JONAH OWEN LAMB

While Mexico is full of daily newspapers, good and bad, it also has a wide variety of cultural magazines as well as a weird selection of, well, off -beat publications.

Alarma: Where to begin? This truly tasteless magazine is like a mix between soft porn and the driver´s education favorite Red Asphalt. Here is a taste, for you dear readers, of a recent issue. The cover photo was a lovely shot of a very dead women with a piece of steel coming out of her forehead. Or was it going in? In any case, her eyes were still open. No joke. Every time I hold this magazine I gage a little. The truth be know, I can`t even make it through one issue without turning my head in disgust. To add to this vile collection of car wrecks and shooting deaths, the centerfold is, yes, a centerfold. Sex and violence, what more could a young boy ask for? All I can say about this yellowest of yellow journalism is that maybe in Mexico, where most news organizations show pictures of dead bodies almost daily, this is not as horrible as it might be in American. I have heard that US newspaper editors have an unspoken agreement amongst themselves; they will not show unnecessary gore in the pages of their newspapers. I guess I am used to the G-rated news. And yes, you can thank me for not posting the cover of Alarma on this blog. This is a family blog, as a teacher of mine used to say, sort of.

Porn Mags: While there is not much outright porn on Mexican news stands, there is some. Most Mexican pornography, in print at least, comes in an interesting format; pocket-sized photo magazines or, more commonly, as pocket-sized comic books. This cartoon porn is by all counts the most common. Maybe they have laws they have to get around, or maybe men feel less guilty buying dirty cartoons rather than dirty picture mags? I have no idea. Anyway, while these comics tell cowboy stories, crime stories, etc., in the end they all do the same thing with the same overly sized ladies filling up much of theses booklets´ pages. I heard all of this from a friend, of course.

Now for the more enlightened magazines of Mexico.

Tierra Adentro (Interior Territories, roughly): This monthly magazine out of Mexico City is a very nicely put together cultural forum. It has long interviews with poets; short stories, cultural criticism and even photo essays. While this and other publications like it are not what you find on every street corner, it is pleasantly surprising to find so many such publications here.

Through a slit in the bus`s window shade, the countryside south of Puerto Villarta came in flashes – bush, cropland, bush. It came in scenes; a roadside stand and its plastic chairs covered in a gush of dust; a man playing guitar for a little girl. And it came in still-lifes; burnt patches of ground, black and white with soot; plodding electrical lines, running like a scratch above the road.

When the view opened up for long, corn fields glittered with silver metal strips, dancing in the breeze. Beyond the cultivated lands the hillsides and flat lands were covered in what looked like a New Jersey forest in December; all leafless trees.

Small nameless towns passed without announcement. Vendors, the only sign of habitation, jumping aboard to sell their wares. They attempted balance, walking down the middle of the bus as it heeled around corners. Once they had sold all they could of their, pizza slices, empanadas or sweets, they would jump off at the next stop.

Strange how these places between destinations remain like blank spots in the mind. I pass from one island of knowledge to another, through a silent sea of space. It is just the surface I see, the landscape, the name of a town perhaps, nothing more. It is like looking at a post card that you can smell and taste and feel, yet still a post card.

But, since the bus driver was taking corners like he was driving a Porshe, blindfolded, I didn`t have much energy for reflection. I was too busy trying to keep down lunch.

We reached Barra de Navedad by dusk. I made it to the beach just as the big fat sun dipped under a bank of clouds.

This little town is on a spit of land shaped like an ice cream cone. It narrows as you head south; the main drag following the town as it slowly thins. It is a resort town with shops full of plastic things: inner tubes, sun glasses, beach towels. On the beach, weekenders were being gleefully flung onto the sand by the hard surf as it violently crashed at the water`s edge. Indian women sold hammocks or fruit or jewelry. Some one was drinking a beer. The ocean sounded. Night fell.

A fat crocodile lounged in its pen, still as a stone in the sun.  Its belly and scales melding almost with the ground. Nearby its mate lay, equally still. Both held their mouths wide open. Their eyes didn´t move. Nothing but a short fence separated them from us. One hissed, flinging its head against the fence. We all jumped. Then we kept our distance.

This minor spectacle, it seemed, was the main attraction on a boat tour through the mangrove swamps that surround San Blas like a dark spot on the map.

My five companions on the trip were a group from my beach camp: two Aussie brothers, Marc and Phil, who took to calling me Jonzy, Eduardo from Guadalajara who works in Alaska and two French Canadians: Max and Jessie.

