THURSDAY, JUNE 5, 2008
Puerto Peñasco
We traveled on vacation to a hotel on the Sea of Cortez. It is called the Mayan Palace and it sits on reclaimed desert sand at the edge of a bay south of Arizona, near the fishing village of Puerto Peñasco. I am quite sure there were never any Mayans here.
It is the frontera—the border area—and the culture and language lines blur and shift, like sands blowing in the wind, washed by the moon-drawn tides of the Sea of Cortez. J and I pass under a humble archway, passing two Mexican border guards in army green fatigues with heavy rifles over their shoulders. They smile amiably and wave us on across the invisible line. We are crossing the border at the rural town of Lukeville, Arizona and I wonder if our Republican administration realizes the existence of this place? I’ve crossed over the Mexican border innumerable times and this is the fastest, easiest crossing ever. I make a mental note to pass this way again.
Our drive takes us through scrubby desert, grey with wind-stilted stubby cacti and not much else until we reach a sign indicating the Pipe Organ Cactus Preserve. On queue, the landscape grows rich with tall, green prickly plants that look more like stovepipes than pipe organs to my mind but they are impressive anyway. It is the quantity that pulls an exclamation “look at this!” from my mouth. Acres and acres of cactus in a variety of greens, reaching twice the height of the average person, always the straight up, tubular shape. When we leave the preserve behind, the dull desert resumes, broken now and then with traces of black lava rock pointing to the Pinacate volcanic park in the distance.
When we reach the highway to Caborca, we turn away from our southbound route, by-passing the fishing village of Puerto Peñasco and drive another fifteen miles east, always with a view of the wide, flat blue of the sea on our right. The barren landscape is broken with signs displaying photographs of resort living, swimming pools, bright green golf courses and the words “13 feet ceilings” – apparently the new litmus test for luxury.
The dirt road that leads to the Mayan Palace is marked by a puce-colored circular block building with a red and white striped barrier extended across the entrance. The hotel “guard” on duty approaches our open car window. We tell him we have a reservation. He waves pleasantly and raises the “gate” allowing us to continue our drive toward the fortress-like structure, the same puce as the guards’ quarters, turrets and towers and greenish glass as foreign in the otherwise open setting as we are.
The plethora of resorts springing up along the shoreline is amazing and appalling at the same time. To reach the reception lobby of this resort, we walk into a round, domed room, nearly filled up by a dark columnar structure at the center surrounded by running water. It is dark and in February it is cold. We walk around the obstruction, heads tilting back to look up at the plain, domed ceiling as though we expect to find something artistic painted there. Disappointed we enter the marble-floored lobby. We check in with a young Mexican woman who speaks accented, but nearly perfect English. Once we have our room keys we are turned over to our “handler,” another young woman who speaks the King’s English with a sporty British accent. The handler is always Canadian, British, or American. This one explains the amenities of the super resort to us as she motions with slender arms and taps at the resort map with a click, click, click of her long, red nails. We answer a series of questions designed to determine whether we are good timeshare prospects, and having failed (or perhaps succeeded with) the test, we are directed to follow the bellboy down a cold, windy hallway to our room.
Later, long after the sun has settled into the blue surface of the sea, I jog in the dark on the beach, flat with a solid surface if you run close to the water’s edge. As I approach the water, I catch a glint of light.
“Phosphorous.”
For a moment I am once again at summer camp experiencing the wonder of my first experience of phosphorous in the salt water. I brush my bare foot over the surface of the shallow water, leaving a trail of diamond like sparkles, causing my skin to glisten and glow in the dark. I stoop down and swoosh the water again, creating a trail of brilliance in the wake of my fingers, very like my first psychedelic drug experience.
In Mexico, the word for those of us from the United States is Estadounidenses. It is a tongue twister when you are first learning to speak Spanish but a very appropriate label for us, more descriptive than our “American” since Mexico is also America, or even “North American” for the same reason. The mega-resorts cater to the stereotypical estadounidense by offering over-stuffed buffet restaurants, constant entertainment, gated entrances, identifying wristbands, golf-courses, gymnasiums, workout rooms, and on-site spas with a variety of massage and beauty treatments. Man-made waterfalls produce white sound as background to the rock music wafting over a monstrous pool that is way too cold to swim in.
Our room has a narrow balcón only about three feet wide, sans furniture, presumably meant for standing only while enjoying the vista of the palapas and umbrellas around the pool area, looking like a scattering of creamy brown-colored mushroom caps among a forest of imported feathery palm fronds. Beyond is the expanse of beach, thankfully still in its natural state.
