Nibblin’ on sponge cake
Watchin’ the sun bake
All of those tourists covered with oil

“Margaritaville”
Jimmy Buffet

Cuyutlán is a little Rodney Dangerfield sort of place—it don’t get no respect either. At least not enough to rate its own song. Or hell, Buffet doesn’t know where Margaritaville is so maybe that song’s about Cuyutlán. It fits. But then once you’re here for awhile you just don’t give a damn about geography.

Few visit the town any more, and fewer write about it. I suppose that’s understandable because they’re both inconvenient tasks in a way.

Oh, surfers show up from all over the world to ride Ola Verde, the famed Green Wave, and hundreds of Mexican families spend holidays here, and a few hardy gringos live here more or less year round, but most tourists whiz by our turn-off from Highway 200 on their way south to Manzanillo or north to Colima or Guadalajara. And therein lies the reason for much of Cuyutlán’s appeal. It’s so far laid back it’s almost comatose.

It wasn’t always so. From the 30s to the early 60s this was a toddlin’ town. Visitors from all over the country flocked here to temporarily enjoy the beach life. Thankfully the demise of railway passenger service and the improved highway system offering more travel options solved that.

But a bit of excitement clung on, like the crazy aunt who comes to visit and has to be escorted away by a sheriff’s deputy carryin’ a court order.

Ernest Hemingway described Outdoor Life and sports Afield writer, Russell Annabel, as the finest outdoor writer he’d ever read. From my limited knowledge of outdoor writers I’m going to agree. Annabel lived in Cuyutlán for a few years, and wrote about the area. It was evidently more exciting in the 50s and 60s than it is now, but few moderns are able to capture an ocelot and have it released into a New Year’s Eve party in the Hotel Fenix like he did.

And in "Sucedio en Cuyutlán" (Ola Verde) published in 1979 Gil Cabrera Gudino, Cuyutlán’s chief lifeguard at the time, related some of his adventures in the surf and sand of the village. And I suppose his modern day counterpart might be able to do the same, but none of it really impacts the pace of life in general.

"Salt—A World History," a 2002 NY Times bestseller by Mark Kurlansky gave few words to the importance of the Cuyutlán Lagoon salt beds and their extremely large role in Mexico’s development. Lazy, incompetent, disinterested, or just resistant to the idea of actually coming here—I’m not sure what the problem was but the result is that he passed over a great story. Or several.

And everyone seems to know about the big disaster that struck Cuyutlán in 1932 but there’s a debate about the nature of that misfortune. Earthquake, tsunami, a truly angry God, a combination---the discussion continues but a lifelong resident interviewed some of the survivors to get the true story and its on the site somewhere.

I’m sure that set of waves was more excitement than most wanted, and not an event you’d choose to have repeated just to gain a bit of attention.

Nor does Cuyutlán garner much attention for having served as the nation’s capital during the 1860s when more-or-less President Juarez set up one of his mobile government-on-the-run tent shows here for a few days. Think of it as the south of the border equivalent of “George Washington Slept Here.” Or Sam Houston’s wanderings prior to San Jacinto. Benito was a travelin’ man—but not by choice.

México was a bit hectic back then; almost as dangerous as a pill poppin’ blonde with a jug of tequila and a loaded .38. Great stories there too, and hundreds of isolated villages could tell their own versions of them. About both blondes and Benito.

They say that copying from one is plagiarism but copying from many is research. Cuyutlán has been so soundly ignored that research is a shattered hope. My only options for presenting information seem to be outright journalistic theft or the dreaded specter of original investigation. Luckily a few of the locals are still talking to me so this may not be too difficult.

Those who grimly hung on to this point might be wondering why they should bother visiting such a small sleepy place. The answer lies in the question. Because it’s a small sleepy place.

Once you cast away your self-imposed need to see and go and do you’ll discover that those who bewail the fact that “México’s not like it used to be” haven’t been kickin’ back in Cuyutlán. It’ll take you a few days to realize that drunken bliss is not overrated as an aid to relaxation. And the tally sheet of low impact activities available for your pleasure is quite crowded.

Sit on the shaded terrace of one of the beachfront hotels and sip your favorite sedative while falling into a hypnotic trance induced by the relentless pounding of never-ending waves breaking at the shoreline.

Or earn your spurs as a beach ogler.

If you’re the least bit inclined toward appreciative contemplation of the human form, regardless of gender, you’ll be pleased to discover an intriguing paradox. Many mistakenly believe that because Mexico is a predominantly Catholic country that a severe Puritanism rules in matters of public attire. Oh nay. Nay, nay, nay.

Some of the young hardbodies wear, and I use that word lavishly, swimwear that makes a bikini look like a muu muu. And, like poison ivy, “You can look but you better not touch.”

It’s safer just to have someone drag you out across the sand and plop you onto a chair beneath an umbrella to watch unwary tourists turn from a soft creamy white to excruciatingly painful red. I’ve learned that they never appreciate hearing that many of the locals enjoy free hot baths because they set a tub of water in the backyard around noon. By eight or nine in the evening its usually cooled down enough to sit in.

