The Azulita Project

I have a vivid memory of a young boy throwing trash out the window of a bus in Mexico. Piece by piece, his mother handed him a plastic shopping bag, a food wrapper, a Styrofoam plate, a fork, a plastic water bottle. Each item twirled briefly in the air before settling on the side of the road, amidst piles of colorful and stinking detritus. The little boy squealed with delight. His mother clapped her hands. I sat silently next to them, angry and resentful, feeling powerless to do anything about it.

What could I do? Lecture them on the evils of littering? Convince them to dispose of their trash in a garbage can? If so, what garbage can?

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Amenities Not Included

On Elaine’s last day, we explored Saladita, a small town to the north with a well-known surf break. Since that was the direction I was headed, I packed my things, planning on finding a place to stay for a few days after Elaine left. We chartered a taxi for the day, and were soon headed down a bumpy dirt road, winding among colorful hand-painted signs advertising surf hostels and restaurants. Through the trees, we caught glimpses of the ocean, where a cluster of long boards floated amidst small, neat lines of waves peeling down a gentle point break.

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