El Tuito

Sometimes an image makes a lasting impression and one that made an indelible record was in El Tuito.

Before I get to the imprint in my psyche, I will tell you about my first trip to Tuito. I had heard about the place, a small, quaint, picturesque village about 45 minutes outside of Puerto Vallarta. I like quaint so I thought a little road trip in order.

I found the bus to El Tuito with little difficulty, boarded and was off in about ten minutes.

The trip was scenic. You follow the highway going south from Vallarta along the coast until the little beach town of Boca de Tomatlan (see the story, No Sharks in the Bay). From there the highway turns inland and follows the Tomatlan River up into the hills of Jalisco.

There is a subtle climate change which can be very refreshing during Puerto Vallarta’s hot, humid summers. The temperature is always a few degrees cooler in the hills about Tuito. These conditions are noted in the flora. You go from the tropical vegetation of South Bay Vallarta to an interesting blend of deciduous trees, palms and banana plants now mixed with pine trees.

On my first trip to Tuito, my face was glued to the window taking in the changing surroundings. I saw the sign announcing El Tuito and felt the kidney bumping topes (speed bumps) as we entered the town limits.

The bus pulled off the side of the highway. There was a bus stop on each side of the street. The driver shouted, “El Tuito”.

I was sorely disappointed. On both sides of the street were typical little roadside restaurants and an assortment of little shops. Nothing more than cluster of very ordinary humanity inhabiting less than a block of highway roadside.

“Is this it?”, I thought. Wow, people sure see things differently. Yes, this is a quiet little town but no more than an unremarkable inhabited couple of speed bumps in the road.

I cursed my luck and decided to cross the road and catch the bus back to Puerto Vallarta. I thought it wise to use a bathroom before the trip back. I picked the most hygienic looking of the little restaurants. To be polite more than anything, I figured I would also grab a bit to eat.

The food was good, the bathroom a big relief and woman serving me was very pleasant. In talking with her about Tuito, she and I came to the realization that what I saw around me was what I believed to be downtown Tuito. Much to my chagrin, with laughter, she oriented me. Downtown El Tuito was a quarter mile down the side road on the other side of the highway.

I almost missed it. I almost got on the bus and went back to Vallarta without having seen the real Tuito or even knowing that it existed.

I walked down the cobblestone road toward the village square. It was a pleasant walk. Cute little houses, doors, windows and shops lined the street on both sides.

The center plaza was attractive. Stone, brick, red tile roofs, arches, very nice, aesthetically pleasing. Not much to do, some would be bored. But for me, I liked it, charming, friendly, and picturesque. It exceeded my expectations. Friendly, is one of the good descriptive words for El Tuito. People just seem…well…friendly.

Okay, that is how I originally visited El Tuito. I make the trip periodically, often with people visiting from out of town, whom I think might enjoy a visit to a sleepy, idyllic, little Mexican town.

It was on one of these visits that the scene unfolded.

I was bringing a small framed, big mustached, Austrian, racing motorcycle mechanic and an elderly, pipe smoking, big jewelry wearing (him and her respectively), snowbird American couple on a visit to Tuito.

We had eaten at a little restaurant on one side of the plaza and were walking to a little secret spot on a quiet side street on the outskirts of town. We were about a block or so away from the plaza when all of a sudden there was the loud clopping of horseshoes striking cobblestone at the gallop. Approaching rapidly from our blind side, passing very close and reining to abrupt halt just in front of us was an enormous white horse, nostrils flared, white mane flowing, stepping heavily and snorting after the exertion of the run.

Seated on top of the horse, a mustached, Levi wearing, cowboy booted, Mexican with a white cowboy hat.

We were all in front of a little shop with a large, open, front entry. The cowboy yelled to a young boy in the doorway, who darted inside the store and momentarily re-emerged with a roll of white toilet paper in his hand.

The boy walked over to the mounted man. He reached up as the man leaned down for the exchange of paper for pesos.

The vaquero (cowboy), his hand with the toilet paper also clutching the saddle horn, the other hand wrenching the horse’s head sharply to the left, spurred the steed to a hasty take off in the direction from which they had come. You could smell the damp, massive, warmth of the stallion as it passed.

We all looked at each other. Whoa…

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Copyright © 2008 All rights reserved.
Jimi Grant – Nopali Printworks
Puerto Vallarta, Mexico