Bucerías

On my last trip here I’d accidentally disembarked from the bus on an unattractive stretch of highway in Bucerías, thinking it was Sayulita. I soon realized my error, I waited for twenty minutes in the dust and dirt, peering across the freeway at ugly roadside buildings. I later heard that people actually retired to Bucerías and could not, for the life of me, understand why. Turns out there is good reason if one actually crosses those massive freeway lanes and walks three blocks into the city.
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The cobblestoned main road leading down to the beach was fairly quiet in the morning. I got down to the small street that runs along the beach, noticed that nothing really took my breath away, and thought, Ok, I’ve seen it, time to go back. It has been my experience that this is often my first thought when I’ve done day trips and have to remind myself that not only haven’t I done enough exploring to make a such a statement, but it is a one hour, two-bus trip back. Neither my psyche nor stiff knee could handle that. So I started to walk.

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The beachfront street I walked down was lined with restaurants both with indoor and waterfront, sand seating. I went into one to get a cold drink, have a seat, and to look out at the water.

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I was surprised to realize that I was still on Bahía de Banderas, (the bay), even after an hour bus trip. From where I sat I could see miles down the coast to Puerto Vallarta, and miles up the coast to Punta de Mita, where the really high-dollar estates lie. At 9:30 in the morning, things were fairly deserted and it was just me and the birds who were diving in for a fish breakfast.

Continuing my walk past other restaurants, I ran into an older gentleman painting a Mayan inspired mural on the front of one of them. I said something and he started talking to me in perfect English. It turned out that Sr. Jesus was from Los Angeles where he had spent his life as a hairdresser to the stars. He mentioned Ava Gabor, (though he’d never met Zsa Zsa), Hedy Lamarr, and a few others. But he had always wanted to be an artist so that was what he was doing at this stage of his life. He’d moved down here ten years ago and had kept busy painting murals and pictures for homes in the area. He pulled out photos and showed me some of his work.

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Walking back towards the center of town I reflected on how it looked sort of dingy and congested with too many eateries in too small a space. I carried on down a small dirt street lined with tourist kiosks. This lead to small streets with more little tourist shops and then into a little ally that had wonderful murals on both walls.

From there I crossed over a bridge and into another part of town.

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I soon noticed why people chose to retire here. The street I was on was wide, meticulously maintained, with this wonderful, small-town tropical feel to it. Not many people were out but I don’t know if that was due to the time of day or the time of year.

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I passed many shops that were owned by ex-pats and heard a lot of English coming from small cafés or by people greeting each other as they walked by. I noticed a sign inviting the public to walk up the small driveway and into a courtyard of artists’ studios/galleries.

The first one I walked into had some interesting mosaic work. A woman sat at a computer and ignored me. I asked if it was her work. She said "yes", and continued doing whatever she was doing. Hoping to start a conversation about her work, which really was rather lovely, I asked how long she had been in Bucerías. Without even looking up she rattled off some number and then just kept on internet-ing.

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The same lack of customer-concern happened at the upstairs gallery; lady at computer, back to me, non-verbal.

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I went into one more gallery and the sales woman did speak to me but kept being interrupted by her boss who kept calling. This is the gallery that had the most freaky, frightening piece of art that I have ever encountered in my life. On the wall hung a torso of a young woman that was so life-like you could have sworn she’d been gacked, hacked, preserved, and hung up to dry. The sales lady excitedly pointed out that no matter where you stood, those forlorn eyes would follow you. I had to avert my own eyes, I was so disturbed by the ghastly presence. I couldn’t even look at it long enough to get a good picture. I wondered who on earth would want that in their living room.

I strolled about a bit more and appreciated the pretty streets and slower pace of things. I went back down to the restaurant where I’d met the muralist and had lunch at a table set up in the sand, enjoying the wonderful view and the soft ocean breezes.

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Bucerías is a lovely place and I asked myself if I could live there. No, I couldn’t. Something felt wrong about it to me. Possibly it is that if I am living in a foreign country, I want to be surrounded by the locals, not fellow countrymen, which would seem to be what one would get in Bucerías. Perhaps I am spoiled by having lived in similar places where I am one of the few foreigners. Having said that, a weeks vacation there would be ever so relaxing.

Kate