I found this travel story I wrote last year.
Far away from here (My first travel story.. I guess.)
The tour guide with a name I could not pronounce stood at the front of the air-conditioned bus. He was light skinned, in his 50’s, wore a dark curled mustache below his nose and a sombrero to boot. He was a Mexican cowboy, I imagined. I looked around at all the tourists who would be joining us: a large lady with a scrawny husband, two middle-aged Mexican ladies and a Spanish couple. Our time in Puerto Vallarta was coming to an end, and this was our last adventure. Somehow I convinced my mother to book a bus and hiking excursion deep into the summer-colored Sierra Madre Mountains. The mountain range snaked across the horizon line, creating the perfect backdrop to the white and orange cobblestone city of Puerto Vallarta. I took the window seat beside my mother, across the isle from my sister.
The bus took us along the rugged roads of downtown Puerto Vallarta. Alejandro-something-something spoke effortlessly to us about the history of the city on the sea. As we passed the Malécon, he pointed out the evocative statues that lined the boardwalk. The Malécon was famous for its art, liveliness and structure. We stopped beside one very special statue. It was of a young man triumphantly riding a regal seahorse. El Cabillito. The statue was withered and green, like the Statue of Liberty, but it stood tall nonetheless. He was the symbol of Puerto Vallarta, the symbol of the triumph and pride of this sun-drenched colonial town.
We continued our tour, passing family run taco street vendors, lines of swaying palm trees, hungry stray dogs and the grace of the blue Banderas Bay. Alejandro-something-something informed us that we were entering the Romantic Zone of Puerto Vallarta. This was the oldest part of the city. It is bordered by water on two sides: on the north by the Cuale River and on the west by Playa de Los Muertos, or Beach of the Dead. We stopped at a street known for exquisite shops of silver and hand crafted goods. We had half an hour to either purchase silver or explore. I believe true treasure lies in adventure, so I left my mother who was bargaining with all her might and roamed the streets. I entered a small shop shrouded with well kept plants and adorned with beautifully crafted plates and pottery. I was astonished at the creativity of all the patterns and colors. Then, I noticed the parrots. They sat in their respective cages; one had feathers of the rainbow and the other was dull and grey. I marveled at the contrast. The shop owner walked out and greeted me, Hola! She asked me where I was from, and I said, “New Jersey. I live near New York City,” and made a huge gesture with my arms. She smiled and nodded.
“Do you make these?” I asked her, slightly touching one of the plates.
“Yes, my family and I make them.”
“Muy bella…” I responded.
I noticed a dog behind a screen door. It wagged its tail at me fiercely and looked up at me with big eyes. I bent down and looked at him. She told me that he was her baby. I then took snapshots of the pottery and the parrots and the dog, and walked out, bidding the kind young lady farewell.
Alejandro started to gather up our group and boarded the bus. We were finally on our way to the jungle.
As our bus ascended up the steep slope of the luscious green landmass, the roads became narrower and I was deathly afraid of the bus tumbling down the mountainsides. I didn’t know what to expect when entering a jungle. The land was so packed with palm trees and shrubs and all kinds of flowers. Our bus stopped at a circular clearing. The dusty and cakey ground greeted us as we stepped off the bus, as the scorching sun made his appearance. I immediately began to explore the proximity, walking away from the motionless group. With my camera in hand, I made my way between high shrubs and small trees and found the ground entirely covered in beautiful yellow and pink flowers! I walked around, admiring all the colors of the jungle, the scents, a feeling of nostalgia. New Jersey, the Garden State, isn’t nearly as colorful as any part of Puerto Vallarta, even the highways had flowers growing wild around the dusty tar, I thought.
The tour guide pointed out an array of brilliant flower species, jack fruits and birds of paradise. One lady was so fascinated by all of this—as I was picking mangos with my mother, she asked us what they were and how they taste and look like. I happily explained it to her, hoping that one day she would try one.
We boarded the bus again and departed for the waterfall. I was so ready to submerge myself into fresh, cold water. After parking and making our way down the paths lined with colorful women in robes, trinkets and up some shaky rocks, we reached the large, natural pool. The waterfall itself was not as spectacular as it sounded, but it was cold and delightful. My mother sat back and handed us pieces of bread to feed to the schools of fish. They swarmed around my sister and I, the big fish getting priority over the tinier ones. I was amazed to be experiencing such a simple phenomena. A group of girls were swimming with us, jumping off the rock into the water. Here I was, swimming in a natural pool in the Sierra Madre Mountains in Puerto Vallarta. For a brief moment I thought about my life back home. I thought about the routine, and the schoolwork and sky rocketing expectations. Then I remembered where I was, floated effortlessly onto my back, and smiled.
◖◗ 