To get to the crocodile farm our boat slid through a green hot passageway surrounded by the twisted roots of mangroves. In the canyon-like swamp the boat´s sides rubbed against bush as turtles scurried into the water from their stone perches. A few tall trees, cypress, their massive trunks like melted stone gripping at the muddy shore, rose above the tangled bush.  Higher still, rose thin branched trees with white flowers blooming across their tops. As the boat passed deeper into the swamp, its bottom  rubbed on the shallow river bed disturbing the murky brown waters almost enough to reveal the translucent fish below.

By the time we had reached the crocodile farm, we were almost at the foot of hills that run up to the mountains.  Here wide hard-wood trees leaned heavily over the water and shaded us from the sun. Besides the hulking monsters that were the crocodiles, and their off-spring, slithering atop one another like insects, the farm had two boars, a falcon and a couple deer.

After our jumpy visit to the farm, we glided across the water to a swimming hole at the foot of a fresh-water spring. Here, we were told, a small child had been snatched by a crocodile not so long ago. It took two grown men to rescue the child. He lived. Now they have dropped a chain-link fence across the pool´s opening.

If all the talk of crocodile attacks was meant to scare us and add a bit to our ride, it worked well enough. I wasn´t dragging my hands in the cold water or swimming to close to that chain-link fence, thank you very much. But as it turned out the only wild animals we saw were fish, turtles and birds. Except for one little crocodile laying on a log. But he was only as big as my arm and not big enough to do much damage, if he decided to bit.

Heather and Doug`s House

Bats squeak in the rafters of the house I am staying in in San Blas. Iguanas lurk in the greenery along pathways. Strange bird calls fill the air. It is hot. I sweat. I am in the tropics.

Although we crossed the tropic of Cancer north of Mazatlan, it hasn´t really hit me until now. Driving south through Nayarit and Sinaloa much of the landscape was parched and denuded of green except for croplands; it hasn´t rained in more than four months. But here on the coast where the ocean is warm and the high mountains to the east sit distant in the haze, it is very much tropical.

From Mazatlan to San Blas we decided not to take the toll roads that had marked our drive through most of Sinaloa. Instead we drove the two-lane free road, which ran along side the toll road, so we didn´t feel much of a loss. Except for the bus drivers on crack and the two cars pulling into on-coming traffic to pass us ever half hour, all was well. 

From the road Nayarit´s landscape changed quickly from its northern neighbor. Unlike Sinaloa´s coastal plain, Nayarit´s is smaller and so the craggy mountains of the interior lingered just out of reach all the way south. Half way to San Blas, the road became more crowded with trees and bush. Also, the temperature rose a degree every few miles: 95, 96, 97, etc.

Once we veered off the main road and started down to the coast, lush green pushed in towards us at every turn, and spread across the sloping hills. The temperature decreaseded too.

Down at the bottom of this winding road the town of San Blas sits facing the sea, an old Spanish fort still guarding it from marauders. There is also a naval training station here, so if there where any pirates, which there are, the Mexican navy is patrolling these here shores. Of course there´s not much to steel from this little place except for fish and even those are going away. The fish stock is so bad, I hear, that some fisherman risk fishing off the Tres Marias. This is a dangerous endeavor since these islands are a prison guarded by very unfriendly men with guns.

We drove into town around dusk and ate tacos on the square. The town´s center drag runs past a concrete arch welcoming you, and then to a central plaza, a tall church pier overhead.

San Blas is surrounded by mangrove and swamps and is essentially an island. And it is from these wetlands, I expect, that the dreaded bugs that fill this town emerge. But after two days here the swarm has staid at bay. 

SAN BLAS FISHING FLEET

The house I am staying in is one of the town´s oldest, built in the early 1800s. The white adobe building with red roof tyles faces the fish docks and appeared abandoned in the dark. But inside is a cool, high ceiling-ed home with thick walls and tiles underfoot. Heather and Dough, friends from the waterfront in Sausalito, have kindly let me stay with them. And with the beach, the mellow town and a cheap palapa on the beach to sleep in, I may stay for a while.  As for my companions, Tim and Freda, they have set off south for their much deserved honey moon. Bon voyage.

