Life in troncones,
majahua & saladita

I’ve been friends with Victoria Ryan for quite a while. She has a house in Troncones called Casa Azul. The Blue House. It’s literally a blue house, on the hillside, near the clinic. Victoria is also the owner of Hotel Casa Encantada in Pátzcuaro [in Michoacán], a popular small-city destination for people curious about colonial Mexico. She also owns an apartment house in Pátzcuaro known as Casitas Pátzcuaro. I know her as an artist. She’s more than that. Like I said, she’s a friend and she’s a good person to meet.

Life was hard for the families who were re-settled here in 1976 by the governor of Guerrero. No houses. No water. No work. Somehow, they made it through and created a village that’s known for its determination and tranquility. Enedino Sanchez told me Doña Matilde knew the stories of how that came to pass. I went to see her. Members of her family were there when I interviewed her. I was nervous about having them listen. I was glad when they joined in.

Ramón was working his fishing line when I found him one Sunday. He’s like that. He’s not someone who sits idle. We have a table at home Ramón cut from a tree that fell on his mountain property. He took a “bad” thing and made something good out of it. That’s the Ramón I know. When I first met him in 2012, I was told Ramón knew everything about Majahua. He’d been in The New York Times talking about sharks, fishing and tourism a few years before. That led some people to say he was an “expert”. Ramón’s not like that. I know him to be observant and curious, not someone who needs to share his opinion or be the center of attention. Even when I started to ask him questions about how Majahua developed, Ramón insisted he might not be the right person to talk to, that there were already 12 houses here before him. But living in the middle of the village for almost 46 years does give him some credibility and perspective. Meet Ramón Carranza Valdez.

A surf triptych—a mermaid Reina de Mar, a happy cross-step nose-rider in a bikini, a beaming Guadalupe in front of her boards—a painting hanging on a fence in the old Café Pacifico. The name Pato Azulita was tiny in the right corner. “Who’s that?” There was no time to find out. I was on vacation. That was 2014. I heard the name Pato again in 2022 when someone described art classes being offered by Playa Limpia, Troncones’ grassroots environmental program. It turns out it was the same Pato. Another four years of seeing Playa Limpia signs around town—signs saying things like, “Compasion Ecologica”, “Ama Tu Playa” and “Cuida Tu Pueblo, No Tires Basura”—and I finally got to sit down with Pato. I finally got to know, “Who’s that?” Meet Pato Azulita.

Nails, screws and pieces of rebar. A few hazards of the road in our area. Sometimes old construction debris is used to fill holes and trenches. It does the job but that mix is not always only concrete. That’s happened twice recently, my driving over some fill and coming away with something in my tire. I also had a construction project near me this summer. I took two nails before found another way home. Did I buy new tires? No, I went to Lagunillas to Don Fernando. He patches up tires in about 20 minutes, working like an efficient surgeon, finding the source of your pain, extracting it and getting you back on the road. The spiritual significance of a flat tire is that it’s a message to slow down. You have to do that when you’re with Don Fernando. And when you find yourself with him more than once, you can discover a lot. I’ve found his wife drinks Coca-Cola and he likes Corona Light, but there’s more to him than that. Meet Don Fernando Ramírez Pompa.