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January 17, 2004
Exchange rate: $1 = about 11 pesos
I took my latest trip during my Christmas/New Year's holiday, a two-and-a-half week break
I'd especially been looking forward to since I'd be with my son, our first time together since Matt had spent a
few weeks with me two summers ago in Berlin, Germany. I headed north from Zamora by bus for our rendezvous, first
having a few days by myself before we would meet up about midway between our respective homes. When I bought my
initial ticket I really wasn't sure where I'd be sleeping that night, though I knew I needed to ride to Guadalajara
first in order to check out further options. I eventually wound up in Tepic, a city I honestly wouldn't recommend
going out of your way for. But Tepic's pallid aura of blandness was fortunately countered by the fact that it was
Sunday night, typically the most active social evening in Mexico. Also it was the last Sunday before Christmas
- the last pre-holiday hurrah.
Both city plazas were bustling with festive commotion - people milling about, music being played, booths set up
with refreshments, plus such obligatory yuletide fixtures as brightly decorated fir trees and the classic manger
scene. Adding a unique dimension to it all was a performance in Plaza Principal by a large contingent of Huichol,
the region's indigenous people, their songs and dancing the best show going on by far. They certainly stood out
with clothing that resembled children's pajamas: white with fiery red trim and embroidered drawings of various
animals. Their music was quite bizarre, a relentless pounding of tom-toms pulsating behind the frenetic strumming
of acoustic guitars and screeching of violins… a very discordant, wildly off-tune, yet wholly captivating sound.
It was great! Later I read that the Huichol are renowned for using the hallucinogenic plant peyote in their ceremonies,
which might explain a thing or two about the music?
The next day I was off to Mazatlan, one of Mexico's highly touted beach destinations. All the buses I rode heading
north were stopped by the federal police and subjected to inspections, presumably for drug shipments destined for
the U.S. market. Along the side of the road a band of heavily armed, uniformed federales jerked all the baggage
out and searched it, while the passengers gathered around and intensely peered on, as if anticipating something
interesting would happen. Nothing did.
What was weird, however, was that when they got to my bag they encountered all four sections of it firmly secured
with small locks, standard procedure for me when my backpack is out of my sight. The police jerked at the zippers,
quickly discovered they couldn't open anything, and then just shrugged their shoulders and stuffed my pack back
into the undercarriage along with all the others they'd gone through. This exact same procedure occurred at every
inspection stop. Since there were no police dogs sniffing around, I reckon I could've easily picked up some extra
traveling cash transporting a few kilos of prime Mexican herb!
I'd been previously told there might be a problem getting accommodation at any beach resort town around Christmas
time, but I wasn't worried as wherever in the world I've gone there's always been a bed for fast eddie! Once we
arrived at the central terminal in Mazatlan I marched outside and immediately made some inquiries regarding nearby
hotels, knowing from experience that accommodation around bus stations is usually cheap, plus noticing on my map
that this area was both centrally located and quite close to the beach (usually Mexican bus stations are inconveniently
stuck outside of town). I quickly met Alberto, a neatly dressed, middle-aged local who spoke very good English,
and who upon hearing my request firmly took me by the elbow and marched me around the corner to a decent enough
looking hotel where he subsequently verbally bludgeoned the manager down from 120 pesos to 100 pesos per night
on my behalf. I thought, "Gee, what a nice helpful fellow!" Right!
He then asked me to return the favor by attending a sixty-minute timeshare presentation the following morning "in
exchange for breakfast and four t-shirts, and you would help me out a lot!" I could care less about any cheesy
tourist t-shirts but I knew these timeshare operations usually put out a pretty decent spread, and I also felt
a bit obligated to the guy as he'd clearly helped me out and saved me some cash. So I agreed. But then it got more
complicated when he requested a two hundred-peso deposit, which he claimed would be "cheerfully refunded after
the presentation… guaranteed". My suspicions now heightened, I probed as to why this deposit was required
and when he didn't provide what I felt was a suitable answer, I politely refused. Then he dropped it to one hundred
pesos. By then I was getting a really bad feeling about it all and wanted out.