We have finally departed Baja and made landfall in the state of Sinaloa. The ferry that took us across the sea, with its white hull and blue smoke stack, was crammed with cars and semis; four levels down the hull filled with automóbiles. The six hour crossing was a mostly harmless journey. Except for the synthesizer-playing entertainment, which consisted of one man and very loud speakers. Or, if you were so inclined and could fill your ears with cotton and try to follow the truly infantile films they showed, violent movies one after another. The passengers where mostly truck drivers, and as the night went on they got drunker and eventually began cheering the synthesizer.

We landed in the dark just outside of Los Mochis and passed a phalanx of soldiers in the parking lot as we drove to our hotel.

The next day we passed south along the green farmland-covered coast of Sinaloa. Much of the uncultivated land was dry and as much a desert as much of Baja, but everything else was covered in the almost uniform green of croplands. Black lines of smoke rose intermittently from the plain. In the eastern haze I could just make out the peaks of the Sierra Madre Mts.

We stopped for lunch along the road and were regaled by an old man fingering the grooves of his white cowboy hat. As he touched my shoulder from time to time, almost for balance, he listed the many virtues of his home state of Sinaloa: the many rivers; the rich farm land, the beauty. His soliloquy did not stop there. He told of the nearby town and its founder, one of Villa´s soldiers. He spoke of progress and the difficult lives past generations had lived so that we could now prosper. And it appeared as if his off-spring had. Half the stores along this particular stretch of road were run by his family, he told us. This speech to us first appeared as if it might be eventually expectant of something in return. Or maybe he was drunk. But none of that was so. He was just an old man imparting a bit of his vision of things to three passing Americans. He left us to our lunch with a gracious thanks and a good bye. It was as good a welcome as we could expect.

Mazatlan Viejo

We made Mazatlán a couple hours later and found a hotel in the old town, which is in the middle of extensive renovations. I have to say, Mazatlan is not at all what I expected. The Bell Epoch, turn of the century, facades lining many of the small streets are reminiscent of Havana or New Orleans. Work crews, it seems, are everywhere busy. But many of the structures here are only facades, their insides empty or filled with green of trees and bush creeping through the foundations, up through the broken roofs towards the sky.

Not far from the historic district is the busy, bustling and traffic filled, commercial district. Despite its action, the relatively narrow streets feel somewhat intimate, the sidewalk vendors and street life squeezing all around you. At this area´s center is an old covered market. Under its metal roof everything from pig heads to candy can be found. I saw a butcher taking apart half of a cow. For those not so into gore, the market had its share of spice booths, fruit sellers and clothing stores. A real emporium, for sure.

Tim and Freda Having a Drink on a Beach Outside of La Paz

La Paz. Sunday night. The streets are emptying. Tim, Freda and I are a bit drunk after free tequilas at a tropical cabana-topped bar. We eat tacos. But still, it is early and we want more drinks. Freda remembers a bar with a two-for-one special. It sounds good to us.

We walk down Avenida de Revolution and come to El Rodeo at the bottom of a hill. This is the bar she´d seen with the special. On a piece of cardboard the special is advertised: two for one, it says.  We can´t see inside, but in a dark doorway nearby a cluster of women stand, waiting, lurking almost.

We go inside the bar. And that is when we realize, when every head turns in our direction, that this is not our kind of bar. But, past the threshold, there is only one option: we must order our beers. You know, the special and all. We cross the bar and walk through the almost completely male clientele. We order our beers, turn around and stand all awkward like and pretend that we are not, all of us, sore thumbs. Then the drunks swarm. An old man who looks like he can hardly stand starts to grab Freda´s arm. He offers her a seat. Two patrons approach. One, a short hood-eyed fella starts talking to Freda. His friend, taller and with a scar, stands close to Tim´s face, telling him of his recent deportation and his 16 years in Seattle. Tim nods and smiles and tries his best. Freda does the same.

 I drink my beer fast and stand with a straight back, pretending to watch the pool game in the middle of the bar. It is at this moment when a flash of realization comes over me like a slap on my forehead. The signs are obvious enough: the way the few women sit in the shadows sidling up to the many men; it is in the gaudy to to-like dress a middle-aged women wears; it is in the dark shadows on the faces of the men against the walls. We are in a whorehouse.

I think this as I look at my friends and the conversations they are both trapped in. I try not to look uncomfortable and hope that they finish their beers as fast as I have.  Finally, they are done. Tim, so as not to offend it seems, slowly, almost in defiance of the situation, finishes the dregs of his beer, nods and thanks his new friend. Then we all walk past the pool table and out of the bar, calm as can be.  We´d missed the happy hour it seemed.

The desert.

