Category Archives: Living in Mexico

Cooking It Up in the Yucatan

By Jeanine Kitchel
David Sterling, chef and mastermind behind Los Dos Cooking School in Merida, has the right idea about cooking in Mexico. Use what’s fresh, use what’s local, and try regional recipes. That’s exactly what he teaches in his cooking classes, dished up twice weekly between the months of October and March. Add a pinch of Yucatec history, a smidgen of Maya culture, a sampling of fresh spices and you have a tasty recipe indeed.

For Sterling, a Merida resident of many years now, cooking came naturally and one thing led to another down the path of regional cooking. Originally from Oklahoma and “weaned on chili,” Sterling discovered Mexican food early on due to a large Mexican population where he grew up.

In an interview the chef said his career took parallel tracks–cooking and design. While in graduate school for a Masters of Fine Arts in Design at Cranbook Academy of Art in Michigan, he worked part time as a pantry chef at a well-known French restaurant, Le Bijou. This inspired him to start a small catering business.

After graduation he moved to New York City where he lived for 25 years. A friend who lived in the Yucatan urged him to come to Merida to visit, and after seven trips, he was hooked on Mexico. He did some serious thinking and decided on turning 50, “Why not shake it up?” He took the plunge, wrapped things up in NYC and moved to Merida.
On arrival he bought an old mansion with 18 foot ceilings, lots of space but in need of repairs. The plus side: it was in the historic district not far from the main plaza. He and his partner, Keith Heitke, started renovation.

When first in Merida, Sterling designed a gourmet line of Mexico food products that can be found on his website (www.los-dos.com) and slowly the idea for a Yucatan cooking school took shape. Now Los Dos hosts hundreds of students a year, mostly in the seasonal winter months.

Designed for people who love to cook, each class begins with coffee and pastries while Sterling gives an impromptu presentation of the history and techniques of Yucatan regional cooking. Sterling elaborates on the finer points of local food lore and the importance the Maya played in the development of Mexican cuisine and culture. The chef’s knowledge of Yucatec cooking comes from an intense interest in the subject. He scoured old cookbooks and did research through standard texts on the Yucatan, including books as seemingly unrelated to cooking as Friar Diego DeLanda’s Yucatan Before and After the Conquest. But even basic history books, he explains, have messages on what the food of the day was like.

He calls his wealth of knowledge on Yucatan food serendipitous, crediting a long list of mentors, including his friend Marta, a local anthropologist, and his favorite food writer, Sophie Coe (The True History of Chocolate and America’s First Cuisines), wife of archeologist and Maya scholar Michael Coe. Two friends, Diana Silveira and Socorro Rodriguez, also played a role as they’ve cooked with him since he came to Merida and taught him their skills in preparing regional cuisine which to them was just home cooking.

Included in the day’s itinerary is a tour of the sprawling Merida market, and under Sterling’s tutelage, students learn to identify first hand the exotic ingredients that make up Yucatec flavors by shopping for them. Then back to Los Dos to start cooking. What do the students whip up? Everything from tortillas to salbutes, panuches, tamales and more.

The school caters to a variety of needs and Sterling is flexible in how the classes are run. The grand finale to this epicurean adventure ends with a dinner the students prepare under Sterling’s guidance. It’s served in his formal dining room complete with all the trimmings.

A meal fit for a king? Well, maybe not far from it.
For rates and info, check out: www.los-dos.com.

The Lost World of Quintana Roo author Michel Peissel dies in Paris

By Jeanine Kitchel

Michel Peissel died in his sleep in Paris on October 7 at age 74.  His brother Bernard emailed me this information a few days afterwards.  I’d failed to see his obituary in the New York Times.  Apparently Bernard located a copy of  the review I wrote of Peissel’s incredible journey to Quintana Roo in 1958, and he wanted to let me know about Peissel. I was glad he did, as Peissel’s book was a life changer for me and countless others who were lucky enough to locate a copy.  I found the book in the mid-80s, couldn’t put it down, and shortly after reading it, booked a flight to Cancun, Quintana Roo, Mexico.

In the mid 80s, Cancun was not the sophisticated resort city it is today. It definitely wasn’t a backwater because even then the hotel zone had pizazz.  Cancun had a Club Med and had been picked to host the Miss Universe contest in 1983. That put a spotlight on its luscious beaches and turquoise waters.  But venture five miles south or north, and you would find adventure.  I know I did.

