the back door. that was before the sea grew more than a kilometer to its current level behind the wall. that was before the puerto changed everything.

men had sat with her father in the restaurant of his hotel and explained how the state should look for a natural opening to the sea, or there will be relentless clearing of sand build up from the artificial opening between marsh land and sea. and that is what is happening. according to charito, millions are spent on removing the sand. from her perspective, more money is spent on dragando than what is earned by the port. she offers no facts; she simply doesn't see the benefits.

what she has seen is the rise of the sea, the construction of a wall to hide behind, her father dying of a heart attack inflicted by the stress and sadness of the losses, and the export of young men, often entire families, to el norte. there use to be a row of hotels and restaurants, now most of the buildings are abandoned or barely stuck together like mine, she raised her eyes to the palm leafed roof where i could see through to the sky. damnificados multiple times, but now there is no money to repair, to rebuild. el gobierno no ayuda, no hace nada. the government doesn't help, doesn't do anything. what it does do is "re-direct" relief supplies and funds.

during the last hurricanes of 2007, the ones that brought flooding compared to those brought by huricane katrina, mel gibson donated a million dollars, money charito and her neighbors have not seen. yet, it doesn't surprise her. in 2005 during the aftermath of hurricane stan, a cargo ship arrived with relief supplies. when days passed, and nothing had been distributed, and they had no food, her eldest son, then 13 years old, rowed out to the port in a small canoe. they threw him crackers.

charito recognizes that she could move, but she is accustomed to living by the sea, living so close to nature, even though it is presicely that which has caused so much suffering.

on my last day in puerto madero, i walked again to the puerto, more for excercise than in hopes of seeing anything new. the only building on the strip that had a direct view of the ocean was the punto de vigilencia of the mexican navy. an artificial mound of sand blocked the other homes and restaurants that line the left side of the road. the mound was a high plateau that cars drove up on and parked to watch the horizon. coming around the last bend, i had to stop and stare to stabilize the dizzying, shrinking sensation. rising above the palm thatched roofs and banana fronds was a giant cruise ship, a floating city that seemed so out of place. why is it that nobody in the town had mentioned them when i asked about present day tourism?

the answer came later that day when i arrived to the center of tapachula, a major city 30 km to the north east. tour buses lined the plaza and hundreds of fair skinned people in shorts and white tennis shoes roamed in safe groups of threes or fours or behind women holding signs with the cruise ship trade mark. traditional dancers performed on a stage and artisans displayed their work under white canopies. when i asked the man in the gallery what the festiviteis were about, he replied, well, for the cruise ship and, of course, it is sunday. even the tourists are shipped away.

as i move on, i can't forget charito's words that made me miss that sunset. as she handed me my change, she asked me what i was doing in guatemala. i explained that i was working in a center for abandoned children. she quickly replied, we need help here!

*i visited charito the following evening as well. upon parting she invited me to return and stay in her house and travel with her to las palmas in the protected marshlands to the north. she is a single mother of three boys. the oldest studies in the evenings while working on a tuna boat. her husband is/was a captain of a boat sold to a dutch company. when she was pregnant with her youngest son, he left for for northern seas. a year later he stopped communicating. she hasn't heard from him since. her greatest illusion is to visit egypt.