Final Thoughts Before Bed

After supper, I tried to access the internet but it wasn’t working. My first clue should have been that there was no one lurking over their laptops in the internet zone. However, I caught up on the day’s adventure, drank another lovely Americano, and took it easy.

Then, with no internet, I went back to my room to sit on my balcony, the crescent moon overhead, the sea whooshing below. Warm wind blew off the water, a happy group chanted drinking challenges near the pool and I thought, my, this is nice indeed.

A few observations before I go to bed.

I may be the only person to ever return from Mexico without a tan. I simply don’t have the patience for it. I thought I may be able to get a bit of sun wandering around downtown today but we must have spent 20 minutes outside (ok, maybe a full hour all told) but nowhere near enough for me to start to turn a golden brown. At best, parts of me are lobster red (and not a nice, even lobster red at that). *sigh*

An all-inclusive that is not full is an odd place to be at. A place like this thrives on the energy of all the people. Sure, it’s loud. Sure there are line-ups. Sure there are more people who will walk around without looking where they are going while carrying a plate of food in their hands. But, all this aside, a quiet resort is not a happy resort.

I have done about 15 -20 pages of writing on most days. This is pretty good for me. Takes between 2 and 3 hours due to my slow speed. Takes longer when I have to find photos and put the two in a blog. But it’s good to get some writing done and, hey, most of the time, I’m having fun.

As well, for fun, started a new novel. Just an outline for now but it keeps my brain occupied. It’s a high concept thriiler involving Castro’s last, dying wish, the complete destruction of the US, not planes flown into buildings, not bombers with explosives in their shoes or underwear, but a plan that strikes at the giant’s jugular, one that will bring it to its knees.

Haven’t done any writing on the PI novel, though. I still hold out hope that I will get something done to restart this project.

Lost my sunglasses yesterday and they have not turned up. I half expected the gift store to be selling them but no luck. (See, the staff pinch your glasses and then resell them to you over and over and over.. clever, eh?) Nor did I have any luck at the lost and found. I would have thought someone would turn them in, but apparently not. Hey, I said they were cool sunglasses. Clearly someone else thought that as well.

This morning I also found out what the exchange rate was. Oh, I know it’s something I should have had a handle on far earlier but every time I remembered, I wasn’t near an internet to find out. Turns out the rate is about 100 pesos to $8 can. So, my big taxi ride, $16. My big tip, $4.

Makes ya think.

However, oddly, condos are priced pretty similar to what you would see back home. $158,000 USD for 1 BR. $230,000 USD for 2 BR. Not sure if they take dogs.

Time for bed, now. Not sure how I will make tomorrow interesting.

My Waiter

Feb 20th 2010

My Waiter

Not all waiters are any good here. Some are efficient, some useless, some attentive. But there is one who transcends them all. I call him my waiter. Miguelle. The waiter I had on the first night.

Didn’t get him tonight, however, but sat adjacent to his section. That gave me a chance to watch him in action.

He is shorter than me, less round and has a flat face that looks like it’s been hammered in with a frying pan. He walks with a funny, side-to-said waddle, his head back, his arms swinging, like a man on a good stroll along his favourite path.

He takes the arms of women who come in unattended. Older women, often in twos. He links his arms through theirs, says flattering things about how they look, their nice hair, their shoes, then escorts them to their table, whispers something special to one of them, who giggles and then he promises them both he will look after them. “Like Queens!” he says.

He talks to everyone, always with a big smile on his face. He teases Pappie about not eating enough. He jokes with another couple that mexico has yet to win a gold in the Vancouver. He pats shoulders, whisks plates away as soon as they are finished and pokes fun at the cooks who stand too seriously behind their dishes.

But is he genuine?

Had to tell but one hint is what happens to his face when he walks away. Is it all a mask, clown make-up to be washed away at night? Or is he really a guy who loves his job, who loves people, who even loves tourists? (personally, having worked with the public, I cannot believe the last thing.)

