Life's a beach?

Yesterday I returned ''home'' to Guadalajara after a three-night getaway to Puerto Vallarta with ten Oberlin friends. Our twenty-five person group had fragmented over the weekend, with the eleven of us going to the renowned party city on the Pacific shore, and eight others going to Barra de Navidad -- a relatively quiet beach town 1/30th the size of Puerto. Our group had put fiesta over siesta, and to a certain extent we got what we'd come for.

The day before we took off, a few friends and I went to a local bookstore to copy down useful information from a guidebook on Puerto Vallarta. Even we were scandalized to read the opening line of the section on Clubs & Nightlife: something to the effect of ''In Puerto Vallerta at night, teenagers and 20-somethings like to get trashed and dance on tables.'' Seriously. It turned out that the reality was not so spectacular -- vacationing's low season sent exports of primarily middle aged American turisticos, partiers past their prime. At a loss for the crowd of international teens so often in season there, our group turned within -- and I think we really bonded.

On Friday we went to Boca de Tomatlan, the beach pictured above (not my picture). ''Boca'' means ''mouth'' in Spanish, and indeed the beach was a picturesque sandbar nestled in the curve of a vast, n-shaped, lush green mountainside. We spent several hours frolicking in the water with a deflated volleyball and lounging in the sun. At some point I saw a trio of young Mexican boys around age ten approach Carey, one of the girls in our group. They handed her what appeared to be a stiff, life-size iguana with a short string tied around it. In awe she turned it around in her hands, as our group of gringos quickly descended upon the spectacle. We soon learned that it was in fact a real iguana, scared shitless into a state of live rigor mortis not long after the boys had found it somewhere in the nearby forest. Soon it came my turn to hold the precious creature, whose ribs and organs I could feel through its finely scaled, majestic skin. After passing it around a bit more, the ringleader of the Mexican niño dropped it callously on the ground and planted a stake in its makeshift leash.

A few minutes later young Dr. Doolittle and his friends approached my friend Jose and me and challenged us to a game of beach fútbol. Now I'm no soccer player but I often find myself a restless reserve of kinetic energy, and this was one of those times. About 45 minutes later I was starting to grow weary of beating up on the little munchkins when goalie Jose split the crotch of his bathing suit going for the ball. The kids collapsed, erupting in laughter. The game was over, and it was about time to head back to the hotel.

More about the Puerto trip later, but events happened today that I have to write about. Today I was fortunate enough to witness a startling, stupendous human moment. After school today I was sitting on a bench in a plaza, resting my legs and catching some shade with my friend Sarah. At some point a haggard, hunched over man approached us. His forehead peeled dried blood, and bits of food peppered the stubble around his mouth. He leaned over us, saying he needed help and just wanted two pesos. Two pesos is a pittance -- no more than fifteen cents -- and yet for some reason I hesitated, then rejected him. I told him we were students and didn't have money. I guess I just wanted him out of my face, and my revulsion at his appearance blocked any charitable impulse I may have felt. Disgustedly, he said ''I don't think I can believe that,'' and hobbled away to the next bench.

Less than an hour later, we were walking back to the bus stop to go home, when we witnessed a scene of human holiness. A homeless man dressed as a street clown, with a dirty face and a set of juggling props strapped to his back, walked past another homeless man who kneeled helplessly in the middle of the sidewalk, his legs folded under his enervated body like two flaccid tentacles. The circus-less clown walked a few steps past the supplicant man, then decisively turned back and bent down, dropping a handful of change into his previously empty tin dish.

That miraculous moment will stick with me for the rest of my life. But will I learn from it? I used to give change to homeless people on the street. When did I become so callous? What right do I have to drop down in a semi-destitute country, eat its delicacies, learn its language and leave a month later without giving something back? Every morning on my bus to school I see an old, toothless man walking inbetween cars at the same red light, peddling cheap packs of gum for five pesos each. How does he survive? How does he wake up before dawn every morning and raise the courage to hobble smiling through rush hour traffic after a full life of labor? Almost every day I see a grungy man or woman selling some piddling product with one or two toddlers in tow, because they have nowhere to leave their youngsters while they scrap for pesos all day. Seeing a five year old with a head full of greasy, disheveled hair and unattainable dreams is one of the most heartbreaking things I've encountered on this earth. But what can I do about it?