To commemorate Naomi’s last hurrah as a bachelorette, we “single ladies” – Meagan, Brenda, Amy, Courtney, Lianne, Yee Ning, Naomi and I – flew to Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico to soak up the sun and fiesta like rockstars.
We arrived at the El Cid Castilla Beach resort on Friday after a 40-minute bus ride through the less gainful parts of town. We settled in quickly, then bee-lined to the bar and buffet where we took advantage of the all-you-can-eat food and drinks. Our all-inclusive package covered airfare, lodging, food and free-flowing tequila and cerveza for just $749.20 all weekend.
We skipped the “traditional” Mexican show at the resort cafeteria and got gussied up for a fun night out. We slinked into our snazzy dresses and high heels, dabbed on lip gloss and mascara, then sauntered out to Senor Frogs.
The staff there treated us with wild fanfare, as if we were the bad girls on the Bad Girls Club or some equally annoying reality TV show. They ushered us through the crowd and sat us at a prime table in front of the stage, all the while blasting us with fire extinguishers and showering us with balloons.
Three hours of free-flowing tequila later, and tah-dah...the only two pictures I'll post! If you want more fun details about this night, please ask Amy.
On Saturday, we hunkered down at the pool and played the requisite bachelorette party games, taking breaks intermittently to caravan down the water slide and dive from the “cliff.”
Later that night we piled into the back of an open-air, open-back truck and braced ourselves for the long, bumpy ride into downtown Mazatlan to enjoy the Carnaval festivities.
On the grounds of Carnaval we maneuvered through a swarm of spectators who had stopped to watch a show on stage. We snaked our way, single file, into the crowd. The deeper we got, the harder it was to inch forward. We were locked in, our bodies pushed up against each other, moving together and against each other at the same time.
Court was in front of me. I clutched her shoulders, but the crowd swayed me in different directions, causing me to steer her about erratically. Meanwhile, Naomi was pressed up against my back, her chin almost resting on my head. We shuffled our feet forward along the muddy, beer-soaked ground, teetering slightly on our toes as we tried to avoid a huge, muddy puddle. After a few suffocating minutes in that sardine can of a crowd, we finally emerged, breathless, bewildered and dazed.
After the crazy mosh pit, we stopped for a midnight snack. The streets were lined with taco stands, where blazing grills fired up huge hunks of hanging meat. We stopped at one and placed an order.
The man in charge cupped a soft taco in his hand, carved into the meat with his long machete-like knife, then whipped his knife up to flick a chunk of pineapple into the bed of shredded meat, and voila, a taco! The man did this gracefully and rhythmically, as if he were dancing. Definitely a sight to see!
We were seated at a table on a slight slant and tried to balance on our chairs while we ate. Some of us chose to pile on the questionable salsa and guacamole left in open bowls on the table. The rest of us ate our meat and pineapple tacos plain. We all fared fine in the end.
We skipped the eviscerated carcass of whatever this is -- dog, cat, rodent? Who knows?!!?
Once we hit our Carnaval quota, we hailed down another truck and headed back to the resort, where we danced and celebrated at Senor Frogs all night long. Cheers, Naomi! Happy last days of being a single lady!!!!
Flying Solo
The rest of the girls left Sunday morning, leaving me to my own devices in Mazatlan. (I stayed a few extra days on my own.)
I hugged my friends goodbye, then darted toward the pool, eager to nurse my hangover with an ice cold Coca-Cola and a good ol’ American hamburguesa con queso. I sunbathed contentedly and even dozed off in my recliner. A half-hour later, I awoke to a pack of pigeons pecking angrily at my leftover burger bun. I kicked my feet and flicked my wrists to shoo them away, but the squawking flock just fluttered back, then shuffled forward more aggressively.
The surrounding crowd of sunbathers stared quietly but attentively at this awkward bird debacle, so I left the scene with as much dignity as I could muster. I calmly but swiftly scooped up my towel and beach bag, then sauntered away, as if I had more important things to do than fend off unruly pigeons.
I took my wavering pride to the lobby restroom, where I sighed with relief to have eschewed the pecking pigeons. While in my stall, I heard the striking of a match. Curiously, I peeked below and saw the shadow of a woman lighting up a cigarette. “Oh my god,” I muttered to myself, “she’s smoking and crapping at the same time!” To make it even worse, this multi-tasker also called her mom while pulling “double-doody.” LOL.
