Note: The names have not been changed, as there are no innocent. However, tiny infractions of fact may have occured due to translation. Feel free to sue...
The door opened wide on Mexicana flight 916, a sultry wave of Mazatlan’s full-bodied air washed over us. After the frozen sterility of Colorado, this air was a compost heap of tantilizing aromas. The flight fom Denver had been a little over two hours and had transported us to an entirely new world. Our snow-weary eyes consumed palm trees and bouganvilla with greed, our highly-sensitized noses were being bombarded with the Third World. Emissions, Vegetation, fermentation, perculations, pollinations, urination...life.
The Three Amigos had landed.
The customs official eyed us without suspicion...sad really...must be getting old.
“Push the button, por favor,” he directed.
I pushed a paint-peeled button, a green traffic light said go.
“Go,” the official said.
I assume, if you’re together enough to push a button, you’re in control enough to enter Mexico, a country where the drinking age is 1, and there is a lovely lack of rules.
We enlisted a cab, and headed to town. The trunk flew open at 60 mph. “No problem,” yelled the cabbie, between bursts of volatile name-calling at fellow motorists. We sped up past the prison.
“University of Mazatlan,” offered the driver, while throwing an universal obscene gesture at the offending donkey cart.
We arrived at the Torres Mazatlan, a lush beach-front resort in which Joe Rous had maintained a condo for the past 12 years.
The staff greeted him with great affection, inquiring about Cathy and Jessie. Joe introduced Rob Quint and myself, as temporary roommates until the arrival of his wife and daughter. The Mexicans are very family oriented and it was obvious they had their doubts about this whole Tres Amigos stuff. A burly life guard approached Joe, who introduced him as Jesus.
Jesus had saved over a dozen lives on the beaches of Mazatlan over the years, and is somewhat of a celebrity.
“What can I do for you, Jose?” asks Jesus.
“We’re after Marlin, we need a boat, amigo,” said Joe.
“Done,” said Jesus, turned and strutted away.
The back of his shirt said, “Jesus Saves.”
Early next morning, we headed to the marketplace. The normally-nocturnal Rob Quint was dangerously confused at this unholy hour, but the early bird gets the bean in Mexico.
Mazatlan, in the state of Sinaloa, reaps the benefit of being in one of the most agriculturally productive states in Mexico.
It also happens to sit at the point that the warm waters of the Pacific hit the cold currents of the Bay of California. This provides an ideal nvircmment for billions of
dinner for millions of exotic fishes. Which, in turn, provides dinner for Mazatlan’s 468,453 (approximately) inhabitants. You’d be hard pressed to fled a marketplace anywhere in the world with the freshness and
variety of Mazatlan’s. Huge red snappers lay flapping their tails and gasping for au~, attesting to the freshness of the catch. Tubs of shrimp, crabs, octopus and shark lined the floor.
“Try the blowfish sandwich,” offered Joe.
“Blowfish, isn’t that poisonous?” I asked.
“They have a special way of preparing it.”
“I’ll pass.”
Great hunks of beef, horse-meat, goatmeat and pigmeat hung from hooks. “Put Some Pork on Your Fork,” the sign read.
Mangos, oranges, bananas and limes were piled to the ceiling.
Dark-eyed mothers balanced their fat, brown babies in fruit scales in a daily weight gain competition. Each stall was a family-run operation, with three and four generations represented.
The young men strutted as the girls giggled. Mexican girls are extremely feminine, which in turn puts the “macho” in the men.
We returned to the condo to be greeted by Jesus and a smiling accomplice. “Amigos, meet the finest boatman in Mazatlan, Gabriel.”
“Sit,” commanded Gabriel. We sat.
“So, chew want to go fitching,” began Gabriel. “I have the finest boat in the fleet.” He carefully extracted a dog-eared photo of a fishing boat and gingerly handed it to us as if it were the Mona Lisa. “The Venus, $240 per day, chew guys look bery, bery good in dis boat,” Gabriel frothed the air with his hands.
“Dis bery good price for dat boat,” offered Jesus.
“I don’t think we need a good-looking boat. We need a fast boat,” said Joe. It was 25 miles offshore before you even started fishing.