There’s evidently no hint of an ozone layer above Cuyutlán so the sun has burned the beach sand to a near-black. Okay, it’s really volcanic sand, but lay out on it for a couple of hours and see if you don’t think my story might be plausible.

If you don’t succumb to heatstroke there’s a quite a bit of entertainment offered up at no charge.

There’ll be birds flying over the beach, and a fish will occasionally break the water, so you’ll have plenty to amuse you besides waiting for a surfer’s board to develop a fierce hatred for its rider and spin up to smite him mightily to draw blood.

A few sharks patrol the beach on occasion so the potential for a lively encounter does exist. Keep a camera handy. The family will surely treasure photos of their loved one’s final horrifying few minutes of life.

If you’re a surfer, and bless you for holding that much energy, the waves around here will provide thrills aplenty. As will the sharks. They haven’t actually killed anyone recently but one did nip a guy last month. He says. Looked to me like board rash.

Or you might be lucky enough to offer a cheerful good-bye wave to the occasional non-swimmer being swept out to sea because he foolishly believed he’d be much more buoyant in all that salt water. A little physics is a dangerous thing; but sometimes perversely entertaining.

One of the beauties of this place is that once you settle in, aside from bathroom breaks, you’ll never need to stir. Someone will bring you everything you need to be content, and at the end of the day they’ll drag you back to your hotel room. Just think, food and drink delivered to wherever you happen to flop down, free entertainment courtesy of your fellow visitors, and an escort home. If that’s not Paradise I’m at a loss for a better description. Well . . . there is one turd in the punchbowl. A really good beach cheeseburger’s hard to come by in this Paradise.

But ennui doesn’t end at sundown. There’s much more non-excitement available.

At dusk, if you’re able to walk the few blocks to the plaza you can join the locals in the main evening activity---sitting; supplemented by watching. And swapping gossip. And enjoying fine cuisine from one of the taco stands, burger wagons, or hot dog carts. A really good plaza cheeseburger’s hard to come by.

The plaza dogs are so deep in the local groove that they hardly bark, much less fight, so you won’t need your heart medicine or whip. One or two might threaten your wallet by ambling over to sit in front of you to stare up until you break down and buy them a hotdog or taco, but that’s about as much aggression as most can muster.

Nearly every family in town owns a wheelbarrow so if you can’t manage the walk to and from your beachfront hotel someone will be available to give you an inexpensive ride.

And right there’s the charm of the place, darlin’. Usually when you return home after a vacation you need a month or so to calm your nerves and let your body recover from the torment you forced on it while “having fun.” Ain’t likely to happen in Cuyutlán.

Okay, I do realize that some of you are shackled to Type A partners who insist that a vacation is wasted if you don’t spend huge amounts of money making yourself look idiotic or stressing your out of shape and partially deteriorated body way past its pitifully inadequate limits. Seriously now, have you ever shown anyone that photo of you riding the banana in Puerto Vallarta? And didn’t that compound fracture teach you anything about the insanity of para-sailing? And having your arm ripped from the shoulder socket while trying to reel in that sailfish off Manzanillo was a real treat, wasn’t it? Didn’t you hear about the novice diver who died from suckin’ bad air from a rented tank? And do you really believe those hip youngsters on the disco dance floor in Mazatlan were laughing with you?

Leave behind those terrors and humiliations and just veg out in Cuyutlán. If you absolutely have to do something, here are a few tips.

Visit the Salt Museum. It’s only a block from the plaza. Admission is by donation and you can while away hours trying to figure out what the signs say since they’re all in Spanish. The pictures are in English though, so you won’t have any trouble there.

If you’re visiting during the season, you may be able to find someone to take you into the salt producing area of the Laguna de Cuyutlán. The temperature out there is a bit high; about four degrees hotter than the Sun, but slightly cooler than Hell.

Or grab a cab to my favorite place, El Tortugario. Don’t honk when you pass my house. It upsets the dogs and might wake me.

The Tortugario is the highlight of any visit. Come on Saturday afternoon and participate in a turtle hatchling release. Or just bring a lunch and spend the day under one of their palapas, or in the pool. Check out the iguanas and the crocodiles and the sea turtles used for research. Or take a leisurely walk on the wooden pier running into the edge of the mangrove swamp. If you can’t relax there you definitely need better psychotropics.

If you absolutely require adventure take a boat tour of the Palo Verde Estuary. The short trip is just around the area behind the Tortugario, and the longer version takes you through the mangrove tunnel, past the crocodiles in the wild, and over to El Paraiso, the neighboring beach village, and then back home. Plan on a couple of hours for that one.

And that’s pretty much the whole show. Look around the site for more details about the village. And look around the Fenix for me if you’re in the mood to spring for the Pacificos. And bring cheeseburgers!

See ya’ on the sand.