Street vendors sold tacos, churros, mangos, ices and vegetables from picturesque pushcarts. The air was full of distinct aromas: food cooking, fields burning and crops being harvested. The streets were dirt or cobblestone and usually very narrow. The stop signs said ALTO and had ads for Pepsi Cola or Coca-Cola on them.
Sidewalks in the villages were nonexistent. The front doors of the homes opened right on to the street. Dust hung over everything. It settled on the buildings and vehicles. We watched women sweep their dirt floors and the streets in front of their homes, I wondered if it really helped.
Chubby, laughing, brown-eyed children were everywhere. The littlest ones ran around with bare bottoms. Bottoms being easier to wash then diapers. Women, young and old, carried everything imaginable on their heads: dozens of eggs, bundles of wood, packages, and full glasses of water. These were things we had seen on TV and in movies but never quite believed were real. We were all fascinated. The boys were learning things they would never have learned in school.
By the fifth day we had traveled far enough south to be in the Tropic of Cancer.
During the day, it was warm and the countryside became much greener, more tropical less desert. There were a lot of large farms; we recognized corn, cotton, melons and tomatoes. Past the farms the highway wound through bizarre forests of stunted pine trees and giant cactus growing side by side; it looked unnatural, like something from a horror movie. I was glad we were passing through during daylight.
* * * *
Next stop was the tourist town of Mazatlan on the Gulf of California. To get there we had to cross what looked like a small mountain range on the map. The road wound up, down and around, mile after mile. It started out as a well maintained four-lane toll road, only 21 pesos (about $1) for the motorhome and trailer. Soon though we were into the mountains and the road narrowed to two lanes.
Driving in Mexico was a spine tingling, thrill a minute experience. After a few days and harrowing incidents we were convinced that all the truck and bus drivers were escapees from funny farms or at the least ex-Kamikaze pilots. It didn’t make any difference if they are going up a hill or around a curve, semi-trucks and busses pass whether or not the driver could see what was coming, and most likely, there was something coming (usually us).
Bill explained the law of THE BIGGEST to us. “The biggest vehicle has the right of way.” There is no way to describe the alarm (panic) you feel when you crest a hill and find two gigantic trucks headed right towards you. One truck in his own lane, the other in yours, trying to pass. Air horns blow, gears grind and finally just before impact the passing truck pulls into the lead and swings into his lane. The driver of the passed bus or truck flicks his lights and gestures as if to say, “Wait until next time.” The kids and I crawl out from under the tables and Bill nonchalantly continues the drive down the highway. The two lane highways were much narrower then I was used to and had little or no shoulders leaving little room for error. If there was a shoulder there would probably be a drop from the pavement to the dirt of from 4 to 12 inches so you couldn’t just pull over to get out of the way. We saw a lot of smashed and burned truck trailers lying off the road. At first we wondered why, then we wondered, “Why not more?”
All the curves had crosses and shrines on them, usually more than one. The sharper the curve or the higher the hill, the more crosses.
“Vado! Vado here comes a vado. Look out! Slow down.” I holler. (This was the job of whoever rode in front - pointing out to The Driver what was coming up. The Driver usually responded with a witty remark like “Why don’t you read a book or something. I’ve been driving without your help so far.”) A vado is the opposite of a tope, it’s a dip, and I do mean a dip. If The Driver doesn’t slow down in time we bottomed out. As an added incentive for The Driver to slow down whenever we went over topes or through vados the bunk bed would come bouncing down aiming for his head. There was so much stuff stored on the bunk it was too heavy for its braces to hold up. Bill had added a spring that was attached to the ceiling in two places; the spring then came down and passed through an eyebolt screwed into the edge of the bunk. This in theory should have kept the bunk from making contact with the head of The Driver. Usually it worked. However, high speed over a tope or vado caused it to bounce and gave it a pretty good shot at The Driver if we aren’t quick. Whoever sat up front also had to throw their arms up and catch the bunk before it could crown The Driver. For years after whenever we went over a bump in a motorhome we threw our arms up to catch the bunk whether there was one there or not.
As we started down the last hill towards Mazatlan in the distance we saw a vast sea of silver. No not the ocean, it was an RV park overflowing with silver Airstreams (probably the ones that passed us) and motorhomes of all sizes and makes all from all over the U.S.
There was still one pull-through space still available. We took it.
The RV park in Mazatlan was sprawled out between the highway and the sandy beach of the Pacific. It had hookups: water, electricity and sewer, but no showers or laundry. At least we were able to run the air conditioner and microwave with out using the generator. It needed a rest, and so did our ears.