We have, after many travails, come to rest under the shade of the palm trees of legend. Here in this little oasis town on the Sea of Cortez, the picture of Mexico I have held in my mind has come to pass, mostly anyway.

But first, I must fill in what has happened since we got a new muffler, took out our car’s catalytic converter, had our muffler’s weld fall off and for all intents and purposes had to pretty much replace the car’s fuel system. I will say no more of our car troubles except for the sheer number of mechanics we have dealt with in the last week. At present my count is five, yes, five different mechanics. I plan to write a book titled “Mexico Through Your Mechanic.”

Northern Baja´s Vineyards

The van took us out of Ensenada with a new rumble. It seemed as if the muffler had a new growl to it as if our car had been reborn a bad ass. For much of the road through Baja Norte we passed dry grass-covered hill country that looked much like the Salinas Valley, minus the Mts. of Big Sur. The town’s were straight dirt-filled places lined by store fronts and hand painted signs. It wasn’t until we got south of San Quintin, a Pacific coast town, that the big cacti and boojum trees that characterize much of Baja started to fill up the empty spaces around us. Then, somewhere in the middle of the peninsula, around a town named Catavina, piles of huge stones like river rocks and a forests of cacti surrounded the road. (It was in Catavina that we filled up at a gas station of sorts. It consisted of a man with a moustache and dark glasses and a fifty five gallon drum. There was no gas station for 200 plus kilometers, so we had to make due.) South of Catavina weird stunted trees looking like a cross between succulents and bonsai grew below the tall cacti and spindly boojum trees which bent over on their own weight. Even after the stone piles were long gone, the desert floor was so thick with cacti it was hard to imagine how a man on horse back could make his way through.

By night fall we had made it as far as the fishing village of Santa Rosalita on the Pacific coast. Here we ate hot dogs for dinner and camped on the beach. This little town is meant to be, one day, the western terminus of a project by the Mexican government to link the Pacific coast with the Sea of Cortez. The hope is that boaters will put their boats on trailers, cut across the desert, and drop them in the Sea of Cortez so they don’t have to go all the way around. Seems like a great idea.

The next morning we woke at 6 am and got back on the road. The desert followed. By 10 am we had crossed into Baja Calif. Sur and into the town of Guerrero Negro, which was not much more than salt flats and whale watching. It was a milestone of sorts. But since we have had so much car trouble we´d become reluctant to celebrate: if we did our car might stop working. Instead we counted on it to break down and were pleasantly surprised when it didn´t. After having a muffler man re-weld our muffler, we drove out a long chalk-colored road to “look at whales” and just found some old fish boats, an abandoned car and a salt factory.

Me in Guerrero Negro

We left Guerrero Negro before noon. The desert greeted us with cacti and more cacti. Relief from the monotony came in the form of a patch of palm trees. Well, it was more than a patch. The town of San Ignacio sat tucked into a low canyon enclosed in palm trees. After passing its small lake we found ourselves in its quiet square below mature shade trees and the 200 year old mission church. The square was mostly empty except for an old gringo on a bench, an old man slowing down cars at the corner and a couple school kids on their way home.

San Ignacio 

East of town three volcano’s or “the three virgins” climbed above the plain. We looped around them and then were deposited, after a precipitous drop, at the foot of the Sea of Cortez north of another town called, yes, Santa Rosalia. The town stretched along the coast and inched up the dry hills. An old closed factory sat at its center like a museum piece. Also we found a locomotive perched atop a round-about here. We bought beer and headed south.

Mulege was just ten minutes south. It sits in the cradle of tall dry desert hills, but is full of green palm trees. A channel runs all the way inland from the sea almost to the center of town. At the sea, a light house and the rock which it sits upon guard the estuary’s mouth.

We camped south of town on a beach that faced east towards a long mountainous peninsulla, which encircles the Bahia de Conception, devoid of trees like much of the landscape. To our backs´ a carnival’s gaudy lights illuminated the dry hills like they were phantoms.

As we settled into camp the sound of a motor and the flash of headlights alerted us to a family who’d got their car stuck in the sand nearby. The husband was in the driver’s seat and his pregnant wife pushed the car. Their little girl dug in the nearby sand. After a half hour of us pushing, it was evident that they were stuck and the husband got out of his car swearing and walking the sand in search of an escape. “Puta madre,” he kept saying as he paced. Finally, a friend with a winch came to their rescue and we went to bed with the sound of their slow progress across the sandy beach.