Where Water Meets the Land

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The rainy season is July to October. From November to June moisture is scarce. Winds scour the coast between January and April. Grubbing Bermuda grass from a garden bed, Camille notes: "We've only been in this house for two full seasons, learning the cycles of insects, climate and ocean. You can bring basic organic gardening techniques like healthy soil and companion planting, but we still have a lot to learn. In New Mexico there was a four-month growing season from frost to frost. There's no frost here. . . ever. But we have to deal with other things - la brisa [the breeze which bears fine saltwater particles], the intensity of the sun, the heat in the summer, the profusion of critters. I'm experimenting all over the place to see what works."

If you eat what's in season, what grows locally, says Camille, your food costs can be minimal. She believes that it's possible to live frugally but well on as little as $200 to $500 U.S. a month in rural Mexico. However, earning that income can be a challenge. "Asparagus may work out as a cash crop," she thinks. Another idea is to make tropical chutneys and preserves and ship them out. Steven envisions a roadside stand alongside the highway - a dirt gouge through the jungle that bounds one side of the protrero - especially if the government eventually paves it. There he will sit under the thatched shelter of a palapa, perhaps playing his accordion, and sell bottled hot sauce, fruit, eggs, produce and goat cheese - all, he emphasizes, organically produced. As far as they know, not a soul in hundreds of miles is growing organic vegetables.

It may sound like Eden, but the challenges continue. Living in rural Mexico, says Camille, means that "everything you do takes more energy, effort and time. If I want information about solar energy or wind, I have to drive to El Tuito. If the car doesn't break down on the way and if the phones are working, the call is going to be expensive." They contend with rust and rot; driving rains and droughts; scorpions, which they killed by the hundreds before finishing the house; and last but certainly not least ...ants. If the surf provides rhythm, the tune is "the ants go marching one by one," Steven says. "They patrol every square inch of the house, and the minute there's food left out or decay starts, they zoom in." Life in such protean form also means more death, more tumult and turnover. A little nick can turn into a festering wound in no time. Since medical care is several hours away, the Dannuccis study herbology and homeopathy.

Camille would love to have like-minded folks in the neighborhood. Steven says, "I've never known anyone that was like-minded." And having moved so far, he still has to deal with people. The president of the ejido is building next door to the Dannuccis, right on the edge of their property. Not only that, he recently cut a road across the beach in front of their house without permission. Such incidents give rise to los pleitos, or legal disagreements, which, Steven says, are a major source of local entertainment. "Humans are one of the less noble of large mammals," he believes. "I wanted to move somewhere remote where I'd have fewer dealings. Now, I'm in the middle of a bunch of soap operas." In time, he pictures retreating to the potrero and building a house deep in the jungle.

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