Later that afternoon, I strolled along the beach in the "Golden Zone," or the area of Mazatlan where gaudy resorts line the ocean and cater to tourists. Stark white, rope stanchions divided the beach into long halves parallel to the shore – one half reserved for hotel guests; the other half for beach peddlers.
This scene was the most overt visual representation of the disparity between locals and tourists -- between those who serve and those who are served. It was disheartening to see at first, but then I realized that each person on the beach chose to be there, for whatever reason, and they got what they wanted.
I glanced at the happy, cerveza-guzzling tourists lying beached on their plastic recliners with their floral swim trunks, expensive sunglasses and raw, red sunburns. Then I watched as the peddlers – who shielded their already sun-weathered faces and skin -- offered up trinkets, fruit, and even horseback rides to the tourists, scoring off of ridiculous rip-offs and tips.
Although I had my smile + head shake + “No gracias!” rhythm down pat, one brave beach peddler named Marcus dared to press on and pitch his business. Marcus catered to my curiosity. I asked him where he was from. He answered eagerly and said he was from a town about 4 hours away driving. He said selling trinkets in Mazatlan was lucrative since chump change to tourists is a lot for him. Plus a lot of tourists can't calculate the exchange rate correctly, so they inadvertently pay more, he said.
Since Marcus entertained my curious questions, I obliged his sales pitch and bought a "volcanic stone" sculpture (made of plastic). I bargained with him, but in the end gave him an extra tip anyway. To each his own, I guess, but everyone on that beach got theirs.
After my walk along the beach, I perched on the stone wall by the hotel to watch the sunset. I entertained myself with dos Pacificos and my self-timer function.
A few of the resort staff saw me taking pictures of myself and offered their help. One even jumped in the picture with me.
I watched the final few brilliant rays of sunlight blaze into the clouds. It was absolutely gorgeous. I'm a sucker for sunsets.
I sat for an hour and enjoyed the sunset until the air turned chilly. Then I gathered my belongings -- a book, two empty cans of Pacifico and my sunglasses – and got up to leave. To my right, I noticed an older African-American man in a red t-shirt jog forward to see the sunset. He held up his camera and snapped a few quicks shots of the diminishing rays. He checked his pictures and exclaimed, "Did I just miss it?"
I smiled and nodded yes. "But maybe you can come back tomorrow," I suggested.
"Awwwww, but my wife and I leave tomorrow morning," he said.
Michael and I continued to chat as we headed back to the resort. Our direction took us across a path of large, smooth stones that acted as a tacky bridge over the pool. I had maneuvered this path semi-expertly before, so I didn't worry about falling. BUT, for some reason, despite the narrow stone slab, Michael walked beside me rather than behind me. I tried to adjust to our tandem amble, but his steps kept throwing me off!
Suddenly, my anxious left foot landed in the center of the stone, blocking Michael's natural next step and throwing him off balance. The seconds passed like minutes as I stared in horror while Michael's arms wind-milled in the air, his body teetering over the edge. He battled hard, but finally gave into gravity's pull. "NOOOOOOO!" he wailed as he fell into the pool, eyes shut and arms over his head so his camera wouldn't get wet.
When Michael emerged soaking wet, I apologized profusely through tears of laughter that shook my body and made it hard to breathe. I felt so bad! Luckily Michael was good-natured about it all, so we snapped a photo to capture the moment. Somewhere out there, my picture is up on Michael's blog with his version of this same story. (I saw Michael later that evening in the hotel lobby. Michael introduced me to his wife as the "girl who pushed him in the pool.) LOL.
For dinner that night, I walked a mile down the main road to a cute, little restaurant called, "Gus Gus," where I watched the Carnaval Parade being projected onto a large screen next to huge speakers. I sat outside with a handful of other diners, a mix of locals and tourists including a Japanese couple who ordered spaghetti.
I ordered a Pacifico and read the best vampire book ever(!) until my delicious tortilla soup with avocado, chili peppers and cheese arrived. As I scarfed down my soup, I scared off a little street peddler named Sebastian, who ran away as soon as I asked him how old he was. (He couldn’t have been older than six.)
I woke up early Monday morning and caught the Sabalo Centro bus to downtown Mazatlan. Finding the bus stop wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I wandered outside the hotel until I saw a street bench crowded with people peering expectantly down the street. I casually joined them and waited too. No more than five minutes later, a green bus with "Sabalo Centro" spray painted in red came thrashing down the street. It whirred to a pause, then whisked us up. For just 8 pesos (or 50 cents), I rode the air conditioned bus along the Mazatlan coast and into the city.