In the morning we explore to the fishing village of Puerto Peñasco. I go there hoping to find Mexico, forgetting that we are so close to Arizona that the blending of culture is inevitable. In the village, we stop at an intersection bisected by railroad tracks. I wonder aloud if a train still uses these rails, but from the condition of the tracks, I know the answer. These are working tracks, not the old abandoned, rusted out slots and rails you see in cities and towns across the US. In my mind I am riding on down those tracks as we sit waiting at the intersection, traveling in an old passenger railcar across Mexican desert, over rough-hewn mountains to a real heartland of this vast country. I long for country not yet in the clutch of the grasping fingers of condominium and golf course developers. I long for a pueblo, still untouched and undiscovered, one where I would need to speak Spanish, a place where life is still slow and basic.
I lived in the seaport of old Mazatlán in the early nineties. There is so much color dyed into my memory, to scan backward and focus is disorienting. Some memories are brightly illuminated and others are like Mazatlán’s cobbled streets, softly lamp lit against the darkest of backdrops. I remember my rooftop garden, the urban noises and roosters crowing in the morning, the sun rising and setting over rooftops, wires and palm fronds; the rough sidewalks; the warmth of the climate like a blanket as I strolled along the miles of the wide Malecón; the sense of safety and insecurity all mixed together like wild hot Mexican spices.
Many days and nights I stayed with Blas--artist, friend and lover--sleeping on hard wooden slats in his narrow single bed that he said he preferred without a mattress. His apartment had no indoor plumbing. At the end of a narrow cement walkway there was a dirty communal toilet with a torn plastic shower curtain for a door. I learned not to pee in the middle of the night.
We’d sleep until the ambient temperature woke us and forced us to untangle our bodies. We’d brush our teeth in bottled water and spit on the jungle of plants lining the ledge of the single kitchen window that opened into his tiny living space or onto those that settled into ancient clay and ceramic pots along the walkway. Then we’d head for the tortilleria on the Avenida Zaragoza or we’d go to our favorite coffee shop on the corner of Benito Juarez and Constitucion where I drank coffee, read Mexican newspapers and savored the fresh baked rol de canela.
In the afternoons we’d sleep again in the damp heat until the light of the sun began to dim with its slow sink into the Pacific. Evenings we’d visit with neighbors, occasionally joining in a game of cards. Later we’d walk the broad expanse of the Malecón, strolling along the edge of the ocean, filling our nostrils with the salty sea air. In the dark, the usual beach sounds of seagulls and pelicans became muted. When our conversation ebbed, I’d hear the comforting shuffle of Blas’ huge sandal shod feet along the smooth pavement as we passed by statues of dolphins and nudes and fishermen.
In the summer months when the heat and humidity became nearly unbearable for me, we took to late night swimming in the bath-like seawater off the beach at Olas Altas. I wonder now about my lack of fear, bobbing and floating with the high swells far out from the shore. Blas had been a lifeguard and was so adept at swimming I felt only safety in his presence. His confidence wrapped around me like his long brown arms and legs, and I rested in the simplicity of our lives.
“No tengas miedo--Don’t be afraid, Pajarito,” he’d say to me, holding me in the buoyant water, just as he tried to hold me in his Mexican way of life.
And for a time I was not afraid, but eventually my North American ways intruded, the work ethic and the incessant nagging questions about the future.
I wonder what my life might have been like if I could have shed some of the fear and ambition that clung to me like ugly barnacles cling to deserted seashells?
J & I have new neighbors here in the Mayan Palace (there is no trace of Mayan history in this area) and they are obtrusive, loud voices and cigarette smoke. Americans, of course. In spite of the appearance of luxury in the hotel, real quality is lacking. Voices from the hallway float easily through the thin wood of the doors. The smoke drifts in through the gap under the lock-off doors between the rooms. I think longingly of the days and nights of Mazatlán, the simple life, my snug existence in the monk-like room I rented in the barrio, Playa Azúl.
I ache when I recall the deep, sensual warmth of those times there. The way Blas and I carelessly wandered down the city streets at night, wrapped in the hot, dark humidity of the summer, laughing and talking with friends in a variety of languages. Often we were a multi-national blend that included European students from the Centro de Idiómas—the old language school in the heart of Mazatlán. Over time, my associations were gradually reduced to a circle of friends consisting of Mexicans and other North American ex-patriots.
Of the estadounidenses I knew during those years–I was the only one, except for the rather dimwitted, guitar-playing Walter from Colorado—who learned to speak Spanish. I learned to dream and joke and live in Spanish, a beautiful and romantic language.