I watched him for a while. If anything, his smile grew bigger when he left a table laughing or if someone teased him back. When the older ladies went to leave, they stopped him and gave him a big hug and he thanked them for coming. He hustles like no other waiter there to make sure drinks are always filled, requests met, expectations exceeded. All for tips? Maybe. I know I tipped him well on the first night.

But I know Margot would have believed him to be a real person who actually loves his job. Margot was the same in many ways, walking around with a big smile genuinely happy to help people. So is it so hard to believe that there are others out there like her?

(I will try to get a picture but I will have to overcome my Canadian-ness about seeming to be rude).

(Ok picture posted, from today, feb 23rd, the outdoor BBQ)

The Final Part of the Tour

The next stop on the Grand tour of Mazatlan (which means land of deer of all things, though our guide thought it “Should be called the land of beer, my friends, hahaha,”) was the place where I had seen the cliffdivers.

This time, the diver wanted his cash up front and I thought, brother, that is a far better way to do it. Before he was ready though, we walked around the area and I became Joe-want-me-to-take-your-picture? It seemed like the nice thing to do. Took a picture of the saskatchawan couple and talked to them about their baby for a bit. Took a picture of one of the Mexican couples, very cute together and took a picture of the pasty white folks from Minnesota. Much to my surprise, only the cute Mexican couple offered to take my picture in return. Weird.

The diver this time was the polar opposite of the fellow on Tuesday. He was short, round, very smily but clearly just as insane. I asked my guide if they needed a permit and he said no. I asked him why there weren’t more divers as this could be quite a good money making endeavour. He said it is regulated and looked at a mean looking fellow about the size of a linebacker who sat on the wall picking his teeth with a machete. (Oh ok, I made up the machete thing but I suspect his business was well protected).

The diver did as he promised, he dove off a 45 foot lookout into 5 feet of swirling water. Loco. Simply loco. The wisecracking guy made some comment about corn husking being a better way to make a living and the Nebraska women stormed off to the bus. (Personally, I think that wisecracking guy is what Sean will be like when he is 65).

Next stop, the lighthouse, the tallest in all of Mexico.

We drove up a steep road and I thought, had Margot been with me when I went wandering the other day, she would have had a proper map and convinced me to march up that hill to see the lighthouse. She was always far more willing to make an effort to see something than I was. If it wasn’t too far and too steep, I was keen, but Margot was never afraid of a little effort. We would have walked up the narrow streets and found, much to my horror that, at the top, we could only get to the lighthouse by climbing down the hill we just marched up and up an even steeper hill. It wouldn’t have deterred Margot but I might have used some swear words.

In the bus, though, it was easy to get to the lookout. 5 min the guide said so there was no way I could march down the lookout hill and up the actual lighthouse hill. It did look high up so I don’t doubt it was the highest in Mexico.

For my 5 min, I walked around taking odd pictures. A cat. Some flowers. A huge cannon. A crack in the wall. Oddly, I found that several of the other tourists would then go and take a picture of exactly what I had taken. For a moment, I thought I should take a picture of a huge dog turd but then I thought better of it.

Still nice outside. A hot but a pleasant wind blew off the sea.

After everyone had taken pictures of everything, we all boarded the bus and drove past some French built buildings with iron-wrought balconies and small colonnades. The Spanish founded the city in the 1500’s and then the French took over in the 1860s. Germans apparently showed up sometime in the late 1800’s and turned the sleepy town into an industrial port. Plus, they built a beer factory. Pacifica.

Made me laugh, really. The Spanish show up, really did bugger all with the place other than build a lovely cathedral. The French show up and build a lot of nice houses and hobnob with the rich locals. The Germans show up and build a port and a brewery. The Cruise companies come and build a promenade. The Americans come and build condos and McDonalds.

It would have been nice to stop but that was not on the agenda.

Why? Because we had to stop for shopping.

Ack!

This time, though, when we were led in, I reversed my engines and left. I had no interest in more silver and gems and pretty girls with low cut tops trying to sell me trinkets. Instead, I was not more than a block from where I had been dropped off for the Carnival and so I decided to look around the area I walked during the night. I took pictures of doors and painted buildings and lampposts and anything bright and vaguely colonial.