One thing that might be helpful for you to know is that I once was a licensed realtor and sold timeshare in the
State of Arizona. And although I totally agree with the timeshare concept in principle, it was by far the worst
career experience of my life and I left the industry with really bad feelings, mostly due to the fact that the
majority of those I worked with and for were blatant liars and/or outright crooks. And here I was with a resort
rep who was now laying on some heavy pressure, as well as a whiny guilt-trip, "Come on, I really need the
commission." I told him I appreciated his help but wouldn't be going since I was well aware from previous
experience that I wouldn't qualify anyway as I don't carry a major credit card (or any credit cards, for that matter).
He hadn't even bothered to ask me if I had one - always a firm prerequisite. I also knew that all timeshare spiels
are not sixty minutes as told, but rather ninety… another fabrication. Hey, why let the truth get in the way of
a little creative salesmanship, right?
Failing to hook me on a presentation he then went to Plan B, which was to hit me up for 34 pesos "for some
booze", as well as promising that he could line up for me "a nice little senorita for only 100 pesos…all
night too." This was getting better and better! Not only was this timeshare bird dog a sleazy opportunist
and naughty fibber, but now he was a pimp as well? I just wanted to be rid of him as quickly as possible, even
if it meant paying the slug off. So I pulled out my wallet but only had a fifty-peso note, nothing smaller. He
countered, "No problem, I'll run next door and get your change." And before I had time to react he grabbed
the fifty peso note out of my hand and was gone... never to be seen again! I was pissed at myself for getting suckered
in by this lowlife and letting him run off spinning the "I'll be right back with your change" ruse. Oh
well, I was burned for a mere 50 pesos. But my introduction to Mazatlan was a rude one, nonetheless.
Then I made my second mistake - I walked up to Zona Dorada (Golden Zone), the unashamed district of conspicuous
tourism: towering garishly gaudy hotels, restaurants, bars and souvenir shops that represent the decay of Western
civilization as profoundly as anything that exists on earth… in my mind at least. It was tacky and just awful,
and unbelievably expensive! Unfortunately I was wicked hungry and couldn't find anything to eat that wasn't outrageously
overpriced. I immediately got depressed. Then I got the fuck out of there as fast as I could, thinking, "Do
I ever hate this town... why did I come here!?!?"
In a state of near desperation I quickly caught a city bus to Old Mazatlan, the original city center concentrated
near the southern end of the peninsula. Here and close by was where I was to spend the remainder of my four days
and nights in Matzatlan and doing so totally transformed my experience there. The Old Town has genuine charm, character
and a relaxed ambiance... plus significantly lower costs. I walked around a lot, hung out in the plazas reading
and people-watching, ate from food stalls and sidewalk cafes, listened to good music, strolled and lounged on the
beach, and met and talked with some very interesting people. I moved from the marginally acceptable hotel I was
in near the bus station to El Castillo on Azueta where I got a small but very clean and comfortable room with shared
bath for 80 pesos/night. Make a note.
The commercial and communal heart of Old Mazatlan is around Plaza Principal with its lush trees (chock full of
pigeons... be careful, I literally got crapped on!) and iron benches interspersed with shoeshine stands. It was
properly buzzing, with locals of all ages hanging out and staying up-to-date on each other's lives and the news
of the day. I especially loved watching the old timers gathered together, wildly gesturing as they laughed, argued
and slapped each other on their backs. Kids were everywhere, running and playing and shouting...families were all
out and about. This went on all day long. Life here in Mexico is a social pursuit, largely occupied by personal
interaction. Outside of the U.S., this is customary - people preferring to be outside with other people - walking
and talking, eating and drinking, and sharing life directly, rather than doing so vicariously with their ass parked
in front of a TV.