A woman from Mazatlán is known as Mazatleca. Perhaps one day I will again be Mazatleca, but for now I settle for “Crazy Californian.” It could be worse.
It is the frontera—the border area—and the culture and language lines blur and shift, like sands blowing in the wind, washed by the moon-drawn tides of the Sea of Cortez. J and I pass under a humble archway, passing two Mexican border guards in army green fatigues with heavy rifles over their shoulders. They smile amiably and wave us on across the invisible line. We are crossing the border at the rural town of Lukeville, Arizona and I wonder if our Republican administration realizes the existence of this place? I’ve crossed over the Mexican border innumerable times and this is the fastest, easiest crossing ever. I make a mental note to pass this way again.
Our drive takes us through scrubby desert, grey with wind-stilted stubby cacti and not much else until we reach a sign indicating the Pipe Organ Cactus Preserve. On queue, the landscape grows rich with tall, green prickly plants that look more like stovepipes than pipe organs to my mind but they are impressive anyway. It is the quantity that pulls an exclamation “look at this!” from my mouth. Acres and acres of cactus in a variety of greens, reaching twice the height of the average person, always the straight up, tubular shape. When we leave the preserve behind, the dull desert resumes, broken now and then with traces of black lava rock pointing to the Pinacate volcanic park in the distance.
When we reach the highway to Caborca, we turn away from our southbound route, by-passing the fishing village of Puerto Peñasco and drive another fifteen miles east, always with a view of the wide, flat blue of the sea on our right. The barren landscape is broken with signs displaying photographs of resort living, swimming pools, bright green golf courses and the words “13 feet ceilings” – apparently the new litmus test for luxury.
The dirt road that leads to the Mayan Palace is marked by a puce-colored circular block building with a red and white striped barrier extended across the entrance. The hotel “guard” on duty approaches our open car window. We tell him we have a reservation. He waves pleasantly and raises the “gate” allowing us to continue our drive toward the fortress-like structure, the same puce as the guards’ quarters, turrets and towers and greenish glass as foreign in the otherwise open setting as we are.
The plethora of resorts springing up along the shoreline is amazing and appalling at the same time. To reach the reception lobby of this resort, we walk into a round, domed room, nearly filled up by a dark columnar structure at the center surrounded by running water. It is dark and in February it is cold. We walk around the obstruction, heads tilting back to look up at the plain, domed ceiling as though we expect to find something artistic painted there. Disappointed we enter the marble-floored lobby. We check in with a young Mexican woman who speaks accented, but nearly perfect English. Once we have our room keys we are turned over to our “handler,” another young woman who speaks the King’s English with a sporty British accent. The handler is always Canadian, British, or American. This one explains the amenities of the super resort to us as she motions with slender arms and taps at the resort map with a click, click, click of her long, red nails. We answer a series of questions designed to determine whether we are good timeshare prospects, and having failed (or perhaps succeeded with) the test, we are directed to follow the bellboy down a cold, windy hallway to our room.
Later, long after the sun has settled into the blue surface of the sea, I jog in the dark on the beach, flat with a solid surface if you run close to the water’s edge. As I approach the water, I catch a glint of light.
“Phosphorous.”
For a moment I am once again at summer camp experiencing the wonder of my first experience of phosphorous in the salt water. I brush my bare foot over the surface of the shallow water, leaving a trail of diamond like sparkles, causing my skin to glisten and glow in the dark. I stoop down and swoosh the water again, creating a trail of brilliance in the wake of my fingers, very like my first psychedelic drug experience.
In Mexico, the word for those of us from the United States is Estadounidenses. It is a tongue twister when you are first learning to speak Spanish but a very appropriate label for us, more descriptive than our “American” since Mexico is also America, or even “North American” for the same reason. The mega-resorts cater to the stereotypical estadounidense by offering over-stuffed buffet restaurants, constant entertainment, gated entrances, identifying wristbands, golf-courses, gymnasiums, workout rooms, and on-site spas with a variety of massage and beauty treatments. Man-made waterfalls produce white sound as background to the rock music wafting over a monstrous pool that is way too cold to swim in.
Our room has a narrow balcón only about three feet wide, sans furniture, presumably meant for standing only while enjoying the vista of the palapas and umbrellas around the pool area, looking like a scattering of creamy brown-colored mushroom caps among a forest of imported feathery palm fronds. Beyond is the expanse of beach, thankfully still in its natural state.