I wasn’t sure how much time I had so I didn’t go too far but managed to find a neat little courtyard, learned where I had walked in search of a taxi and found some hidden wall frescos. I got back but had to wait a little bit before we headed off (which was not a bad thing as I sat on the seawall again and caught a few rays).

After the shop, we went for a wee walk and by ‘wee’ I mean weeeeeee. 2 blocks. Hahaha. The guide had to sheppard the group out of the middle of the road and keep them on the sidewalk to avoid getting run over. He led us to a bakery where we could buy treats.

Oh boy.

No matter, I went off down the nearby streets and saw a bit more of the old town. It was all very deserted and a far cry from the ‘goldenzone”, most of the traffic being taxis or trucks (in a very big hurry for some reason.)

By the time I got back, everyone was out munching pasties and it wasn’t long before we moved on. Another block.

This time we stopped at an authentic hacienda, something we had to pay an extra dollar for. Oh, old Joe might have pointed out that we had to pay for the cliff diver and little bakery treats and now a tour of a house and that should have been part of the price but new Joe will not say a word. Not one. He won’t even point out that we walked farther inside the shopping stores than we did ‘touring’ the old town. Nope.

The hacienda smelled great. Old wood and honey wax. All the seats had signed that said not to sit on them. I loved the office, with its many drawered hutch and the many windows and doors all open to the outside. All the rooms were roped off to keep grubby hands from messing up the displays.

I took more pictures but my battery was running low which I thought was very strange (it wasn’t until I got home and found out that I shot about 8 min of video of the inside of my pocket. Stupid ass touch-screen camera). I also found the main balcony that overlooked the square and I thought what a great house this would have been to live so in long ago.

As the others continued to look at the house, I raced into the square to look around. Eventually the tour went there as well but moved through it pretty quickly. We went to the Opera House and then made our way to our waiting bus. I think we must have walked 6 blocks total. I however walked a few more and got a pretty good sense of the old town. Plus, I realized that I’d done pretty well navigating in the dark.

We were driven home and I had an attack of the missing-Margot weepies, made all the worse because I couldn’t scrub the tears out of my eyes because of my contacts and had to dab them away. Not as effective. Good thing I had sunglasses on.

We got back around 1:30. I thought I would sit outside in the sun for a bit but, instead, felt sleepy and took a small nap. Hey, it’s a vacation after all.

However, my snooze took 4 hours!

Sure I hadn’t slept too well for the last few nights but I had no idea I was that tired. Woke up in time to see the sunset though, then went down to have supper. I hoped I would get my favourite waiter.

(the pictures are, homes near the waterfront - taken while everyone else looked at silver. The bakery which smelled like heaven. A restored door - Margot loved taking pictures of doors).

Cathedrals and Markets

The truth is that I really am trying to see things in a different light. Stupid fucking me for not trying harder soon, it might have made Margot’s life a little easier, but seeing the glass is what Margot would have done and, frankly, she seemed to enjoy her adventures, even the little ones, far more than I did. However, I know I have mellowed over the years and apart from things like having a traffic accident in Greece where I was not at all pleased, I had been a lot more accepting of what I cannot change (certain recent events aside).

Back to the day.

We drove all along the Mazatlan waterfront walkway which, I found out is not called a paseo but a MALECON. Silly me, I will have to correct my mistake on previous blogs. Man, I walked the shit out of that town. 11 km of walkway and I did a good 8 or 9 of them. No wonder my feet had been a mess (this time, as goofy as it might look, I wore my wonderful running shoes and short-socks. Mmmmm comfy.)

I learned that 55% of the income of the town is from tourists so they love us. (oh the old Joe would have something to say here!) Learned that the flu nearly crippled the town. Learned that there are 700,000 people here, it is home of the largest Mexican shrimp fleet and that the Malecon was sponsored by the cruise lines (kind of a win-win for everyone though there are those who might read this that would disagree.)

Our first stop was at the cathedral. We came along a wider road filled with cars and dirty buses with destinations scrawled on their windows in white wax. As far as I could tell, there were no tourists on the streets, just locals, and, sure enough, as we pulled to a stop, the tour guide pointed out we had the city to ourselves since all the cruise ships left yesterday.