Although I was a seasoned Mexico traveler I’d never ventured to the Yucatan Peninsula, and the Maya pyramids were a real draw. Peissel’s world was penned in 1958 when there was barely a road in Quintana Roo.  It was hard for me to imagine a place as desolate and rustic as he described, but I soon discovered that Quintana Roo was truly wilderness.  My husband and I wanted to see Tulum and Coba and we started out on a local bus.  Back then you just hopped a bus and when you saw a sascab road heading towards the beach you asked the driver to stop and let you off.  We did this frequently and found unpopulated, uncluttered beaches with nothing on them but coco palms. (Today these same beaches house all-inclusive resorts).  Jumping off was easy, but finding another bus –sometimes not so easy.

That’s what led to our next adventure, as we were standing on the side road to Coba.  While waiting for a bus, we were given a ride by the man who became our connection to living in Mexico.  He was a contractor, and one thing led to another.  We eventually built a house in Puerto Morelos, started a bookstore, and later visited Paris where someone told us we simply had to see Shakespeare & Company on the Left Bank, as it reminded them of our humble store in Quintana Roo.  A far cry to be sure, but we did find a kindred spirit in George Whitman, owner.  When he asked where we were from, I thought I’d throw him a curve and said, “Quintana Roo.”

“Aaah, Quintana Roo,” he sighed. “What a place.  I loved it there.”

“You’ve been there?” I said, surprised.

“Oh, yes, in the 30s I was traveling through Mexico.  My visa ran out and I helped them build a bridge between Chetumal and Belize to get my papers in order.”

“I first heard about it in the book The Lost World of Quintana Roo,” I said, “by Michel Peissel, a Parisian.”

“Michel, of course.”

“You know him?”

“Oh, yes, he came into the store while he was a student at the Sorbonne, and I’d tell him about my travels in Quintana Roo.”

This coincidence led to a fine friendship with Mr. Whitman, who invited us to tea, and then to stay with him in Paris as he always had a place, he said,  for writers and travelers.

So Peissel had heard of Quintana Roo through George Whitman, and that changed his life.  Whitman was his game changer as he was mine.  I’d come full circle, from  finding the out-of-print copy of Lost World of Quintana Roo in California to the source of Peissel’s desire to head to Mexico, George Whitman telling Yucatan tales at a bookstore in Paris. Peissel went on to write 15 more books and produce 20 documentaries.  His life was a tapestry of travel and adventure, and after Mexico he shifted direction to the Far East where Tibet, Bhutan and Nepal became the passion that would consume him for the rest of his life.

As his brother Bernard said in my  email, “He always lived his life his way, never had an employer  and never ran out of ideas.”

May the rest of us live life so well.

 

 

Have You Ever Dreamed of Retiring on a Beach in Mexico?

Aaah, sweet bliss. A white sand beach, a hammock and not a care in the world. Imagine running away to the Mexican Caribbean and never coming back.
That dream became reality for author Jeanine Kitchel and her husband who traveled to the Yucatan in 1985 and a decade later left their Silicon Valley jobs to pursue a relaxed lifestyle in Puerto Morelos, a small fishing village on the Quintana Roo Coast south of Cancun.
Kitchel’s travel memoir–Where the Sky is Born: Living in the Land of the Maya–is now available at Amazon on Kindle for $9.99. Here’s the first chapter.

 

