Mazatlán at long, long, long last
10/03/2009 at 22:34 from (23.166668, -106.26667)
I woke up with a start five minutes outside of Mazatlán. Marijana was shaking me and telling me to pack up. The sun had lifted itself clear of the horizon, but I could have sworn I had just closed my eyes in the early morning dark of Culiacán. I was immediately filled with an aching desire to go right back to sleep, to hell with Mazatlán. Marijana's persistence prevailed, though, and I grumpily shoved my things into my day pack (thanks Mom & Dad, thanks Rick Steves).
We stepped out of the cool, dry confines of our air conditioned bus to a blast of hot, tropical air so thick it was initially difficult to breathe. Already straining under the weight of an overstuffed backpack, I began a relentless sweat that, I would come to find, would continue unabated for days. We huddled in silence for a couple of hours in the waiting room at the bus station, wary of setting out in search of our hotel before daybreak. The televisions were already going full blast, so there was no hope of sleep. After half an hour, a tall, red headed man with a backpack walked in, glanced knowingly at our miserable corner, then took his seat at the opposite end of the room, smirking to himself.
As soon as the sky was sufficiently light enough, we took off for the hotel. I cursed under my breath and out loud as we trudged toward the Malecón, Mazatlán's otherwise scenic boardwalk. As runners, power walkers, and cyclists raced past us, we gaped in astonishment at their apparent lack of discomfort. We were, within minutes, both coated in a streaking gloss of sweat that did nothing to cool us off. Without street signs to guide us, we navigated toward a cluster of cheap hotels north of Mazatlán's center almost by braille, my bleary eyes and sleep-deprived memory useless in this essential task.
Stoic and capable, Marijana dragged us safely to the Hotel Mexico as I brought up the rear, whining and cursing and insisting we were lost. Hotel Mexico was the first on our list of four hotels to investigate, but it was already apparent that I was not going to take one more step than was absolutely necessary. We asked at the front desk for a room and inquired as to the price. When the manager pointed at the sign on the wall and indicated that it would cost us a mere 150 pesos per night (roughly USD$11), we silently agreed with each other that we would search no more. We asked to see the room, but our minds were already made up.
We settled in quickly, throwing our things down in the closet in the corner and taking a cursory look around. A fan whose leading edges were chewed through with rust swung menacingly above the bed, its wiring exposed. The bed itself bore the telltale signs of age and abuse: cigarette burns, stained sheets, and musty-smelling pillows. A set of stinking, dust-covered curtains hung unevenly on the far side of the room, covering a depression in the concrete where a window should have been, while a matching pair of curtains obscured from the inside the rusting iron bars that wrapped our sole window.
Too tired, hot, and smelly to care much about the shocking drop in standards our accommodations had suffered, we stripped off our clothes (being careful not to place them -- or anything -- on the bed, which we eyed with suspicion and disgust) and climbed into the shower. The water spurted out uncomfortably hot from the rust-covered (catching a pattern here?) shower head, giving us no relief from the heat, even as it washed our sweat and grime away. As we made our way resolutely through the water that had been sitting in the sun-warmed pipes that snaked along the roof, the water became slightly cooler and slightly more refreshing. As soon as we turned off the shower, though, we were instantly covered in fresh beads of sticky sweat.
Giving up on the hope of cool comfort, we resolved to at least address our exhaustion. I was, by this point, totally non-functional, cranky, and falling asleep on my feet. We carefully spread our bed liners on the suspect blanket and drifted quickly off to sleep, naked and shimmering. We awoke three hours later, our liners stuck like plaster to our skin, the sweat caked in sticky layers on our faces, chests, and arms. The fan was the only breath of wind we had encountered thus far, and so we felt a tiny bit better from the nap, in spite of the fact that we were still too hot for comfort.
With a little more energy and a little less grump from the nap, we decided to head out to the famous market in search of food and refreshment. The sun, by now, had climbed high in its arc, and the already blistering heat rose with it. We sweated our way through the noise and chaos of Mazatlán's open air stalls, pausing occasionally to duck into some air conditioned store for a momentary relief from the oppressive heat and humidity.
We eyed the food arrayed along the street in front of us hungrily, but opted to go with a safe option for our first stab at Mexican street fare. We stopped at a narrow storefront where a young man carefully tended a huge rotisserie stocked with dozens of whole chickens twisting slowly over a hot wood fire. We ordered a couple of combos and an ice cream for Marijana, then made our way back to the hotel, unable to bear the heat any longer.
We ate in relative silence, too feverish to think about anything much. I took down tortilla after tortilla filled with roasted chicken, beans, and salsa. Marijana ate lightly and sipped heartily on the cold, watermelon agua fresca we had bought on our way back through the market. I changed out of my clothes and into a pair of shorts. We both stripped off our shoes and rested our feet on the relative cool of the concrete, cursing our lack of sandals and resolving to buy some the next day.