Good news indeed.

The cathedral was bright and blinding in the sun, a dark yellow color front, white stoned sides and domes of gold. Stark white statues stood to the side of the cathedral and a black iron fence surrounded it. Across the street was a square with local booths like shoe shiners, an Indian looking couple playing flutes and old men sitting on benches with their hands on their bellies.

We all stumped out and the tour guide told us a little about the cathedral, how important religion is to the Mexicans, how sacred the house of God is then told us we had half an hour. I immediately went to the square to look around then wandered the nearby streets. Nothing magnificent but there was no question, this was a working city with people living their lives and going about their business. Women carried shopping bags. Men sat on benches or steps or leaned against buildings and chatted. Police in bulky blue uniforms looked bored and twirled with batons.

I listened to the pipers, walked by the stalls filled with food, and smelled an odd looking flower that grew out of the side of one of the palm trees (it smelled like death, I kid you not). Then I raced into the cathedral, by now the tour group having moved on. I sat in silence on the pews for a moment, then shamefully took pictures and moved on to the market place.

This is a huge building filling one entire block and it is filled with everything from butchers to food stands, to bakeries to tile shops and curio shops and clothing sellers and candy shops and pretty much anything you could want (though no porn shops, sorry Sean). Now, I love the smell of cooking meat, but I have to say the smell of a butchery is a whole different smell. Whole animals hung from meat hooks dripped blood or lay on a counter for inspection (and carving up). Fresh? Sure. But fresh has a smell and boy, was it not good.

The food stands filled with fruit and vegetables and all manner of local produce smelled wonderful, though. Our guide had told us on the way in that they grow over 50% of their own food here. Tomatoes. Mangos.

None of the shops, except the butcher shops were big but man did they cram a lot of stuff into them. I found my tour group wandering around in 2s and the Nebraska women looked like they had actually bought something. They were an odd pair. Blonde, tall, not good looking but not bad either. I think the thing about them was that they had the skin of older women, leathery around the neck and on the arms, wrinkled elbows, drawn necks but their faces were flawless smooth. Could be this is common in Nebraska but I suspected surgery. It gave them a pinched looked.

I made it back to the bus with seconds to spare as I stopped to shoot pictures of locals and get a shot of the market from the street. The Nebraska women climbed in ahead of me and the old wisecracking guy turned to the woman and shouted, hey, did you do any cornhusking? It became his ‘thing’. Everytime from then on that they got on the bus or came to the line up of us waiting for the buss, he would shout, hey did you husk some corn? What corn did you huskers husk? Did you find any corn to husk? And on and on.

It was so annoying that I had to laugh, partially because they showed no expression on their faces. (Made me think that I should botox the hell out of my face too so that I can be a better poker player.) Clearly it bothered them as their lips thinned and their eyes narrowed and, when they responded, nicely to be fair, their voices were strained. It made for good theatre though and I wondered if they would snap and belt him one or tell him to shut the motherfucker up.

But no, they were nice Nebraska women. Kinda spooky looking but nice.

Anyway, it was now 11 and so far, we had only seen a small fraction of the old town. Surely we would get to see a lot more, Right?

The Town Tour

Feb 20th 2010

I set the clock to make sure I would get up in time to get my ticket to go into town.

It looked to be a glorious and sunny day but I had no idea if this was going to be a van driver tour where the driver shouted, hey look to your left, that’s the famed black marble statue of the Madon... oh never mind, we passed it. Or if would be run by a person who loved the town, knew its history and wasn’t afraid to walk around to actually see things.

I think you all know what I suspected.

Bought my ticket without a problem but the tour ‘specialist’ had trouble getting hold of anyone which made me think, I might be the only one, which was great news if the tour was what I hoped, very bad news if it was what I feared. Either way, he finally got hold of someone and I promised to return in time. He did remind me that 9am was 9am Mexican time and not to be too surprised if the driver, he was late.

Colour me shocked.

