The Symphony of Manzanillo

As crystal sunlight of morning began to penetrate sharply through the warm, still air, there was but a single sound. It came from an old man sitting on a small stool near the intersection across the street from my hotel. Staring at nothing, he mechanically shook a small paper cup, begging alms on this Christmas morning in the Pacific port city of Manzanillo, Mexico. Held by a weathered hand, the dirty cup rattled a single coin.

After observing a long while I walked to a dirty metal bench in the town square. This town, like so many others, might have been overlooked by progress and outsiders were it not perched on the beautiful bay of Manzanillo. But today, and for reasons obscure to me, it was the town and not the blue water that captured my focus.

On three sides, humble two and three story buildings bordered the park in the square. They housed businesses on the street level, shuttered homes above. The park's remaining side opened to the water, where ships from around the world stood dead in the water.

From one balcony, a brightly decorated Christmas tree overlooked the square, adding holiday flavor to a scene normally swathed in bright paint. From nearly every window and balcony, lights and decorations contributed still more reds and blues to the endless string of garishly painted buildings.

In the park's center, a "manger scene" depicted the Wise Men's approach to Bethlehem. Crude wooden figures bore gifts for Jesus, who rested on a manger of sticks. Streamers of colored paper and twinkling electric lights simulated the Bethlehem sky. The scene was an oxymoron, both dirty and bright.

The city itself was an oxymoron for another reason: the current total solitude in a place that showed the obvious signs of intense living. Generations of human lives had worn ruts in the rocky streets, but still there was little apparent life on this morning. I knew, of course, the lull would prove brief, for the previous day, during our early evening arrival, the streets and sidewalks and even the back alleyways were teeming with the living of life and the vigorous making of noise. Horns had blared and music played from open front stores. Through the dirty windows of our small Volkswagen we had squinted at buildings in search of street names and one way arrows. Missing one, we entered a clogged street from the wrong direction and were quickly snared between huge diesel belching, horn blaring trucks. Drivers and passers by whistled and shouted good naturedly, drawing attention to the obvious.

But in total contrast, Manzanillo on Christmas morning seemed a different place entirely. No longer frantic with activity, the whole town seemed a beehive in deep hibernation with hundreds of roll down metal doors barricading the small shops. On the streets, nothing moved. Cars, motorcycles, busses and all the frantic hustle and bustle of human existence, had vaporized. It was eerily quiet except for the old man who, although alone on the street, rhythmically shook his cup. Expressionless and patient, he waited for the day's first coin to drop from a friendly hand as more fortunate people in far off lands were scampering excitedly to see what Santa might have left behind.

Suddenly two small dogs appeared to scamper wildly in the park. Another, a German Shepherd performing sentry duty from a nearby second floor roof, took notice and began barking excitedly as the carefree frolicking continued below. In full frenzy, perhaps frustrated by his isolation, the Shepherd stood on the edge of his roof, intensely following the playful antics below.

Soon a pudgy policeman ambled into the scene, taking up residence in the town's main intersection at the corner of the park. Soon salesmen began to appear from every direction, pushing heavy carts. With husky voices they called out their offerings of water, ice and wares of all kinds. One old man prepared to hawk unidentifiable, brightly colored liquids from large, heavy gourds carried over bent shoulders.

One after another, businesses began showing signs of life. Sales clerks, mostly young women, arrived on foot to unlock heavy gates and lift metal security doors. Manzanillo's mood was changing, its pulse quickening and strengthening.

The first of a battalion of large, noisy buses now growled down the street, lumbering around the park in search of passengers bound for beaches and businesses on the far side of the bay. Cars and the first few pedestrians now entered the scene. As though kicked, the beehive was coming alive in earnest.

Remaining shop doors rolled noisily open. Clerks stepped onto the sidewalk, erecting signs announcing the days' "specials" and brushing soapy water on the concrete to remove the previous day's human residue, and that of the thousands of birds perched on the maze of power and telephone wires strung randomly above.

The temperature, in harmony with the increasing pace of life, began to rise well above comfortable as the sun climbed steadily in its prescribed arc. Street clatter intensified further as an audio store cranked up the tunes, determined, apparently, to attract the deaf. Suddenly the air was awash in a calliope of music. A trumpet version of "Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White" competed with other American music and with Mexican tunes that sounded strangely German, complete with "oompaah" tubas.

More families and tourists and salespersons, people of all description, joined the busy fray. Locals mixed with tourists, crowding the sidewalks and parks. Sidewalk cafes bustled and dishes clattered. Curbside food stalls filled the air with delightful scents. It was if every person, every animal, every moving thing had a defined part to play and was playing it perfectly and furiously. Together, it became the unique music of this town, its theme, the horns and stereos and shouts and all human and mechanical activity, became the soaring serenade of Manzanillo. The mayhem seemed orchestrated by a mad musician, paced by an unseen, frantic conductor. The town, the air, the whole coast of Mexico was now vibrant and alive.

By evening the town was a rocking carnival at full tilt. Music blared, peddlers peddled, diesel trucks and busses belched and roared, music blasted from stores and cars and portable stereos as though a worldwide contest of the bands was about to reach its ear shattering climax. Dogs barked, children squealed and motorcycles, mopeds and pickup trucks were put to maximum use. Load carrying capabilities of every wheeled device in sight were reached and exceeded as people of all ages, as entire families, cheerfully scrambled aboard whatever moved.

High above, an approving full moon arose to beam down on the scene like a beacon of calm and reason. Hour after hour, its silver glow highlighted the spectacle, which took on the appearance of a movie performed against velvet background. But finally, after many hours of merriment, the pace began to slacken and slow, and by the time the moon glided well past its zenith, the din had subsided to a muffled roar.

People were going home. Stores were closing. Blaring horns and crying, tired children occasionally interrupted the return of order, but soon after midnight the beehive, except for a few drones still buzzing madly around, was returning to slumber.