Life in troncones,
majahua & saladita

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”.

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.

“It takes a village” is an old expression recognizing that a child’s upbringing is a community effort. That it takes more than just family and school. That expression is also true when it comes to finding the right mother to talk to about raising children in Troncones. I talked to a lot of people about whom I should interview. Those conversations led me to Sandy Lopez, whose teenage son Henry recently won an award for an academic achievement no one could describe to me. Many people knew it was in a specific subject, but not exactly which one. It turns out I know Sandy—she’s our landlord. She owns Casa Sandy, on the north side of the bridge, where the La Onda Troncones office is. She also knows what it takes to be a kid here, what it takes to be a mother here and what it takes to make a life here. Meet Sandy.

I saw the wall go up. We all did. A good 4 meters tall, sand-colored, with a wide, arched entryway. What is it? A house? A hotel? When I looked at it from out in the water, whatever it was was even more mysterious. Its design blended into the sand and the palm trees, and made it somewhat invisible. And then the name went up on the street: Casa Saint George. And with it came a huge triple-bar cross. All very goth, all very different—at least for Troncones. After it was open a while, I heard about the nightlife there being interesting, that a younger crowd was coming to the beach-and-poolside bar. I went to see what Casa Saint George was all about one afternoon, and when I walked in and immediately felt like I’d found a sanctuary, something out of Miami Beach or a Hollywood spy movie, an elegant cool. Who was behind this? I had to know. Meet Peter Max-Muller.