I ate surprisingly good heuvos rancheros, managed to fish my toast away from a toast stealer and ate in my usual fast fashion. The place was deserted. All the locals had gone home, which struck me as particularly odd since it was Saturday and I would have thought they would leave on Sunday. Very few little kids roaring around. No mass of tables shoved together to accommodate a HUGE family. No life. It was eerie.

When I finished, I marched upstairs to wait outside. 9am. I chatted with a fellow who stood waiting as well, younger than me, taller, wider, better facial hair, smoker. Chatty Joe does these things. Talking to smokers that is. I asked him which tour he was on, where he was from, what he liked most and my usual battery of 2 minute conversation questions. To quote Fight Club, my single serve friends.

Then the small buses arrived and we parted ways. I got on with a pair of blonde women (from Nebraska, I would later learn) and an older couple, the husband a wisecracker and all around trouble maker (my kind of guy). The bus was air conditioned, which was not a good sign since it meant we would be in it a LOT. The tour guide was friendly enough, funny at times that actually made me smile and we zipped around to pretty much every hotel and resort gathering tourists like deepsea fishermen with the right bait.

The tour guide asked us all where we were from and it was a odd mix. Minnesota again. Dallas. Nebraska (corn huskers! Shouted the old wise-ass, turning to grin at them). Me, from Vancouver, a couple from Saskatchawan (with a wee, wide-eyed little baby) and two couples from mexico. Why they would want to come here, I have no idea.

We arrived at our first destination. A silver shop. Full of silver. And gems.

Know, this is where I must tell two stories. There is going to be the Margot version and the old Joe version. Shall we start with old me?

What the fuck? First stop a jewelry store? Are you kidding me? This is glorious old Mazatlan? This is the Spanish Cathedral and beautiful old stone houses? This is the French quarter? No. This is the classic fucking tourist trap. Get you on a bus, take you to a shop, get you to buy stuff, make sure you can’t go anywhere exciting.

Well, screw them. I got my ‘badge’ (the reason we were stopping here, we were told, was to get a badge for the specific tour we were on), I grabbed my free bottle of water and marched the fuck out of there and stomped down towards the water. It was ‘Goldentown’ and that means a wasteland of dirty, graffiti-covered buildings, senior frogs selling tourist crap, gangs of pamphleteers handing out ‘must see, must drink or must eat’ brochures.

It stank of diesel buses parked too long, of grease and burnt meat and concrete dust from the construction projects nearby. Horns blared. Jackhammers hammered. Drivers swore at the buses who stopped in the middle of the road.

It was what I had feared. But I had a plan, oh yes, a plan, to quote Black Adder, that if it had a tail, it would be a weasel. Already, I had begun to put it into effect.

Now, had Margot been here, the observations might have been different.

The windows were large and easy to look out of. The air conditioning was great as it was getting quite warm out there. You could even see the heat shimmering off the pavement. Better to be cool.

I don’t think Joe was happy when we got off in front of a shop selling silver and told we had to go inside to get our badges and, should we want, we could grab a bottle of water or shot of Tequila.

Inside, we were greeted by a jolly, large black man who welcomed us with arms, literally, wide open. His name was Bob, B-O-B, “The same forwards as backwards, hohoho,” and we would be his guests for about 15 minutes, “so please feel free to look around and have a drink on us. Those on tours, please see my assistant for your badges.”

The crowd moved to look at all the silver and Bob stepped back only to trip over the stair he had stood on. He didn’t fall but righted himself and made a joke. Not a typical tequila joke either. He didn’t say, “Oh, too much tequila too soon my friends, hohoho,” but, instead, “You would think with feet as big as mine, I would not lose track of them.” Even Joe laughed.

There were a lot of nice bracelets but Joe got his drink, his badge and stomped out of the shop like he was stamping on bugs the whole way out. Rather than stay in the shop, which was fine, we went looking at the local sights. It wasn’t as pretty as the old town was supposed to be but this is the real Mexico, vibrant, loud sometimes, dirty in places but alive and full of life.

However Joe decided he was not going to play by their rules. Joe called it rabbiting and he meant to run from the group and see what he could see whenever possible and damn the consequences. I’m not sure how well that will work out.