After taking a picture of myself, I peered out the dusty window and watched the locals flag down the bus like New Yorkers hailing a cab. There was no apparent bus stop at any given distance. It seemed the driver, who zipped in and out of traffic like a New York cabbie, got to pick and choose where and when he stopped. He bypassed a teenage girl talking on her cell phone, but hit the brakes hard for a family of four. It was an odd pick-up and drop-off system.
I finally arrived at the street market! The meat market and stands were on the main floor, with dozens of food stands and eateries on the second floor.
At the meat market, men sprinted up and down the aisles with cow carcasses slung over their shoulders. A good handful of them whirred past me, always in a rush.
None of the meat was covered. Butchers sawed and chopped, then put the pieces out on display. Flies buzzed about, littering the meat with bacteria.
Even the chicken was tossed into these metal troughs without any care or consideration of the tepid weather and bacteria build up.
Although the street market was sprinkled with appealing food stands, I couldn’t bear to eat after seeing the treatment of meat, which appeared to be culturally and socially apropos, yet still made my stomach churn. If I were a health inspector, I’d give Mazatlan an “F” overall.
A few blocks from the street market towered the Cathedral del Mazatlan with its jubilant yellow paint and soaring statues. I love visiting places of worship -- churches, cathedrals, shrines, etc. No matter where I am, I can always find solace.
But first, I found a few funny pigeons that were sunbathing on the statues. This piqued my interest, and I spent a good 30 minutes roaming outside the cathedral taking pictures of the birds. I guess that’s the breaks when you travel alone.
Inside, the cathedral was just as beautiful and grand as the outside. I always feel a great sense of presence in places like these, mostly emanating from others who come to worship. Their faith intrigues and impresses me.
Outside the cathedral stood a humble, little stand filled with Jesus and Mary trinkets and treasures. Considering how revered and worshipped JC is, he sure is a pop icon in Mexico. He's everywhere -- on t-shirts, in snow globes, on beer coozies! I bought a few plain Jesus trinkets -- five for 14 pesos (or $1)!
I entertained myself at the street market for several hours, hitting up the bustling and crowded Senor Frog's OUTLET store and trying on Carnaval masks at a craft store.
I stopped at a convenience store to use their ATM machine. While at the ATM machine, two little local kids came up to me and poked my butt. I jerked around and saw their bright, curious faces erupt with smiles with laughter. Entertained, I smiled brightly back at them. The older girl, who had to be only 4 or 5, burst into a long stream of Spanish, speaking incessantly and quickly. I shook my head and frowned. I put my hands up and cocked my head to the side very apologetically and said, "No ingles."
On my last night in Mazatlan, I took the advice of the man who sat next to me on the plane and had dinner at the Purple Onion. As soon as I walked in, I realized that I had infiltrated tourist central for retirees. It was the mirror-image of Margaritaville in Las Vegas, even down to the cheesey floral shirts and fruity drinks. I made the most of the situation and ordered a fruity margarita with blue sugar on the rim. I listened to the band play hippie music, while I sipped my drink and ate my enchilada. After a while I got annoyed by the obnoxious drunk crowd and zipped out the back of the restaurant, where I caught a golf-cart cab back to the resort. The cab was the highlight of my night. I loved the warm Mexican air breezing through my hair as the cab puttered down the street at 25 miles per hour. It was fun, and cheap! Just a few bucks!
Early the next morning, I hopped a cab to the airport. During the drive, we passed the more rural section of Sinaloa, where I saw local kids playing soccer in the street, families hanging laundry outside while stray goats and chickens roamed about the front yard. I tried to recreate my golf cart cab by rolling down the windows in my Honda Civic cab. The whole hair thing worked. At the airport, I ordered my last Mexican meal -- juevos rancheros with coffee. Then I bid Mazatlan farewell and hopped onto my itty, bitty, tiny, scary plane to Houston.
I stopped at a convenience store to use their ATM machine. While at the ATM machine, two little local kids came up to me and poked my butt. I jerked around and saw their bright, curious faces erupt with smiles with laughter. Entertained, I smiled brightly back at them. The older girl, who had to be only 4 or 5, burst into a long stream of Spanish, speaking incessantly and quickly. I shook my head and frowned. I put my hands up and cocked my head to the side very apologetically and said, "No ingles."
