Mazunte - Happy New Year

Laurie Weed's Portfolio Travel Writing Mexico Blog Index

January 2004

Mazunte, Mexico

Sidestepping the “accidental” brush-ups from Gulio, the Italian restauranteur, I mop at the sticky wood tables with a slightly rank dishrag, and neatly arrange cheap paper napkins under bits of brick so they won’t blow away. Calling this garishly painted cement-and-salvage structure a restaurant is an endearing exaggeration on Gulio’s part; it’s an open-air beach cafe with a makeshift kitchen, handwritten menus, and five grimy tables.

This New Year’s Eve in Mexico started out uncertainly for me; it looked as if I’d be spending it on an overnight bus. Mazunte, a tiny coastal village about 45 minutes south of Puerto Escondido, was suddenly overrun with holiday backpackers and every bed, palapa and hamaca was filled, leaving me without a place to sleep. When young Gulio gallantly offered me his room behind the kitchen in exchange for a little light waitressing, I thought Fate was smiling on me once again. I hadn’t considered until just now that there might be more on tonight’s menu -- at least in Gulio’s mind -- than the simple exchange we agreed to.

While I ponder this development, the alcoholic French cook wanders in -- barefoot, his classic checkered pants cut off into clamdiggers, his soiled t-shirt and greasy ponytail wreathed in cigarette smoke. The flea-bitten gatito scampers across the kitchen floor behind him, dragging half of a stiffened dead mouse. Gulio half-heartedly shoos her out, bantering with Henri in the rapid-fire Spanish of their adopted country, and in labored, heavily accented English to me. After dividing the kitchen chores for tonight’s special menu, Henri lights the ancient, blackened oven, sending a burst of propane fumes through the cafe. His damaged right arm and shoulder dangle awkwardly as he sprints around the kitchen on filthy Hobbit feet.

Anorexically thin from living unemployed and undocumented on the beach, Henri has no plans to change what he considers the perfect existence, just because he’s obtained a job. His enormous pupils distract from an angelic smile, and he says some strange things, but he is affable and kind as long as he doesn’t drink. While he rambles on pleasantly about his nine adopted dogs and his immigration troubles, I halve and squeeze oranges and lemons in the old-fashioned juice press, briefly refreshed by the clean, pungent scent of citrus cutting through the heavy smog of kitchen grease, cigarettes, and spoiling food.

Henri bounces around me in the tiny space, orbiting between the smoking stove and the overflowing sink: stirring, tasting, talking, and of course, smoking like a chimney. Watching him cook is alarming -- disgusting, actually. When I’ve finished squeezing the fruit, Gulio hands me a smudged bottle of something that smells like diesel fuel to add to the punch, and then sits down to finish writing up an advertisement on fluorescent cardboard, singing along to “Brown Sugar” on the CD and occasionally flashing me a wink or a grin. He’s been very sweet to me since I arrived a few days ago, and although I like his handsome face, it’s unfortunately framed in a furry, five-foot tall primate’s body, and thus I cannot return his affections.

By nightfall, the three of us in the cartoon-like kitchen have assembled a meal that could easily feed twenty, but the only sounds coming from the dark street are the violin whines of crickets and the occasional barking dog. The fickle crowds have gone south to party in Zipolite. Henri and Gulio seem unsurprised, and cheerfully unaffected by the lack of guests.

“More for us!” Henri beams, pulling the enormous, picture-perfect lasagna out of the broken-jawed oven with a flourish. The top layer of mozzarella is slightly browned; the fragrant tomato sauce still bubbling gently. We sit down to eat together in the empty restaurant, lighting Corona-bottle candles and raising glasses of cheap rum to the New Year. Although the lasagna smells enticing and I wouldn’t think of declining Henri’s masterpiece, I shudder to think how long the unidentified meat festered in this hundred-degree Petri dish, or how many cigarette butts may be imbedded in those rich, cheesy layers, like a grotesque version of rosca de reyes -- the traditional holiday King’s Cake with lucky coins baked into it.

Close to midnight, our odd trio wanders down the road to the other Italian restaurant, empty now except for a handful of locals who have settled in for the night. The owner, cheerily sloshed, passes out tequila shots and plates of red grapes in an admirable attempt to cross-pollinate the traditions of his Mexican and Italian customers. As the sole watch-wearer in town, I take it upon myself to count down the last ten seconds to midnight aloud and for once, my Spanish is adequate for the task.

After a flurry of cheering and kissing, and another round of tequila and grapes, Gulio, Henri and I walk barefoot down the dirt path to the beach under a clear canopy of stars, following the rhythmic purr of the waves. Later this night, Henri will drink too much and suffer a psychotic break; Gulio will knock on the bedroom door at 3 a.m. and embarrass us both, and the King’s Cake lasagna will come back to haunt us all...but in this still-framed moment, the tropical night air is soft, the year is unblemished, and the world feels innocent.