BE MY GUEST: Travel Review by Author, Lyn Fuchs

Guest Post:

Travel Review: Zihuatanejo (Mexico)

Author/Travel Writer: Lyn Fuchs

I have been thinking to add “travel section” in my “reviews”, so you can enjoy and know about different places and cultures. I wanted to make it fun, so I requested this awesome travel-writer, Lyn Fuchs, to share some of his crazy adventures, in this travel segment. A gentleman that he is, he readily agreed and sent me this wonderful and soul-stirring piece, which I am so pleased to share with all my readers. His bold style and his sublime sense of humour reflect in his writing style. Read on and enjoy!

The Winter of Our Content

An Internet site that described Zihuatanejo as “a small fishing village just south of Ixtapa” was packed with stunning photos, but what can I do here for a whole week, I wondered. The pirate Francis Drake once parked in this cove to keep an eye out for Spanish booty. “Well, shiver me Freudian timber!” I quipped, “Sounds like a plan.”

My rental condo had a beach view from the window and a pizza delivery sticker on the fridge. Damn near paradise in my book. The décor was typical tropical: Casablanca fans and terra cotta tile, mahogany closets and calla lily sofa. I’d stocked the kitchen with papaya, yogurt, oats, and beer—all part of a complete breakfast. As the sun rose over banana trees, I headed out for a stroll along the surf.

With sandals dangling from my hand and foam swirling around my feet, I pondered the many historic footprints that had been made and erased on this spot. Doctor Timothy Leary conducted psychedelic LSD experiments here in 1963. Author Zane Gray caught a 135-pound world record sailfish here in 1924.

Still, I was more intrigued by the countless, nameless indigenous lovers who had no doubt left their marks on this lunar-powered etch-a-sketch, where every night the silvery moon draws hearts together then draws waves to obliterate all tracks. The very name Zihuatanejo stems from the Aztecan language Nahuatl and means “place for women.” Nothing says amorous rendezvous like a beach.

In my past wanderings up the Pacific, I’d seen the coconut-strewn crescent bays of Huatulco and the dope-smoking nude surfers of Zipolite. What could be so special here? I rounded a promontory and there she was, sitting on a tidal rock, squeezing water out of long dark hair.

I asked her name. Chocolate eyes sparkled and native cheekbones flushed, but the voluptuous lips said nothing. (Generally in Mexico, guys are expected to show a little more effort; what Gringos call stalking, Latinos call unrequited love.) Pleasantly shitfaced, I tested a ridiculous line, “I know you’re Azteca, but I hope you won’t rip out my heart.”

She didn’t even blink, “I know you’re Americano, but I hope you won’t invade my territory.” I grinned sheepishly; she laughed playfully. Five minutes later, we were conversing as friends. When a pelican dove for something eye-catching by the water and crashed headlong, I was relieved that his fate apparently wouldn’t be mine.

As the breeze changed direction and came in off the ocean, I sensed the fresh wind a beautiful woman can usher into your life. The next few days were as perfect and hazy as those rock islands shimmering across the turquoise bay. We swam offshore for hours, talking and fucking to the rhythmic shoves and tugs of the sea. 

Waves are the music of the planet. Combined with the polar magnetism of boy meets girl, they constitute a primal symphony. Art is the pursuit of beauty. Hand led by a bikinied silhouette into a shining ocean, one transcends mere hedonism for an earthly apprenticeship in the heavenly forms.

Alas, I’ve metamorphed from a normal guy into a wannabe poet. Blame the tropics. While the northern turning leaves mark the passing of years and urge productivity, the southern rolling waves hint of changeless eons and instill contentment. Whatever my future might bring, I was satisfied just to be there and seize that day.

She and I now live in different worlds—worlds forever different from each other, as well as from what they were before we met. Whenever I stroll on the coastline of any ocean, the breakers seem to emanate from a distant shore, a shore where my Azteca forever sits on a tidal rock.

 

About the Author: 

Lyn Fuchs is a travel writer who may be found in the Canadian rainforest or the Mexican desert, but you won't find his by-line on anything that doesn't captivate and inspire. His travel writing has appeared in Outdoor Canada, The Dalhousie Review, Eclectica Literary Journal, Traveling Stories, The Best of Bluefoot Publishing and other publications. When he is not writing or travelling, he works as a professor of communication at the University of Papaloapan in Mexico with Associate's, Bachelor's and Master's degrees in Communication and Philosophy. To know more about him and his writing, visit his blog: lynfuchs.blogspot.com

About his Book:

Sacred Ground and Holy Water: Travel Tales of Enlightenment

The book is a collection of seventeen stories filled with humour, tragedy, adventure, sexual innuendo and spiritual insight. Author Lyn Fuchs should be called Lyndiana Jones. He has survived enraged grizzlies, erupting volcanoes, Japanese sword fights and giant squid tentacles. He has been entrapped by FBI agents and held at gunpoint by renegade soldiers. He has sung with Bulgaria's bluesmaster Vasko the Patch and met with Mexico's Zapatista Army commander Marcos. He has been thrown out of forbidden temples in southern India and passed out in sweat lodges off the Alaskan coast. His navel has been inhabited by beetles and his genitals have been cursed by eunuchs. He has shared coffee with presidents, beer with pirates and goat guts with polygamists. He has contracted malaria, typhoid, salmonella and lovesickness around the world. All these adventures and more are found in this extraordinary work. – (Courtesy: Amazon.com)

To buy this book, click here.

Note: The pictures and illustrations seen in BE MY GUEST are compiled by Review Girl.