(picture is of the 'trap', the silver store.)

The Dull Day You All Feared

Feb 19th 2010


Woke up to a glorious day. Not a cloud in the sky. 8am.

My mood from last night had left me and a sunny day was just what I needed. I had planned to go to town but thought better of it with the sun out. “Sit on the beach,” I told myself. “Read. Relax. Try not to burn yourself silly.”

Good advice. Margot advice.

I tried to book a trip for tomorrow but the desk was out of tickets, of all things and so I will show up tomorrow and see what happens. $40 tour of the old town. Not sure there is even a bus as I ran into some people who were taken there in the back of a pick up! Such is mexico, though, so I am not going to complain if that happens.

In the elevator, met one of the people I had spoken to in the past, a fellow who stays on the same floor as me. Tall, pasty-skinned, he has the odd looking sandy-reddish hair and high check-bones of a german yet he has come from Vancouver. I saw him set up his camera and tripod on the beach two days ago and, when I bumped into him in the lobby, I asked if he had been trying to shoot the birds, as I had. He said he was and he got some good photos.

So, while waiting for the elevator, a place no one can escape from chatty Joe, I asked him if he had done any excursions and he said, no but he did get into two to see the parade. As we got on the elevator, he was the one who told me about the stampede.

We were beginning to talk about the old town when the door opened and an older lady came in and immediately, (and I mean before she had even pushed the button) began to complain about the weather and how it was the first good day and how her whole vacation had been ruined and how, on every vacation they said, oh, I bet the weather will be terrible and it was. My Nordic friend said, “Then perhaps you should stop saying such things.”

If I didn’t like the Nordic guy before, I did now.

And he was right. I mean as chatty as Joe Part 2 is at the moment (and that is not that chatty, to be honest), I will never walk into an elevator and start rattling off a litany of complaints. Why would you? What could you possibly get some such a display.

Anyway, the rest of the day does not bear mentioning. I sat in the sun. I got bored, shifted my lounge chair about a thousand times, tried to find a comfy position that both allowed the sun to hit the maximum amount of my fish-white skin and yet be comfortable enough to read. I read my Vince Flynn book having finished off The Road last night (depressing as hell and, perhaps it was just the state of mind I was in, but reminded me of the final journey that Margot and I went on, a journey where everyone knew what the end would be and it wouldn’t and-everyone-lives-happily-ever-aftger.)

I watched young, healthy people play volleyball and paragliders slide into the sky and seadooers leap over waves and apparently there were dolphins on the crest of the waves but I didn’t see them. I read and smelled my own nose burning and picked sand out of all sorts of unholy places.

Still, a good day. Not eventful, perhaps, but restful. Peaceful. Hot and quiet. Service at the buffet, for the first time, sucked monkey balls but the food was better than yesterday, or at least I had become better at choosing what they did well and what they did not. (Hint, burgers can be used as deadly Frisbees). Got a great cup of coffee up in my internet area and finally, yes finally, caught up on my blogs, vids not withstanding.

Tomorrow, off to the city again to see the old parts and not get so lost.

Night Life

Mazatlan feb 18th Night 2010

Spectacular lightning storm on the horizon last night but sadly it did not roll over us. I have hoped that thunder would boom and lightning would slash the skies and rain the size of eggs would pelt the resort. No luck.

I tried my best to get a picture but my camera was not set up for such things, (and I EVEN read the instructions.)

Had a bad night’s sleep. Sadness and loss overwhelmed me and I couldn’t find peace. In all good stories, the protagonist suffers. I get that. The Hero suffers and endures and overcomes. However, I am not the hero in the story of Mojo. Margot was. I was the comic sidekick. The best supporting actor.

No story should end up with the hero dead and the comic sidekick having to find a way to continue on. It’s against all rules of story telling. It’s just wrong.

A part of them thinks I should be able to move on by now by that doesn’t seem to be happening. I am managing to do things, albeit pretty simple things but that pain of loss doesn’t seem to want to go away. I am betting pretty heavily that time will heal this wound but, so far, time has let me down again.