The Umbrella—Highway 307 on Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula stretched like an asphalt ribbon before us. The Maya named this place Sian Ka’an, or “where the sky is born.” It was untouched, this open, desolate wilderness, except for the narrow strip of pavement beneath us.
Standing there at the crossroads on the highway, more like a swath cut from the low scrub jungle than the major thoroughfare for the state of Quintana Roo, I wondered if the bus would ever come.
The year was 1985. We were sixty miles from the sparkling new resort city Cancun. It seemed unfathomable that just an hour’s drive on virgin highway separated us from the traffic and noise of a city, and then, as if by sleight of hand, we were transformed into a world of sky, clouds, jungle. We were in the heart of the Yucatan, land of the ancient Maya and their pyramids.
We had embarked on an extended vacation, escaping our city jobs for a few weeks to relax in the Mexican Caribbean. Another four hours south and we could be in Belize, but we had other plans that day.
After spending the night in a rustic hotel at the Tulum pyramids we planned to explore the Gulf Coast and to visit the undeveloped island Holbox new Rio Lagartos. Someone had told us to catch a bus at the crossroads, where we now waited. The bus route would jog past the pyramids at Coba and then head north through the heart of Maya land.
In a lackadaisical way, I suppose we were searching for something in this flat, wild territory that just forty years ago had been called the most savage coast in Central America. We had no idea in a few years’ time we would be buying property and building a house in this foreign land. But at the moment, we were deep in the Yucatan jungle, on a side road to seemingly nowhere.
Paul, my fiancé, had traipsed ahead of me, carrying the bulk of our belongings on his able shoulders. Nearly six feet, he looked much younger than his forty-three years. I noticed the morning dampness had caused his sun-bleached hair to curl slightly at the ends. My own hair, light brown and should length, was well on the way to a bad hair day.
Rain was coming. Unbearable humidity and not yet 9 a.m., but this was typical weather for the neo-tropical rain forests of southern Mexico. Moments later, when the skies opened delivering a heavy downpour, we moved beneath the branches of a Ceiba–the Maya tree of life–for shelter. Steam began to rise slowly from the asphalt, hovering about ankle height. Still no bus.
Then rounding the corner careened a small rusty Honda. Brakes squealing, it screeched to a stop in front of us. We had no idea that our future would be determined by accepting a ride with the man who drove this car. He would lend us a yellow umbrella. It seemed a simple act at the time, but the desire to return that umbrella changed the course of our lives for it introduced us to the place we would one day call home, Puerto Morelos.
The driver, Alejandro, was in his late forties with the dark, good looks of a Castilian. He waved us over as his girlfriend, Karla, rolled down the window. She looked and dressed like an American, ten years his junior, with her brunette hair cut stylishly short. Both were smiling broadly, as if they already knew us.
“Where are you going?” he asked, barely an accent to his perfect English.
“Up to Isla Holbox, through Chemax,” Paul answered. Chemax was a Mayan village forty miles north, known for its church, one of the oldest in the Yucatan.
“Well, hop in. We’re going to the Coba pyramids for the day and we can give you a lift to the crossroads.”
It didn’t take long to organize our things and crowd into the back seat. What a relief. Number one, we were out of the rain. Number two, the driver spoke our language. As we progressed in a westerly direction, Alejandro spoke casually about himself, where he was from, the San Francisco area like ourselves, and their day trip to the pyramids. He had the air of a storyteller, recounting tales of spider monkeys and crocodiles that lived at the pyramid site near the lake, explaining that Coba had been one of the largest Mayan cities in the Yucatan, with over 200,000 people, although at present, only five percent of it was excavated.
The man radiated charisma, flashing comfortable smiles at Karla as he chatted easily, all the while fascinating us with his accounts of the Quintana Roo jungles. And if these tales weren’t enough, hundreds of iridescent blue Morpho butterflies engulfed the car in a cloud of turquoise just then, adding a touch of Fellini, or better yet, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
He definitely had our attention. Then he told us about the house he was building in a small fishing village called Puerto Morelos. We were intrigued.
“Where is that?” Paul asked as he tried to locate the map from his duffel bag. “We’ve been traveling through the Yucatan looking for smaller towns. It doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Puerto Morelos is twenty-five miles south of Cancun. Have you seen the Pemex station between Cancun and Tulum? The only gas station for one hundred miles?”
Even this simple statement reminded us how far from civilization we were. As Californians it was hard to fathom one hundred miles of road without a gas station anywhere on the planet, no matter how far into the rain forest jungle one might be.
“Turn at the Pemex,” Alejandro continued, “and head towards the beach. In a few minutes you’ll be at the town square.”
As we approached the Coba junction, the rain continued to fall, now in a more menacing manner. Alejandro slowed to a stop at the crossroads that led to the pyramid site, his destination, or the Maya outback, ours. He fumbled beneath his seat and grabbed something. A yellow umbrella.
“Take this umbrella,” he said, holding it out, bouquet fashion. “This rain won’t be stopping anytime soon.”
“We’ll be fine. It can’t last forever,” I replied, not wanting to impose more on this accommodating stranger who already felt familiar to me.
“No,” he insisted. “Take the umbrella.”
“Only if we can return it to you,” Paul interjected, apparently sensing my hesitation.
“Sure, why not? If you do, that’s fine, and you can see my house. If not, don’t worry about it. Directions…When you get to Puerto Morelos, take the first left and head all the way out the beach road. Once you pass the hotel, my house will be the first on the beach. It’s Mediterranean style, you can’t miss it. Who knows,” he continued as we locked eyes, “maybe we’ll see you later. Hasta luego.”
And with that, he and Karla departed. We watched them drive in the direction of the pyramids as we began walking down the wet and isolated jungle road, with forest so thick on either side of us it seemed to be on the verge of devouring the asphalt. Just two days earlier we’d seen an eighteen-wheeler hanging–or suspended–in the roadside thicket as if by velcro, all wheels well off the ground. The jungle had sucked it in when it crashed, offering a surreal resting spot. Getting it out would be another story.
As for us, we were on the road again. Time for another adventure as our path curved northwards away from the coast and inland, to Maya country.
Days later, worn out from touring various villages in the northern Yucatan and visiting Isla Holbox, we were ready to return to the calm of the coast. We were still searching for an ideal place that hadn’t materialized. But the seed was planted. Maybe Puerto Morelos would be that paradise.
–Excerpt from Where the Sky is Born: Living in the Land of the Maya, by Jeanine Lee Kitchel.