“Oh, Meester Joe, a fast boat gonna cost chew more money”
“How much more?”
“How fast chew wanna go?”
“Does this boat have a fish finder?” asked Rob.
“FITCH FINDER!!” Gabriel leaped to his feet. “RADAR?? Chew want radar, chew gotta go fitching with the US Navy. Chew don’t need no stinking fitch finder, why?, ‘cause your captain he bery, bery smart, I mean, don’t talk to him about Bill Clinton or nothing, but chew wanna talk about fitches, he knows all fitches, beeg ones
“You buy the beer?” asked Rob, “and we’ll give you $190.”
Gabriel grabbed his heart as if Rob had thrust an ice pick in it. “Dat bery good price for dat boat,” Jesus said to no one in particular. “I provide cooler and ice.”
“How big is the cooler?”
“Beeg.”
“You buy lunch, Gabriel, we’ll give you $200.”
“AAYYYIIIEE!!” Gabriel screamed and sweated, squirming under the sound financial beating the Three Amigos were inflicting on him.
We finally agreed on $200, we buy the beer... a good price, according to Jesus. Gabriel slumped down the beach, we retired to the shade of the palm tree (poor man’s sunsaeen).
“I like it when the shadows cross your eyelids,” mumbled Joe, “you know you’re not dead.”
“Jose!! Como esta?” a portly vendor approached. “Chew wanna go fishing?” He held up a photo of the Venus.
“Domingo!! Como esta?” Joe sat up. “How much?”
“$160. I buy the beer,” grinned Domingo.
“Jesus? Gabriel? Domingo?? Palm trees?? Maybe we were dead...”
To be continued...
Thanksgiving in Mexico, Part3
by Steve Church
“You won’t find any damn gringos down here,” said Joe, as we stepped over a blind beggar, into a slippery pile of what I hoped were rotten bananas. It was authentic Mexican food night and Ihad no doubt in my mindJoe was right about the other gringos as he led us through the narrow dark maze that is old Mazatlan. Seventeenth century lxii-conies looked down on the bustling night street scene. Naked kids wrestled in dirt alleys; third world dogs, all mange and ribs, sniffed the gutters. Huge smoke-belching buses, their massive grills adorned with lights, crucifixes, dingle balls and dice, wove impossible bulk through minute spaces. Old men played sedate dominos, as old women strolled with available daughters. Metal tables, chairs and food stands lined the sidewalk.
“Here, try this, it’s delicious,” Joe would offer.
“What the hell is it?” I’d counter.
“I’ll eat it, you wimp, I love these things,” Rob would stuff whatever it was in his mouth.
We stepped through a hole in the wall into what appeared to be a Bolivian prison cell. A fly-spotted chalkboard menu was the sole adornment. An elderly sefiora waddled from the “kitchen” (a huge frying pan over an open fire in a dirt courtyard); “dinner” was clucking, scratching for bugs in the corner. It was authentic all right, but Joe made me swear not to divulge the name, in hopes those “damn yuppies” won’t discover it. I personally think he has little to fear. Joe ordered the entire menu. She waddled off to catch it.
“Now we go to another place to get the beer,” he said and started 6ff. We came to another hole in the wall, a swinging door askew. The blasts from an extremely loud and disjointed Marachi band, accompanied by berserk screams, erupted from the opening.
“This is where we die,” Rob and I said. We stepped in.
Picture, if you will, Kochevar’s Bar with 20 patrons in it, only the male patrons are wear ing lipstick atid earrings, and the females sport mustachios. Now picture, if you will, a sweating, swaying, 20-piece Marachi band lined up directly behind the 20 patrons, their beaten, tarnished horns blasting at head level and not two feet away. Everyone was hammered. It looked like a Fellini movie. I was totally smitten by th enthusiastic if not chaotic band (ii was a musical train crash).
It was a wonderful night a we out bravadoed each other wit] exotic food and drink. Authentic Mexican food night.
or gringo row. When I had last visited Mazatlan 20 years prior, there had been one tourist resort, the stunning Camino Real.