As the sun sank lower and an afternoon breeze picked up, we felt closer to comfortable and decided once again to head back into the city to explore. We walked past the bright and airy cathedral and through the richer part of town, west of our hotel and the market. Gorgeous mansions and conservatively decorated walk-ups butted up against crumbling colonial buildings, theatres, museums, and quiet plazuelas.
Everywhere we went, drivers in the golf cart taxis that are a Mazatlán trademark would honk at us, imploring us to hop in. It became increasingly difficult to turn them down as the hours dragged on. By sundown, our feet were sore, our clothes were drenched, and our heads were swimming from the heat and lack of proper sleep. We headed back to the hotel, stripped off our clothes, and cranked the fan up to a higher, deadlier speed. Within minutes, we were drifting off to sleep, visions of rusty, whirling metal blades spinning through my dreams.
The next few days passed more quickly and were crammed with activity. We soon settled into a sort of routine. I would awake and pass under the line of drying clothes to find cockroaches wandering the hallway. We would throw on whichever shirts and pants were most clean or least smelly and set out in search of our morning meal, wandering south of our hotel, through the shrimp market (really just a block's worth of women surrounded by tubs of shrimp on ice, shouting prices at passers by). Around midday, we would retire to our room to escape the oppressive heat, emerging in the early evening to scour the fringes of the market again for dinner, snacks, aguas frescas, and air conditioned buildings.
We punctuated this routine with excursions, though. The first day, we set out to look for a dentist to repair Marijana's cracked filling. We had the good fortune to find Dr. Ibarra, who filled us with advice about where to go and what to see in Mazatlán. In addition to being an enthusiastic tour guide, he also happened to be an excellent dentist. He only took a few minutes to clean, inspect, and fix the missing chunk of filling. Afterward, he lectured Marijana about her dental hygiene, showed us some photos of he and his friends on a tour through La Tobara (a jungle-lined waterway outside of San Blas) then politely gave us the bill: $25. We felt guilty to pay so little for having received so much from the man.
After our adventure with Dr. Ibarra, we ate a terrific breakfast at a restaurant that he recommended (a tad expensive for our budget, but awesome chilaquiles!), then headed to Isla de la Piedra, a peninsula south of the city that is highly regarded for its picturesque beaches, fine food, and low prices. We set out on foot, and by the time we had reached the canal to the south of the city, we were exhausted, sweaty, and in no sort of mood to enjoy the simple pleasures of a sunny beach. After hiring a small lancha and crossing the canal, we wandered in the direction of Lety's, a frequently-recommended palapa (a palapa is an open-air building with a roof made of thatched palm fronds) restaurant down the beach. I clung to the shade religiously, too hot to think, while Marijana snapped pictures and chatted with vacationers.
Not far down the beach, we found Lety's place. We met Lety herself, then were treated by her son to some of the best food we've ever tasted. Marijana ordered coconut milk, which he prepared by... well, by cutting the top off of a coconut and sticking a straw inside. I ordered a Pacifico (the brewery itself was just out of view on the north side of the canal) and a trio of shrimp quesadillas that registers among the best food I've ever eaten in my life. As we ate, drank, and relaxed, Lety's grandson and the peninsula's posse of stray kittens skittered around our legs.
Too soon, we realized we were in danger of missing the return boat to town, so we paid our bill and bid Isla de la Piedra a fond farewell. After waiting at the dock for ten extra minutes to allow a cruise ship through the canal, the lancha swung by and we boarded, along with another couple of families that had been enjoying their day at the beach.
Safely on the other side, we chose an alternate, "faster" route homeward. As the sun raced toward the horizon, we found ourselves in rougher and rougher neighborhoods. Marijana insisted we were heading away from the city center, while I was absolutely positive the road we wanted was just a block or two further. When it became clear that I didn't have a clue what I was talking about and that we were, in fact, pushing deep into the ghetto, we adopted Marijana's theory, walking briskly toward the water and avoiding eye contact as we picked our way through acres of broken glass, graffiti, abandoned homes, and crippled cars.
As it turned out, Marijana was, yet again, absolutely right. We emerged a few short blocks away from our hotel. As a means of simultaneously rewarding her for saving our asses and keeping her silent, I bought her an agua fresca at the little stand on the periphery of the market and we quietly trudged back to the hotel. Along the way, we stopped in another department store and sat on the edge of a bed, cherishing every molecule of cool, dry air that touched our red, splotchy, sweat-soaked skin.
We fell asleep to the now-comforting whir of the fan as it cut through the thick, still air. We slept that night like the dead, impervious even to the unrelenting heat of the night.
The next day we again followed protocol. We spent the morning exploring, finding a taqueria (Mony's) that would grow to be our favorite hangout. Mony makes a damn fine torta (basically a Mexican sandwich), served on a toasted roll that she buys in the market, stuffed with one of three stewed meats, and topped with any of a number of delicious handmade condiments. Oh, and it only costs 18 pesos (a little under USD$1.40) for a sandwich that amounts to a full meal.