Milagro Gata aka Miracle Cat in Mexico

By Jeanine Kitchel
When we moved to Mexico in 1997, we took our three month old cat with us, too. His name is Max, he was born on the 4th of July, and we got him from the San Francisco SPCA on Union Square where they’d set up a tent and were trying to unload kittens. There were little charmers in the cage and Max was the most bodacious of the bunch. Even when a two-alarm SF fire truck went raging past, he didn’t back away while I was trying to pet him through the wire. He was the one.
He’s been neutered and had his shots. That was his life story–and what was ours, the SPCA authority asked. Well, we explained, we were leaving for Mexico in a few weeks and wanted to take a cat with us. We were cat lovers and we trusted the SPCA when looking for a kitty.
Ohhh, not so fast, we were told. How could they be sure we’d provide a good life for the cat south of the border? In Mexico!
Wait a minute, was this really happening? Were we being questioned about our capacity to provide a risk-free life for our new kitty by the San Francisco SPCA?
Apparently so. By this time we had over-bonded with newly named Max, and just thinking about him not in our lives was almost unbearable. Paul, my husband, must have done some real talking about then, because in half an hour we were trotting away with Mr. Max.
Oddly though, in looking back over the past 14 years, we came to see that Ms. SPCA may have had a leg to stand on. Max has endured some unbelievable ordeals, many man made. Let me elaborate. He didn’t get the nickname “Milagro Gato” or Miracle Cat from our trusted Cancun vet for nada.
First of all, Quintana Roo in those days was very unsettled and downright wild as far as critters go. It was literally a jungle in much of Puerto Morelos and our house sat a mile out of town. We had very few neighbors back then and the mangroves across the sascab road were full of, well, varmints:  gray foxes, crocodiles, boa constrictors, monkeys, and coatamundis.   Also to add to the neighborhood combat list — beach dogs and stray cats. Non-neutered cats.
As life rolled along I realized Max was probably the only neutered cat in all of Quintana Roo. All the strays still had
their testosterone.  I could tell by the midnight cat fights that woke me; I’d jump out of bed, open the screen door, and clap my hands a few times to curtail the fight. That usually worked and Max would haul his battered buns inside the house to sleep off his late night wake-up call, and to realize he was indeed a stranger in a strange land.
By now of course he was tri-lingual: English, Spanish and Mayan, but somehow his 4th of July birthday must have given him away and every stray seemed to know he was a gringo through and through.
He’d cat around in those early days, and often when we went back to the US I’d hear neighbors say, Max was over, or we saw Max in the mangroves. When we went back to the US for months at a time we left him with caretakers. Basically their only job was to feed him. I received an email from a neighbor that said he’d lost all his hair and he was as skinny as the pink panther so obviously something was amiss.
We’d assumed the simple task of feeding him was taking place but when we returned home we saw a raggedy cat with no fur from his midsection to his tail. The caretakers said he wasn’t eating.   After checking his food supply –now Whiskas–what happened to the bags of Science Diet I’d left–I discovered it was moldy.  We dragged him to the vet.   Malnutrition had caused the hair loss and the ungas. Ung-what?   It was a fungus, the vet explained, and if  we applied a topical cream it would go away. From then on we asked the neighbor to check in on him while we were gone.
Although Max was usually an outdoor cat who’d use a flapper door for easy in and out privileges, about a year ago he shrank from any open door for a good two days. We were flummoxed because he liked being outside rather than in.  A day or so later the gardener found a four-foot boa in the front yard, and we assumed this was Max’s reasoning for avoiding the outdoors.  We marveled at what he saw on those dark jungle nights, and how he managed to stay alive.  But there was no way he’d stay inside full time.  Not his style. Early on he’d cavort inside and out of our gated property throwing caution to the wind as he ran across the street. But a few years ago he started avoiding going out the gate as the road got busier (it’s paved now). He hung back and restricted himself to being inside the high walls. His nine lives must have been knocking. Over the years we saw why our vet called him the milagro gato. When we first took him to see the vet at the tender age of 6, he’d nicknamed him that.  Why milagro gato?  Why miracle cat?  we’d asked.  No cat can live in the jungle that long! he’d explained. He’s ‘un milagro.’  And that he is.  To this day.