Facing Plaza Principal is a 19th century cathedral, complete with soaring twin towers. Walking past it a couple
of short blocks brings you to the mercado (market), a densely packed, sprawling collection of shops and independent
vendors worth visiting. I observed a few tourists while there, usually wandering around with a map in their hands
and a dazed look in their eyes, apparently a bit overwhelmed by the crowds and cramped busyness that for them must
have felt like near chaos. When they spotted me, huddled down on a bench wolfing down spicy tacos purchased off
street vendors they often gave me a surprised look, as if to say, "My, but you're brave eating this dodgy-looking
food!" No not brave, just smart, as this is where the best grub for the money is. One trick to not getting
sick is only eating where the person handling the money is not also cooking and preparing the meal. And I always
pick the busiest stalls since that's where I'm likely to find both the best value and the cleanest, freshest food.
It's invariably worth whatever wait there might be.
Not too far away from this area, less than a ten-minute walk, is Plazuela Machado which is at the center of a sizable
historic area that has vastly benefited from an ambitious renewal project. Whereas the Plaza Principal area was
almost completely occupied by Mexicans, which I think enhances its appeal, gringos dominate Plazuela Machado. But
I didn't feel this was a bad thing. There's a considerable expat population in Old Mazatlan and their influx of
capital has contributed to a healthy restoration and development of residences plus sidewalk cafes and restaurants,
a few of which surround the square itself.
Abandoned 19th century buildings have been tastefully spruced up and as a result have become functional and attractive,
so it was a pleasurable area to spend time in. Whereas in San Miguel de Allende I'd felt that the expats had overly
glitzed up what had been a quaint provincial town that'd been better off left alone, here it seemed as though the
foreign presence had actually revitalized what had been decaying and falling apart…an aged port city that'd fallen
on hard times. Their influence has been in the spirit of cultural authenticity and their architectural choices
appropriate. Or perhaps my perception was swayed by the fact that I liked the expats in Mazatlan more than those
I'd met in SMA?
My haunt in the evenings was the Jazz Bar, a love project of Americans Phil and Tracy, where I enjoyed some tasty
food, even tastier tunes and stimulating conversation. The first night I stopped by I came across a large contingent
of mixed nationalities who'd just arrived after having been out and about Christmas caroling. Seeing me sitting
alone I was welcomed to join them, offered cookies and hot cider, and I quickly gained several interesting acquaintances
with whom I was to repeatedly enjoy time with each of the next three days. Here's a sampling of them.
Michael was a retired professional figure skater. "I had a very long career since being a comedian meant I
didn't have to do all those big jumps." Working and traveling nine months a year for Holiday on Ice for decades
he'd been virtually everywhere on the planet, and after living in Rio for ten years had now been settled down in
Mazatlan for the last eight. He always wore a red beret ("in the spirit of the season!") and loved to
carry on about how he was redecorating his old seafront apartment, "You should see the red leather dining
room chairs I just got!"
Felipe was an unlikely mix of Apache Indian and Spanish Jew who divided up his time between northern New Mexico,
Switzerland and Mazatlan. He supported himself by doing and teaching pottery and was proud of the fact that he
could teach in English, Spanish and Swiss-German. His specialty was an obscure Native American technique and style
he was determined to keep alive.
Gail had been a professional singer in the United States, "Country, blues, jazz, standards...you name it,
I sang it honey." She was now married ("fourth and last time") to a German who'd escaped from East
Berlin in the 80`s and they now had a boat repair business. All the musicians seemed to know her and she frequently
sat in with groups wherever and whenever they played. I heard her sing three times in four days. And we lounged
in the sidewalk cafes over coffee and yakked on and on about our shared passion for the musical legacy of Billie
Holiday, Patsy Cline, Dinah Washington, Bonnie Raitt, Joe Williams, etc. She had a lot of spunk in her and whenever
I saw her she was smiling, "Honey, life doesn't get any better than this!"
Then there was Lorenzo, a pianist who I believe was French, though his name suggests otherwise. Regarding his ancestry
he was deliberately and insistently illusive, "What does it matter where I'm from...I live here now and that's
all that matters." I've also felt the same way during the last four years and I totally support that position.
Lorenzo was a marvelous jazz musician who I heard perform at both the Jazz Club and at a closeby coffee shop. He
not only played his ass off, but also "held court" at the same time. He chattered on between tunes, often
spiking his performances with philosophical renderings, i.e., "Why is it that when a man dies we say what
a great guy he was, but when he's alive we seldom tell him that to his face?" (This was said in Spanish of
course, and I was proud of the fact that I perfectly understood it!) When he saw that I was sitting alone once
he stopped playing, got up from the piano and physically moved me to a table with a large group. Little did it
matter that they spoke no English, he was pleased as punch that I was no longer sitting and listening unaccompanied.