It now sits in the center of five miles of lavish hotels, every one more impressive than the last. The El Cid, for instance, has a pool that winds for 1.4 miles under waterfalls and buildings, around islands and bars. The beach was a carnival of watersport and craft venders. Gringos baked in the sun, desperately trying to brown, Mexicans sat in the shade, coveting lighter skin. The gringos spoke Spanish, Mexicans spoke English. The results were Spanglish, a language neither understood. I approached a jet ski vendor,
“Como esta, amigo?” I demonstrated my command of the lingo.
“Why, I’m fine, thank you, and yourself?” he answered. I hate that.
“Cuanto cuesto esto?” I pointed at the jet ski, sounding like the village idiot. “That particular machine, sir, rents for $15 per half hour; have you ever ridden one before?” The guy was getting on my nerves. “Si, si amigo,” I lied, “a snowmobile, lo mismo.”
He was not sure what a snowmobile was, but he was sure it wasn’t the same as a jet ski. “I’ll ride alongside, till you get the hang of it, it’s very rough today.”
I tore out to sea and immediately lost control. A little rough? The machine would explode from a five-foot wave, soar through the air, me flapping behind like dirty laundry. It would crash into the trough, I’d crash into the machine... hard. It was exactly like being tied to a mechanical bull, stuck on high speed, with someone throwing 25 gallons of seawater in your face every two seconds. I was getting pummeled. The instructor was frantically gesturing; I headed towards him. It was my intention to race toward him, putting on the skids and gently sliding alongside his machine. I guess I was 10 feet away, still going like a Texan on ice, when we both realized that wouldn’t happen. The wave under my machine lifted me high above the horrified instructor. He screamed and jumped into the ocean, as I came crashing down onto his machine.
Fortunately, I came down directly on the other machine’s seat, sparing major damage. The instructor came out of the water like a soaked cat. “Do you know what happens if you crack the hull on these?” he screamed. “THEY SINK!! You stupid, crazy gringo, you could have killed us both.” He ranted and raved all the way to shore... in perfect English. I needed a beer. We lay in the shade in a place called Joe’s Oyster Bar. It was a manly place full of manly men doing manly things. Guys were chugging beer, then doing furious chin-ups, guys were arm wrestling, what looked to be a platoon of Marines played volleyball and did pushups... simultaneously.
Rob and I lay in the center of this testosterone frenzy, like beached Beluga whales. Piles of Pacifico bottles surrounded us, a compost heap of tortillas and shrimp carcasses engulfed us. It looked as if two garbage barges had collided.
“May I join you boys?”
We looked up at a dark-eyed Latin beauty.
“PHHLLEB ... US??? Of all the guys in this place, you wanna join us?” Unless she was blind or a nurse, this didn’t make sense.
“I hate ‘macho’ men, that’s why I chose you guys.”
Her name was Laura, she was from Chicago, in Mexico with her parents. She was bored, she was Italian.
We watched the sun sink into the sea, Laura, Rob and me. I asked if she’d care to join us for dinner, not wanting to leave the poor dear in this den of testosterone.
Joe was preparing garlic shrimp and ceviche upon our arrival.
We set a table in the sand under a moonlit palm.
“So what are you guys doing down here?” Laura inquired.
“Well, we’re on assignment, doing a story on Marlin fishing for the Crested Butte Chronicle & Pilot.” That sounded pretty good, I thought to myself.
“Never heard of it, you guys aren’t actually going to kill one of those beautiful fish, are you?”
“Of course not, strictly
catch and release. Too bad, though...”
“What’s that?” she asked. “Well, we’re down doing a story on Marlin and we won’t have the proof.”
“Nobody believes a thing you write anyway, Church,” offered Joe.
“Still, Joe, we need a story, we need to catch something... something like a... mermaid!!... yeah, ‘The Three Amigos Land Mermaid in Mazatlan’... now that would be a story
“I’d do that,” said Laura. “You’d hang from a meathook in Mazatlan’s harbor?” I was just kidding.
“Sure, why not?” she said. The Three Amigos stared at each other, greasy wheels turning “I’ll bet you $50 you won
do it,” said Joe.
makes me want a tequila sunrise!
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