Life in troncones,
majahua & saladita

Mutual friends introduced me to Maggie Miles in October, a former New York Times reporter on her way to her next assignment. She seemed to be another young person passing through Troncones. I was wrong. Maggie stayed. I kept seeing her around and I kept hearing she’s doing her work from here. That intrigued me. How does she do it? How does she sustain her career remotely? From Troncones? As we got up from this interview, I noticed the words “GOOD TROUBLE” tattooed on her forearm. I asked her what that phrase referred to. Maggie explained it came from a series of speeches made by American congressman and civil rights activist John Lewis—a phrase born of his refusal to stay silent in the face of injustice—a reminder that making “good trouble” can encourage social change. Good trouble. After talking to Maggie, I can see how she’s doing that, through her writing work and with her choice to call Troncones “home”.

I could’ve stayed all day listening to Jorge Valencia talk about the Playa Saladita he knows. Not the one the surfers know. Not the one Instagram knows. Not the one that’s being hyped up as being “the spot”. Jorge’s family started making its home in Playa Saladita in the late 19th century, right along the beach, when no one wanted to be near the ocean, when the area was considered undesirable. After our interview, Jorge described some of the ridicule he took on as a kid—being called “poor” because he walked around barefoot—living beachfront, wild, without much of anything. Even then, he didn’t see the value in getting “dressed up”, not when he was living in a dusty place and he was going in the ocean four times a day. Today, things are different. People come from all over the world to be on the Playa. His brother Benito and his sister Lourdes run successful restaurants that have become local landmarks, and his famous “surf fishing” house is an easy find—a mural by MuckRock adorns its back wall, a nine-foot-tall Jorge holding his catch. And fishing outfitters send him their latest gear and sportswear. Jorge still walks around barefoot.

I first heard of Victor Ramirez when my neighbors came together to make repairs to the roads between Majahua and La Boca. It was said that we needed to include him in our planning. Okay. He was spoken of as if he were a judge. It turns out that, in some ways, he is. Víctor Ramirez lives in La Boca, and for years he’s been someone people go to when they have squabbles or when they want to get something done. His connections to Saladita, Lagunillas, Troncones, Pantla and La Unión run deep. He made sure we got the equipment we needed for the roadwork.

I first spotted Angie’s work at Hacienda Plaza in Saladita, her portraits of female surfers conveying a power that had little to do with surfing or beauty or sensuality—there was a presence to the participants that made them seem more like warriors, anything but laid-back “surfer girls”. After I noticed her work, I learned Angie called herself an “artivist”. I also started seeing her regularly at Hacienda Plaza, leading workshops and working on projects, by herself and with other people. We sat down together last week and talked for about an hour about her past and her present.

Black and white. Everything black and white. Is that even possible? I first met Peri Wolfman more than 15 years ago by way of a magazine, her Bridgehampton summer house appearing among the fashion stories. Everything in the house was black and white, even Peri. She had on black and white clothes, and had mostly white hair. I later met her in person, in New York and again in Troncones. And, yes, each time she had on black and white clothes. Even her dogs were black and white. To say she’s unusual would miss the mark. Peri’s a distinct flavor, unique, just like her color choices. She’s specific, practiced and sophisticated. She’s also joyful and youthful. At 86 years old, she moves, thinks and talks as if she’s maybe 66. Early last month, I found myself listening to a woman in Saladita talking about Peri’s vitality and energy. A week later, I overheard another woman saying the same thing in Majahua. They both wanted to know her secret. When I went to interview Peri at her house in Troncones, I thought I’d start there.

There’s no written history of Troncones. I didn’t set out to put one together but every time I talk to someone about their life here, I learn something new. Here, you’ll meet Ángel Dosal, who lives next to the church. He’s been here since 1968. All my previous interviews have been with residents who arrived in 1976—part of a community relocation project prompted by Ruben Figueroa, the governor of Guerrero—60-some people being moved to Troncones from Infiernillo, near La Salitrera. After this interview, Ángel and I went on a little tour to Troncones’ original freshwater wells, located not too far from today’s Main Street. They’re dry most of the year now, occasionally coming to life in the rainy season. In going up there, Ángel recalled fishing in Manzanillo Bay and only taking one fish a day—that it was all you needed. No electricity. No refrigeration. No taking more than you could eat that day. That’s a history worth remembering. Life before “the invasion”.

In getting ready to interview Wendy, I did a quick Google search of what the qualities of a mermaid might be. Here’s an edit of what I found: “Could be untameable. They manifest feminine power, demonstrate independence, have mystical wisdom. They’re drawn to beauty and they’re naturally graceful.” If I ever had doubts that Wendy was a mermaid, I don’t anymore. She chose Troncones four decades ago and it’s safe to say, Troncones chose her.