One Particular Harbor

by David Simmonds

But there’s this one particular harbor
So far but yet so near
Where I see the days as they fade away
And finally disappear
Jimmy Buffett

I’ve been traveling Mexico most of my life, and have been writing about it for nearly twenty years. And the question I have been asked the most is, by far: “What’s the best place in Mexico?”  Of course, the answer is that it all depends on what you like. I can tell you the places that stir my searching soul, but it probably won’t be yours. Although I greatly admire the colonial cities with their fascinating histories, culture and architecture, I inevitably experience serious withdrawals when I am away from the beach for over a week. I like to see the sun set over the sea, not rise. I like green plants better than brown. That’s right…it is the west coast on the Pacific Ocean in the tropics that keeps me coming back. From around semi-tropical Mazatlán, and continuing all the way south and east to the Guatemala border is my preference. I especially like the states of Nayarit, Jalisco and Colima. Many of my best times have been spent riding waves all day and slapping mosquitos all night. That’s just me. But there are some significant negatives at the coast that many people cannot adapt to. The summers are hot, humid, and buggy, with the occasional hurricane lurking off shore, ready to blow your pants off. And many of the small coastal villages have few amenities that many people can’t do without. But you can dine cheaply on fresh fish, there are no brain-bending traffic jams and the ubiquitous swinging hammock is always nearby, beer in hand, for an afternoon siesta. You need to know what you like and what is important to you. Like Jimmy, you need to find that One Particular Harbor.

The first step in finding your spot, the place where you can easily live and adapt to your surroundings, is to do your homework and, above all, be honest with yourself. If you’re a beach person like me, don’t settle for the highlands (bajio) or Monterrey. If you need fine shopping and five-star dining, forget that little dirt-street village where the major entertainment is Saturday night’s cockfight. Consume everything you can about Mexico, talk to people who have traveled the country, go online, and eventually you will start to narrow down a few potential locations for consideration. Moving to a foreign country, or even making a real estate investment for your occasional use, is one of the most important things you will do in your lifetime. It is a big deal and you need to do it right.

After you have identified several possible towns that seem workable, you need to make an extended scouting trip. No words, photos or videos can come close to giving you a realistic view of what a town is really like, day in, day out. You have to personally experience the place, walk the streets, eat the food, absorb the sounds and the scents. Talk to the locals, native and expat, and determine if you like them. They call Mexico the amigo country, but some places are friendlier than others. At many towns in Mexico you will be readily accepted and will make friends easily. But the cultures of the country are very diverse, and the locals in some areas are extremely guarded and private. Those in the tourist towns have learned to cater to the gringo. They have seen how a large influx of gringo dollars has improved their lives over time. But, there are other less-traveled areas where they don’t really care if you are there are not. You will easily recognize the difference.

Check out the little things as well. Are the streets clean? Are the health facilities adequate for you? Is it too noisy (Mexico is not as quiet as many believe)? Are fresh vegetables abundant? Cold beer? Internet? Is the sewer and water system in good shape? Does it feel safe? What does your “gut” tell you? When in doubt, trust your intuition. Talk to anyone you see and ask them how things are. Ask if the drug cartels are visible in the area, and if they are, look elsewhere.