We pulled into the space and every one helped to set up. Bill handled the water and sewer connections, John Mc plugged us in and checked the refrigerator to make sure it was running. Paul and Gil turned on the TV and turned it right off, all they got was snow, speaking Spanish. I straightened out the inside.
Randy and John started talking to two lean brown-skinned boys dressed only in faded brown pants and battered straw hats with unfinished brims. The pants had been cut off at the knees and hung from their bony hips. Over their shoulders were slung mesh sacks of oranges for sale. Bill went out to buy some. But first there had to be some negotiating about price. Finally everyone smiled and money and oranges changed hands. The boys waved and headed back down to the beach looking for more touristas. Randy brought the oranges inside already opening the sack and pulling one out. By late afternoon he had eaten the whole sack. By nightfall he was in his sleeping bag holding his stomach and moaning. Ten pounds of oranges will do that to you.
So far no one had been sick with Montezuma's Revenge. Every time we filled the water tanks we added bleach to them. There was a formula on the bleach bottle, four drops per gallon, but with the tanks partially full it was hard to judge how much water we added each time. So we developed our own formula, when the water smelled and tasted more like bleach then water we stopped putting it in for a few fill ups. When you couldn’t smell it any more it had to be added again. I also made sure all fruit and lettuce and anything else that wasn't going to be cooked or peeled was washed real good. The first time I asked John Mc to “really wash the lettuce good” before making a salad he used detergent. If that didn’t make us sick nothing should. He didn't have to help in the kitchen after that either.
Later as we sat out front admiring the ocean a pretty, young Mexican woman came over to talk to us. She was dressed in a loose brightly flowered cotton dress and barefoot. Her dark hair reached to her waist. She told Bill that she did laundry. With seven of us our laundry had been piling up so we gladly hired her. When she brought it back the next day carrying it in a basket on her head I found out that she did it all by hand. It was a beautiful job everything smelled so fresh and it was all ironed and folded. She asked for $100 pesos, about $4.50. I felt guilty about the price, so we gave her some chocolate bars for her kids and a couple Good Housekeeping magazines for her. Throughout the trip we found that U.S. woman’s magazines (also Playboys in certain instances) were very popular items to give away.
Our second day there the guys unhooked the trailer so we could drive around and see the city. Some of the streets were so narrow the motorhome barely fit through. I was surprised; Mazatlan wasn’t a very pretty city. At that time, the cruise ships docked in a terrible section of town. Waiting cabs and busses whisked the tourists away from the docks to downtown and the hotels. No wonder. The beach area was pretty, the hotels grand and all sorts of neat stuff was for sale along the waterfront. The tours and boat rides were very expensive. We didn’t do the tourist nightlife stuff so maybe I didn’t get a true picture of the place from a gringas point of view. A block from the ocean and you are into an entirely different neighborhood, the part of town the tourist busses bypass. The roads were dirt, no sidewalks and hovels instead of houses. They're made of tin and cardboard, no windows or doors, just openings, no electricity or heat.
Bill, Randy and John Mc were always hungry so we stopped at a taco stand down by the boat docks. Next to the stand suspended over a fire pit was a big black kettle full of boiling water and corn on the cob. The stand itself was really a pushcart with a green and white tarp spreading over the top and hanging down the back. A big piece of delicious smelling meat hung on a post in the middle of the cart; chopped lettuce, shredded cheese, a stack of tortillas and salsa were off to the side. After chasing the flies away the “cook”, wearing a once white straw hat and a not so clean apron, cut off enough meat for one taco. He placed the meat into the tortilla and added what ever else you wanted. Then he folded the tortilla over and handed it to you - no plates, just the hot dripping taco. Bill, Randy and John Mc sat down at some wooden picnic tables near by and ate several - flies and all. I didn’t eat. John, Paul and Gil said they would rather starve. We did buy a whole watermelon from the vendor though.
“You’ll love it.”
That day after we returned to the campground we opened the box Grandma had given us as we were leaving. There were California T-shirts for everyone. And some hard candy that I hid so if I wanted some later it would still be there. Some puzzles and books, that we put to good use as the days passed. On the very bottom wrapped by itself was a black wrought iron plaque with yellow writing that said, “No matter what, no matter where, it’s always home, if love is there.” How true, I hung it in the kitchen.
Everyone went down to the water except Paul. He had a little fever and sore throat so I made the mistake of trying to get him to take an aspirin. You would think I was trying to kill him.
