Thursday July 14th - Tequila to San Blas

From the "Autopista" to San Blas the road winds through mango orchards, small towns, and low marshy wetlands. Heat humidity and strong rich smells fill the air.

San Blas. A small, sandy, hot, mosquito ridden, desultry little town. It's deserted marina down sandy back roads overgrown with palms and other tropical beach flora. A rusty bicycle and and old pair of cargo shorts is all one needs in this town. I like it.

The Hotel Hacienda Flamingo, striking in its tidy, tasteful, contrast to the town, hosts me and a few Mexican families passing through. Sitting in it's lush courtyard I sweat, listen to the thunder and wait for the rain. As the sun sets the geckos come out to prowl the walls in search of mosquitos.

What say the Bells of San Blas
To the ships that southward pass
From the harbor of Mazatlan?
To them it is nothing more
Than the sound of surf on the shore,—

But to me, a dreamer of dreams,
To whom what is and what seems
Are often one and the same,—
The Bells of San Blas to me
Have a strange, wild melody,
And are something more than a name.

The chapel that once looked down
On the little seaport town
Has crumbled into the dust;
And on oaken beams below
The bells swing to and fro,
And are green with mould and rust.

“The saints! Ah, have they grown
Forgetful of their own?

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1882, on his death bed. (fragments)