On a more serious (but creative) note...

     There is a certain point of midmorning when the temperature in the 9x9 foot cabana reaches a waking point. The peaceful cycle of the waves are no longer lulling you to snooze. Instead their roar beckons you awake, tempting the hot, sticky, mosquito- bitten bodies out of their loose slung and only semi-affective bug- netted beds. The crystal water calls; its siren promises refreshment from the heat that is quickly encroaching comfort.  The population of hippies, so long here that English is more difficult than the Latin tongue, emerge with their scratching, sloppy, dogs trailing behind on the cooler portion of the sand.  Waves of locals, long awake by now, pass by with baskets of intricate, handmade, jewelry balanced on their heads, and hammocks drooping from their red over-tanned skinned. A few, mainly men, run by sweating off years of empanadas, queso, tlayudas, and cervezas. The fair skinned, toned females park their towels away from the crashing waves for quiet meditation, white buds in their ears reminding them how tranquil they or the world can be. Then those, who so often come for a three day excursion, yet still remain three weeks or three months later, tumble out from their beach side huts, laughing off the copius amounts of tequila still sloshing through their body from the night before. All of those, as am I, are pulled to the light blue crash accompanied by its salty perfect breeze. Such is Zipolite.

                The cabana from which I emerged, is charming, in a Swiss- Family- Robinson-sort of way. The dream of most childhoods in perfect gnarly form hides between stately palms and pavilions of twisted drift wood dripping with hammocks. A tiny kitchen sits half submerged in the sand, separating the private huts from the wide expanse of the beach. The ladder leading to the shared rickety terrace is awash with unneeded nails and rungs of unfortunate but strong driftwood at random intervals. The slats that create the floor are creaking through what looks like their third composition. Cabana is a pretentious name for this earthy hut perched precariously on stilts galore, of varying stages of development. Planks of palm tree wood, still wearing their palm straw on the edges, make the walls. The rusty key to the padlock chained door is tied to half of a dried coconut shell, cumbersome in its inability to fit in any pocket. A crude heavy window opens the top half of the front wall, facing the cool blue crashing water. It is menial accommodations. A small table in its second life is to the right, covered in the necessities of tropical life: empty water bottles, homemade candles in filmy glasses, mosquito coils and their predecessor’s ashes, Lonely Planet’s Guide to Mexico, cell phones that have been dead for days, half-used dried frijoles, Tylenol, presents wrapped tight to take to those in colder climates. The bed, not comfortable, yet not uncomfortable, stands in the middle. Its low slung mosquito net looks far more efficient than it actually is. Still wet bathing suits, pants which have been discarded for breezier attire and over used towels litter the creaky, uneven floor. Yet the practical, humble abode carries a freeness that is contagious; it reinvigorates its occupants, reminding them that they are nature as well. The hut reunites the human soul with the rest of the live world; not allowing respite from temperature, sound, light, humidity, insects, as so many modern bedrooms/caves can do. Peaceful is its truest adjective.