“NO! Please don’t make me. I don’t want to. Don’t. Don’t.” He screamed as I tried to get him to swallow the stupid pill and water.
“I’ll be good. Please don’t.” He wailed.
By then, our neighbors, an older couple from Michigan, were hurrying over to see what was going on. With their hands cupping their eyes, they peered through the screen door.
“Is there anything we can do to help honey?” asked the woman. Concern written all over her face.
I went to the door and explained that the little boy just didn't want to take an aspirin. They looked in again and saw Paul sitting on the floor sobbing. They didn’t see any bruises or blood so maybe they believed me. I glared at Paul and mouthed to him that I intended to wring his neck when they left. They were still standing by the door not sure what they should do, if anything, when Bill arrived. “What the hell is all the commotion about? I could hear him all the way down the beach.” he asked as he yanked the door open.
Gulping for air Paul said, “She’s mean, when you’re gone she’s mean to me.”
From the corner of his eye he could see me advancing on him and his story changed in mid-telling.
“Nothings wrong Dad, she just wanted me to take an aspirin. But I don’t need it. I already feel better, see.”
I offered our neighbors a cup of coffee but they declined saying they had left their dog alone and had to go right back (implying, I felt, that they treated their dog better than I treated my kid).
The boys took advantage of the warm weather and water and spent a lot of time in the ocean. They had to be careful and stay near shore because of ferocious rip tides. So either John Mc or Randy had to go with the younger ones when they wanted to swim. They didn’t seem to mind though. The beach itself was strange, not sand, but millions of tiny, tiny shells. Shoes were necessary for the trip to the water.
Bill and I relaxed, rearranged, repacked and hunted for things we knew were there somewhere.
After four days of sea, sun and exploring, we hit the road again.
Sidewalks in the villages were nonexistent. The front doors of the homes opened right on to the street. Dust hung over everything. It settled on the buildings and vehicles. We watched women sweep their dirt floors and the streets in front of their homes, I wondered if it really helped.
Chubby, laughing, brown-eyed children were everywhere. The littlest ones ran around with bare bottoms. Bottoms being easier to wash then diapers. Women, young and old, carried everything imaginable on their heads: dozens of eggs, bundles of wood, packages, and full glasses of water. These were things we had seen on TV and in movies but never quite believed were real. We were all fascinated. The boys were learning things they would never have learned in school.
By the fifth day we had traveled far enough south to be in the Tropic of Cancer.
During the day, it was warm and the countryside became much greener, more tropical less desert. There were a lot of large farms; we recognized corn, cotton, melons and tomatoes. Past the farms the highway wound through bizarre forests of stunted pine trees and giant cactus growing side by side; it looked unnatural, like something from a horror movie. I was glad we were passing through during daylight.
* * * *
Next stop was the tourist town of Mazatlan on the Gulf of California. To get there we had to cross what looked like a small mountain range on the map. The road wound up, down and around, mile after mile. It started out as a well maintained four-lane toll road, only 21 pesos (about $1) for the motorhome and trailer. Soon though we were into the mountains and the road narrowed to two lanes.
Driving in Mexico was a spine tingling, thrill a minute experience. After a few days and harrowing incidents we were convinced that all the truck and bus drivers were escapees from funny farms or at the least ex-Kamikaze pilots. It didn’t make any difference if they are going up a hill or around a curve, semi-trucks and busses pass whether or not the driver could see what was coming, and most likely, there was something coming (usually us).
Bill explained the law of THE BIGGEST to us. “The biggest vehicle has the right of way.” There is no way to describe the alarm (panic) you feel when you crest a hill and find two gigantic trucks headed right towards you. One truck in his own lane, the other in yours, trying to pass. Air horns blow, gears grind and finally just before impact the passing truck pulls into the lead and swings into his lane. The driver of the passed bus or truck flicks his lights and gestures as if to say, “Wait until next time.” The kids and I crawl out from under the tables and Bill nonchalantly continues the drive down the highway. The two lane highways were much narrower then I was used to and had little or no shoulders leaving little room for error. If there was a shoulder there would probably be a drop from the pavement to the dirt of from 4 to 12 inches so you couldn’t just pull over to get out of the way. We saw a lot of smashed and burned truck trailers lying off the road. At first we wondered why, then we wondered, “Why not more?”
All the curves had crosses and shrines on them, usually more than one. The sharper the curve or the higher the hill, the more crosses.