In the morning we explore to the fishing village of Puerto Peñasco. I go there hoping to find Mexico, forgetting that we are so close to Arizona that the blending of culture is inevitable. In the village, we stop at an intersection bisected by railroad tracks. I wonder aloud if a train still uses these rails, but from the condition of the tracks, I know the answer. These are working tracks, not the old abandoned, rusted out slots and rails you see in cities and towns across the US. In my mind I am riding on down those tracks as we sit waiting at the intersection, traveling in an old passenger railcar across Mexican desert, over rough-hewn mountains to a real heartland of this vast country. I long for country not yet in the clutch of the grasping fingers of condominium and golf course developers. I long for a pueblo, still untouched and undiscovered, one where I would need to speak Spanish, a place where life is still slow and basic.
I lived in the seaport of old Mazatlán in the early nineties. There is so much color dyed into my memory, to scan backward and focus is disorienting. Some memories are brightly illuminated and others are like Mazatlán’s cobbled streets, softly lamp lit against the darkest of backdrops. I remember my rooftop garden, the urban noises and roosters crowing in the morning, the sun rising and setting over rooftops, wires and palm fronds; the rough sidewalks; the warmth of the climate like a blanket as I strolled along the miles of the wide Malecón; the sense of safety and insecurity all mixed together like wild hot Mexican spices.
Many days and nights I stayed with Blas--artist, friend and lover--sleeping on hard wooden slats in his narrow single bed that he said he preferred without a mattress. His apartment had no indoor plumbing. At the end of a narrow cement walkway there was a dirty communal toilet with a torn plastic shower curtain for a door. I learned not to pee in the middle of the night.
We’d sleep until the ambient temperature woke us and forced us to untangle our bodies. We’d brush our teeth in bottled water and spit on the jungle of plants lining the ledge of the single kitchen window that opened into his tiny living space or onto those that settled into ancient clay and ceramic pots along the walkway. Then we’d head for the tortilleria on the Avenida Zaragoza or we’d go to our favorite coffee shop on the corner of Benito Juarez and Constitucion where I drank coffee, read Mexican newspapers and savored the fresh baked rol de canela.
In the afternoons we’d sleep again in the damp heat until the light of the sun began to dim with its slow sink into the Pacific. Evenings we’d visit with neighbors, occasionally joining in a game of cards. Later we’d walk the broad expanse of the Malecón, strolling along the edge of the ocean, filling our nostrils with the salty sea air. In the dark, the usual beach sounds of seagulls and pelicans became muted. When our conversation ebbed, I’d hear the comforting shuffle of Blas’ huge sandal shod feet along the smooth pavement as we passed by statues of dolphins and nudes and fishermen.
In the summer months when the heat and humidity became nearly unbearable for me, we took to late night swimming in the bath-like seawater off the beach at Olas Altas. I wonder now about my lack of fear, bobbing and floating with the high swells far out from the shore. Blas had been a lifeguard and was so adept at swimming I felt only safety in his presence. His confidence wrapped around me like his long brown arms and legs, and I rested in the simplicity of our lives.
“No tengas miedo--Don’t be afraid, Pajarito,” he’d say to me, holding me in the buoyant water, just as he tried to hold me in his Mexican way of life.
And for a time I was not afraid, but eventually my North American ways intruded, the work ethic and the incessant nagging questions about the future.
I wonder what my life might have been like if I could have shed some of the fear and ambition that clung to me like ugly barnacles cling to deserted seashells?
J & I have new neighbors here in the Mayan Palace (there is no trace of Mayan history in this area) and they are obtrusive, loud voices and cigarette smoke. Americans, of course. In spite of the appearance of luxury in the hotel, real quality is lacking. Voices from the hallway float easily through the thin wood of the doors. The smoke drifts in through the gap under the lock-off doors between the rooms. I think longingly of the days and nights of Mazatlán, the simple life, my snug existence in the monk-like room I rented in the barrio, Playa Azúl.
I ache when I recall the deep, sensual warmth of those times there. The way Blas and I carelessly wandered down the city streets at night, wrapped in the hot, dark humidity of the summer, laughing and talking with friends in a variety of languages. Often we were a multi-national blend that included European students from the Centro de Idiómas—the old language school in the heart of Mazatlán. Over time, my associations were gradually reduced to a circle of friends consisting of Mexicans and other North American ex-patriots.
Of the estadounidenses I knew during those years–I was the only one, except for the rather dimwitted, guitar-playing Walter from Colorado—who learned to speak Spanish. I learned to dream and joke and live in Spanish, a beautiful and romantic language.
A woman from Mazatlán is known as Mazatleca. Perhaps one day I will again be Mazatleca, but for now I settle for “Crazy Californian.” It could be worse.
No comments:
Post a Comment