The seashore in Mazatlan runs for 15 km (9 miles) with the Gold Zone vicinity claiming the premier stretch. But
I preferred the beach nearer the Old Town as it was quieter and less congested, in fact almost vacant in places,
largely free from noisy restaurants and reggae music (I now despise that Bob Marley "Greatest Hits" CD
that's played on every beach!), or people hassling you to buy junk that no one I know would ever want or need.
I could lazily lean against some rocks and sit in the sand and relax and read, listen to and watch the waves, and
observe a handful of pasty-white gringos with couch potato bodies and designer sunglasses splashing around in the
surf, screaming like frantic banshees.
I didn't swim while there at all. I never go into the water just for the sake of going in, or just because it's
there. If I swim it`s because either 1) I'm hot and want to cool off, or 2) there are some monster waves rolling
in that I can play in, the kind that are so big that if you're not paying attention one of them will knock you
ass over teacups and you'll end up swallowing a fish tank full of saltwater. Those are fun! But this water was
a little cool for my taste as only three months prior I'd lived and swum near the equator, so I'm used to bathwater
warm seas. And the waves coming in could barely entertain a six-year-old boogie board enthusiast. But different
strokes for different folks and the people swimming were probably from Maine or Saskatchewan, had paid big bucks
to get there, and were not about to be cheated out of their ocean frolicking or sunburn.
An even more laidback place is Isla de la Piedra (Stone Island), a lengthy, thin peninsula whose tip is opposite
the southern end of the city. A short boat ride (10 pesos return) delivers you to a long sandy beach with coconut
palms and palapa restaurants (eateries built from palm trees - very basic) serving tasty dinners, mostly fish.
I had a pescado asado (grilled fish) at a place called Lety's that was melt-in-your-mouth yummy! It's an easy day
trip and don't forget your bathing suit and towel, a book, and if you're pasty-white, some heavy duty sun screen!
Some people stay overnight, and why not? I'd crossed over to the island with two young Swedish gals I'd met in
a coffee shop in Old Mazatlan and once there they checked into a basic but adequate bungalow for only 50 pesos
total. If your intention is to do little more than relax and you have no need to be kept entertained, this is a
suitable choice. And if you walk down the beach far enough you can secure virtual isolation. Isla de la Piedra
couldn't possibly be more the opposite of overdeveloped and overcrowded Zona Dorada. Strongly recommended!
I was in Mazatlan on Christmas day. This is generally not my favorite time of year as the atmosphere and sentiments
can so often be contrived, superficial and overstated... but maybe that's just me being cynical? I can assure you
that I've had a few Christmases I'd just as soon forget. Maybe my attitude is impacted by how disjointed my recent
ones have been: last year in Bali, the year before in Berlin, the year before that in Turkey, before that in Phoenix
and I haven't been with my children over the holidays since1999. This year I spent December 25th with the handful
of expats I'd met in Old Town and we hung out and listened to jazz and shared the priceless pleasure of good company
and straightforward conversation. It's not what I would've custom ordered, but no complaints I reckon.
Four years ago I started my journey on the road and now once again another new year has emerged with all the promise
that comes with it. My intention is always to do very little planning ahead and not get caught up in too many expectations…if
possible. I tend to keep my goals general and my life as uncluttered as possible. The more I pull this off, the
greater my capacity is to fully experience and appreciate what happens day to day and my attention is better focused
on the here and now. I also have more freedom to adapt to whatever comes my way and deal with 'bad news" and
potential disappointments. Sound good? Sometimes I actually do it.
I would soon be greeting 2004, but first I needed to get back on the road, which I did on the 26th - once again
zooming off, peering out of the window of a bus, heading north towards Los Mochis. Next I'll write about Matt's
and my trip to, and descent down into, Mexico's remarkable Copper Canyon.
Hasta luego,
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Peace,