We were hooked.
After showering Mony with praise and vowing to return, we wandered through Mazatlán's downtown. Recognizing much of it from our misadventure the night before, we decided to walk the Malecón, Mazatlán's famous boardwalk. It was a beautiful trip, indeed, lined with idyllic, sandy beaches on our left and bustling restaurants and hotels to our right. Huge statues of sea creatures real and imaginary punctuated the scenery, and I couldn't help but admire the quality of some of the bustier models. When we rounded the point and realized how far we had remaining to walk -- and how miserable we had been the night before -- we opted to humor the relentless pulmonia drivers and bargained for a ride back to our hotel. The breeze the cart generated as we swept through traffic was well worth the 20 pesos we paid.
We chilled for a few hours in our room, letting the sun do its worst as we passed the time in the relative cool of our hotel's hallway. Once we had determined that the temperature had begun to fall, we headed back out, walking south of the cathedral to Chon's for their well-publicized crab and marlin tacos. Marijana cooled herself down with a piña colada and I wrapped my hands around a near-frozen Pacifico. Once again, Mazatlán treated us to an astounding meal. The fish was fresh and flavorful, the tacos were perfectly prepared, and the drinks took a bit of the discomfort out of an otherwise sweltering day.
We capped the day by wandering back through the market, grabbing another agua fresca as we toured the maze of stalls and vendors. We wound down with a bit of quiet conversation and turned in, tired and full and, for a change, not quite as uncomfortable as previous nights.
The next day, we arose late. The sun was already breating down on an especially hot day. We hunkered down in the hallway, avoiding the sun and exposing as much skin as was allowed in this part of the world. We pecked at our laptops, lacking the energy to do much else, when the manager of the hotel sauntered over and asked us if we knew the key to the wifi connection. We tried as best we could to hide our surprise at the fact that the hotel, which, after all, didn't even have a properly flushing toilet or cold water, could have wifi. After he gave it to us, we spent the rest of the morning emailing friends and family, updating the website, and figuring out where we would be traveling to next.
It was early afternoon before we got a chance to head out into the market, and we made a beeline straight for Mony's. Mony stuffed us full of tortas and humored us as we snapped photos of her stand. Then we headed back into the market to explore in more detail what we had seen the day before. We perused the wares of butchers, bakers, grocers, and souvenir vendors before winding up at a panaderia (bakery) and springing for a bag of the same rolls we had been eating with our tortas, at 3 pesos apiece (~$0.25 for a big, soft, tasty roll).
Packing our rolls and still hungry for adventure, we meandered over to the cathedral, finally taking the time to look inside. We were impressed, to say the least, by what we saw. The haphazard and almost utilitarian exterior hides a much grander and more elegant interior, bathed as it was in warm hues by the afternoon sun as it filtered through the stained glass windows. The sunlight through the main dome cast the alter in a deep, watery blue. We had the place almost entirely to ourselves, but we spent several minutes just sitting in the back, awed to silence by the size and beauty and peace of the place.
Back outside, in the dwindling heat of the busy street east of the cathedral, we picked up a few charms bearing the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe to place on our backpacks. We were told that many thieves are superstitious and steer clear of religious iconography. If so, the medallions were cheap insurace.
On the same road, we passed a man selling hammocks. He was pleading with us to buy them and, typically, we would politely decline and keep walking. However, since the heat was almost unbearable at night in the bed, and because we anticipated needing hammocks further on in our travels, we stopped to have a look. The man was in bad shape, and probably had a serious case of Parkinson's, but in spite of his shaking hands, the hammocks were nice. We bought one and probably overpaid, but we felt good about the deal. We turned homeward, eager to try out our new purchase to escape the necessity of sleeping on a hot, filthy bed.
On our way back, we ducked into a department store and camped out near the bicycle section, admiring a newer version of the vendor's tricycles we had seen throughout town. After we had finished our aguas frescas and stretched the patience of the store's security staff, we walked back out through the shrimp lady gauntlet to our hotel. I strung up the hammock and we took turns reclining in it until it became clear that the rusty bars and glass that the lines were rubbing against were shortening its lifetime. I reluctantly packed it away and spent the remainder of the night trying to upload the photos we had accumulated thus far. Ultimately, exhausted and frustrated with the intermittant wireless signal, I retired to bed.
Our final day in Mazatlán was more of the same: again online updating friends and family, again to the market to buy bread, again to Mony's (this time we tried the tacos dorado -- fried tacos with potato -- and loved them). Again we paid the manager for another night, again promising that this would be the very last. We set about planning for the next day, plotting a course to San Blas and figuring out which buses we needed to catch, when they left, how much they would cost, and where we would stay when we arrived. I spent more time uploading photos, soaking up a trio of epic boxing matches between Erik Morales and Marco Barrera while the progress bar inched forward.
Finally, just as I was nodding off in the lobby, my computer blinked success and I shuffled off to bed. Tomorrow, with any luck, we would be in San Blas.