I wasn’t planning on going to Tlacotalpan, but I was supposed to end up there.
The original plan was to spend a few days in Puerto de Veracruz so I could visit the Mesoamerican ruins of El Tajín but I underestimated the difficulty of getting there. First, a local travel agency had a tour going the following day but cancelled at the last minute. Second, the bus schedule was not working in my favor at all. Third, hiring a private taxi was out of my budget.
Assisting me with my deilemma, Cristobal, the front desk associate at my hotel introduced me to his taxi driver buddy Martín, an affable middle-aged father of many who had lived in Texas at some point but didn’t remember much English. Martín carried a travel brochure advertising Veracruz’s star attractions, including El Tajín. I tried to express through my child’s grasp of Spanish that I didn’t believe the universe wanted me there since more doors seemed to be closing than opening. Martín got the gist and instead showed me photos of Tlacotalpan, a colorful little town on the river a 2 hour drive from my hotel and I agreed.
The next morning, Martín arrived on the dot and we headed out for Tlacotalpan. A proud native Jarocho, he pointed things out and talked about his family and previous life in Texas while switching between radio stations playing traditional Son Jarocho music and 80s English-language ballads.
As we drove through Veracruz’s upscale Boca Del Río district, I found the contrast between the aging luxury hotels and dilapidated seafront properties to be a curiosity. I confess to knowing little about Veracruz’s economy but peering outside the car window showed that business was slow.
Driving past the skeletal remains of seaside restaurants with palapa roofs in tatters, I felt a hint of familiarity as if I were on a foreboding movie set when an old Radiohead song popped into my head. Doing research I learned that the exteriors of Baz Luhrman’s Romeo + Juliet were shot in Boca Del Río. Ahh, Fair Verona! That’s why it looked so familiar. It could be noted that I belonged to the demographic that movie (and Leo) were aimed at.
The drive to Tlacotalpan was scenic as the road gently curved alongside the Gulf of Mexico with glimpses of small industrial towns inland.
Nestled along the Papaloapan River, Tlacotalpan's main draw is its colorfully painted Caribbean-influenced buildings. The streets were largely empty save for bicyclists and a slow driving truck broadcasting a recording I couldn’t understand, its ominous voice following me up and down the lanes, disappearing into the distance before returning to my audio periphery creating an unexpected soundtrack for the afternoon.
Row upon row of colorfully painted single-and-double-story houses greeted me with whimsical grace while continuously piquing my curiosity. No matter where I turned, colors seemed to explode before my eyes. A couple of senior citizens stopped to chat with me, somewhat curious that a foreigner was visiting their town. Tlacotalpan is actually quite popular with national tourists but remains largely unnoticed by international visitors, understandable given that it is not the most convenient place to reach without a car. I suppose the lack of international popularity helps preserve the town’s charm and character, though it is very much a photogenic destination.
After several hours wandering the many colorful streets and plazas, I returned to the parking lot to find a napping Martín before picking up snacks for the return to Veracruz. On the outbound journey I had noticed a large cemetery in the nearby town Alvarado and wanted to make a quick stop. Here’s the thing, cemeteries in Mexico are anything but boring grasslands dotted with headstones; they are filled with elaborately built mini houses, churches, and temples for individual graves depending on one’s economic status. While not as extravagant as ancient Egyptian burial practices, a visit to a Mexican cemetery is an unexpectedly enjoyable detour if you’re not freaked out by cemeteries. There weren’t any visitors as far as the eye could see, just stray dogs wandering around and two elderly men sitting in the shade by the entrance, presumably the caretakers.
I can’t predict how tourism will grow in Tlacotalpan but I would encourage travelers in Veracruz to make the trip for not only the town’s lovely scenery but for the drive itself featuring views of the shining Gulf waters, small towns, and colorful palapa seafood restaurants dotted along the highway that provide a respite from the (admittedly mellow) bustle of Puerto de Veracruz. With less than 24 hours' awareness of this town, I am very glad I got the chance to experience this unique, charming, and laid back place.
Despite being from Mexico City and having moved from place to place as a child, she remarked that I’ve seen more of Mexico than she has. It led me to wonder if that’s really true.
I’ve seen some very touristy places in Mexico, places where you don’t need to speak Spanish, where you can pay in US dollars, where you only see other gringos, and where you hear the broken Spanish of European backpackers and the less melodic barking of Americans not really trying to be understood in any language. Would anyone native to this country want to vacation here? Would my Zacatecan relatives be caught dead eating a bagel sandwich in Tulum?
My Mexican friends tell me where to go while taking into consideration my sensitivities and sheltered background. Mexico Lite. I show up armed with a little more Spanish, pesos, a sense of humor, and patience (patience is key). I suddenly notice more Central and South American travelers, their emergence signaling a slight increase in authenticity. But does it really? My Uber driver snickers as he ponders the relationship between Argentineans and Mexicans (spoiler: no one likes Argentineans) before offering his thoughts on racial tension between Salvadorans and Mexicans in the US and Canada (the latter of which he lived for 20+ years). He’s got some opinions.
Slowly I make my way to the less comfortable places in Mexico feeling a misguided sense of superiority for “leaving the resort”. I struggle to be understood in Spanish and loudly sigh when my 500 peso note cannot be broken by the young woman working the tiendita. God I’m so spoiled.
I walk the streets with my small camera and shoot anything and everything. People often talk to me. Generally they’ve lived in the US at some point so we talk about that. There was this one guy who studied in Tennessee in the 90s. I asked him what it was like to be a Mexican in Tennessee in the 90s. “Exactly how you think. I’ll never do it again” he replied, before adding that Saskatchewan (where he had also lived) was a much friendlier place. Canadians are better than us, I admit.
“I’ve seen bits and bobs of Mexico” was ultimately all I could say to the Chilango before learning she also lived in Veracruz…Puerto de Veracruz to be specific. I began to ponder the gritty charm of that city, a place that doesn’t quite fit into the above descriptions. Perhaps my next conversation will be with a Jarocho…