This stopped them. They paused. They looked at each other. They looked back at me. And they started all over again, giggling, poking me in the butt and speaking crazy fast Spanish. Flustered, I tried to tell them again with the same body movement: "Lo siento," I said apologetically but firmly. Then I vehemently pointed at myself and said very slowly, "NO....INGLES!"
Again the kids burst into laughter, then ran off to their mom who was shopping in the make-up aisle. As I watched them run away, I pondered for a bit about the weird exchange. Then I realized that I was essentially telling the little kids that I didn't speak english. I should have been saying "No espanol."
I walked out of the store and heard the little kids shout, "You're welcome! You're welcome! You're welcome!" They sang this as they ran about the store poking their heads out from different aisles, sneaking peaks at me. Their mom must have taught them the only English phrase she knew. I had to smile to myself, thinking what a great story the kids will have about the Chinese-Japanese American who INSISTED that she didn't speak English.
Since the sun was shining (and also because I couldn't find the bus stop), I wandered away from Old Mazatlan and headed to the ocean. The boardwalk was lively and fun, with gorgeous views of the Mazatlan coast. I strolled along peopled-watching and snapping photos. The Carnaval parade from the night before left remnants of pink, blue, and white confetti fluttering in the street for miles.
I paused in my 6-mile walk back to the resort and had a snack at one of the many carnitas shacks lining the beach. Tents were set up on the sand, with plastic tables and chairs parked in the shade. Since it was still fairly early (only 11:30am), I was the lone diner on the beach for quite a ways. To my left and right was nothing but a long stretch of sand peppered with plastic tables and chairs. A wandering mariachi band walked barefoot along the shore playing their guitars and singing love songs. In front of me a family with young kids splashed in the waves.
I ordered a cold Pacifico and watched my server run up and down the beach, encouraging the very few beach-combers to stop for lunch. Although he failed to bring in new business, he excelled in customer loyalty. He brought me out a plate of salted meat. "On a house," he told me, which I assumed meant "on the house."
"Pig?" I asked, poking the meat with my finger. He laughed and put up his hands and said, "Eat! Eat!" So I picked up a piece and nibbled off a corner. Tasty! A splash of lime juice cut the saltiness of the meat.
"Yum" I said, smiling, "This tastes like pork!"
He laughed then roared, "GATO!!! GATO!!!!" to which I immediately froze, stopped chewing and exclaimed, "ALLIGATOR!?!?!"
He didn't understand what I meant, and I obviously missed his joke since "Gato," means "cat" in Spanish, not alligator. Either way we both ended up laughing and misunderstanding each other. I ate a few more bites of whatever it was he served me. (I still don't know what it was, but salt and lime make anything yummy.)
After my snack (mishap), I continued the six-mile walk back to the hotel. On the way, I stopped to take pictures of the beautiful beach views and various party places. I passed a man grilling some long, links of meat, and stopped to ask what it was. He didn't speak English, but he pointed to his stomach, then wound his finger around and around in the shape of a figure 8. "Ahhh, intestinos," I said as I snapped a picture.
For the second night in a row, I perched on the wall overlooking the beach and watched the sun set. Beautiful and calming - I was so grateful for the time to enjoy it.
On my last night in Mazatlan, I took the advice of the man who sat next to me on the plane and had dinner at the Purple Onion. As soon as I walked in, I realized that I had infiltrated tourist central for retirees. It was the mirror-image of Margaritaville in Las Vegas, even down to the cheesey floral shirts and fruity drinks. I made the most of the situation and ordered a fruity margarita with blue sugar on the rim. I listened to the band play hippie music, while I sipped my drink and ate my enchilada. After a while I got annoyed by the obnoxious drunk crowd and zipped out the back of the restaurant, where I caught a golf-cart cab back to the resort. The cab was the highlight of my night. I loved the warm Mexican air breezing through my hair as the cab puttered down the street at 25 miles per hour. It was fun, and cheap! Just a few bucks!
Early the next morning, I hopped a cab to the airport. During the drive, we passed the more rural section of Sinaloa, where I saw local kids playing soccer in the street, families hanging laundry outside while stray goats and chickens roamed about the front yard. I tried to recreate my golf cart cab by rolling down the windows in my Honda Civic cab. The whole hair thing worked. At the airport, I ordered my last Mexican meal -- juevos rancheros with coffee. Then I bid Mazatlan farewell and hopped onto my itty, bitty, tiny, scary plane to Houston.
Aloha, Mexico!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It was fantastico!!!