Then once you have decided on the best place for you, spend some time – live a few months in a rental before you buy. If you plan on being a year-round resident, make sure you test drive the rainy season, generally the months from June through mid-October throughout most of the country. Northern Mexico and Baja get little rain any time of the year. I have heard it said that the city with the best climate in the world is Tepic, Nayarit.

Of course, you may already be a seasoned, long-time Mexico traveler and know exactly where you want to live. I have known my spot since the first day I pulled into town. Now, after having seen just about every place in Mexico, that town is still the one.

 

Disclosure:  I am being compensated for my work in creating and managing content as a Contributor for the México Today Program.  All stories, opinions and passion for all things México shared here are completely my own. Mexico Today is a joint public and private sector initiative designed to help promote Mexico as a global business partner and an unrivaled tourist destination.

 

Real World Home Tours Provide Authentic Snapshot of Nayarit

Bucerias, Nay.  –“Real World Home Tours,” developed by local non-profit PEACE, is growing in popularity, as tourists report glowing feedback regarding their experiences in local homes and communities.  

The Real World Home Tour provides the unique experience of visiting four exclusive homes, from spectacular luxury estates with pristine grounds and gorgeous accommodations, to modest puebla homes. One puebla home belongs to Libo, a local artisan and member of PEACE program, Manos Unidas por la Mujer (United Hands for Women.)

“I found the determination and grace of these women so inspiring, and I left their homes in humbled admiration,” said Andria Burchett, home tour participant. “It’s hard to find a vacation experience like this. Real World Home Tours helped us to respectfully “unravel” the cultural differences in this beautiful country, and also encouraged a relationship among tourists and the local people of the region.”
 
Tour Details Include:
• Departure every Friday (November 5 – April 1) No tour on December 24.
• Ticket sales at 9:30 am from Bucerías Centro(On Lazaro Cardenas, near the gazebo, in front of the Michoacan ice cream shop) or at www.thepeaceboutique.com
• Tour bus departure at 10:30 am – Return 2:30 pm
• Tickets cost at $450 pesos ($35 USD)
• Includes transportation, light lunch and souvenir water bottle
 
100% ticket proceeds support PEACE, an organization that focuses on education, entrepreneurship, animal well-being, and community engagement in the coastal regions of Nayarit, Jalisco and Quintana Roo, Mexico.

For reservations or more information, contact: tours(at)http://www.peacemexico.orgor purchase your ticket online at www.thepeaceboutiqe.com and click “shop online.”

Local Non-Profit Launches Language School in Punta Mita

Local Non-Profit Launches Language School
 
 Punta de Mita, Nay. –  Tres, dos, uno! The countdown is on as PEACE Language School prepares to open their doors on October 25th. Expats and tourists are signing up to culturally and linguistically integrate themselves in the Mexican way of life while supporting communities throughout the bay.
 
“This is not your typical classroom,” says Adriana Giselle Martin del Campo, Language School Director. “Students who were once embarrassed to attempt Spanish with locals emerge enthused and confident in their knowledge. They’re able to re-enforce what they learn every day in the real world.”
 
The PEACE Language School Programs have been customized to meet the needs of English speaking tourists and expats in Mexico by blending vocabulary and grammar with cultural activities catered for everyday use abroad. Through three levels of Survival Spanish ( 2 and a half hour, five-day courses,) taught by experienced, bi-lingual teachers, students will learn how to ask for directions, use Mexican currency, request help, order food and know what to do in case of an emergency. Students will also receive important cultural tips that will enrich their visit including activities such as salsa dancing, Mexican slang, Mexican cooking or learning about Mexican history, art and music.
 
One-on-one classes, group courses and one week intensive workshops are offered upon request.
 
Schedule:
 
Monday through Friday 9 am to 11:30 am

Second week of every month: Punta de Mita
Third week of every month: Puerto Vallarta
Fourth week of every month: Sayulita
 
Contact peacelanguageinfo(at)peacemexico.org for more information or to register for class.
 
 
PEACE: Protection, Education, Animals, Culture and Environment, is a nonprofit organization established in 2005, made of four main programs which focus on education, entrepreneurship, animal well-being and community engagement in the coastal regions of Nayarit, Jalisco and Quintana Roo, Mexico. Through innovative and community-based programs, PEACE is working to improve the quality of life in local communities throughout the Bahía de Banderas and beyond. For more information, please visit http://www.peacemexico.org/.
 
For more information contact:
Becci Burchett
PEACE Mexico
becci@peacemexico.org