“Vado! Vado here comes a vado. Look out! Slow down.” I holler. (This was the job of whoever rode in front - pointing out to The Driver what was coming up. The Driver usually responded with a witty remark like “Why don’t you read a book or something. I’ve been driving without your help so far.”) A vado is the opposite of a tope, it’s a dip, and I do mean a dip. If The Driver doesn’t slow down in time we bottomed out. As an added incentive for The Driver to slow down whenever we went over topes or through vados the bunk bed would come bouncing down aiming for his head. There was so much stuff stored on the bunk it was too heavy for its braces to hold up. Bill had added a spring that was attached to the ceiling in two places; the spring then came down and passed through an eyebolt screwed into the edge of the bunk. This in theory should have kept the bunk from making contact with the head of The Driver. Usually it worked. However, high speed over a tope or vado caused it to bounce and gave it a pretty good shot at The Driver if we aren’t quick. Whoever sat up front also had to throw their arms up and catch the bunk before it could crown The Driver. For years after whenever we went over a bump in a motorhome we threw our arms up to catch the bunk whether there was one there or not.
As we started down the last hill towards Mazatlan in the distance we saw a vast sea of silver. No not the ocean, it was an RV park overflowing with silver Airstreams (probably the ones that passed us) and motorhomes of all sizes and makes all from all over the U.S.
There was still one pull-through space still available. We took it.
The RV park in Mazatlan was sprawled out between the highway and the sandy beach of the Pacific. It had hookups: water, electricity and sewer, but no showers or laundry. At least we were able to run the air conditioner and microwave with out using the generator. It needed a rest, and so did our ears.
We pulled into the space and every one helped to set up. Bill handled the water and sewer connections, John Mc plugged us in and checked the refrigerator to make sure it was running. Paul and Gil turned on the TV and turned it right off, all they got was snow, speaking Spanish. I straightened out the inside.
Randy and John started talking to two lean brown-skinned boys dressed only in faded brown pants and battered straw hats with unfinished brims. The pants had been cut off at the knees and hung from their bony hips. Over their shoulders were slung mesh sacks of oranges for sale. Bill went out to buy some. But first there had to be some negotiating about price. Finally everyone smiled and money and oranges changed hands. The boys waved and headed back down to the beach looking for more touristas. Randy brought the oranges inside already opening the sack and pulling one out. By late afternoon he had eaten the whole sack. By nightfall he was in his sleeping bag holding his stomach and moaning. Ten pounds of oranges will do that to you.
So far no one had been sick with Montezuma's Revenge. Every time we filled the water tanks we added bleach to them. There was a formula on the bleach bottle, four drops per gallon, but with the tanks partially full it was hard to judge how much water we added each time. So we developed our own formula, when the water smelled and tasted more like bleach then water we stopped putting it in for a few fill ups. When you couldn’t smell it any more it had to be added again. I also made sure all fruit and lettuce and anything else that wasn't going to be cooked or peeled was washed real good. The first time I asked John Mc to “really wash the lettuce good” before making a salad he used detergent. If that didn’t make us sick nothing should. He didn't have to help in the kitchen after that either.
Later as we sat out front admiring the ocean a pretty, young Mexican woman came over to talk to us. She was dressed in a loose brightly flowered cotton dress and barefoot. Her dark hair reached to her waist. She told Bill that she did laundry. With seven of us our laundry had been piling up so we gladly hired her. When she brought it back the next day carrying it in a basket on her head I found out that she did it all by hand. It was a beautiful job everything smelled so fresh and it was all ironed and folded. She asked for $100 pesos, about $4.50. I felt guilty about the price, so we gave her some chocolate bars for her kids and a couple Good Housekeeping magazines for her. Throughout the trip we found that U.S. woman’s magazines (also Playboys in certain instances) were very popular items to give away.
Our second day there the guys unhooked the trailer so we could drive around and see the city. Some of the streets were so narrow the motorhome barely fit through. I was surprised; Mazatlan wasn’t a very pretty city. At that time, the cruise ships docked in a terrible section of town. Waiting cabs and busses whisked the tourists away from the docks to downtown and the hotels. No wonder. The beach area was pretty, the hotels grand and all sorts of neat stuff was for sale along the waterfront. The tours and boat rides were very expensive. We didn’t do the tourist nightlife stuff so maybe I didn’t get a true picture of the place from a gringas point of view. A block from the ocean and you are into an entirely different neighborhood, the part of town the tourist busses bypass. The roads were dirt, no sidewalks and hovels instead of houses. They're made of tin and cardboard, no windows or doors, just openings, no electricity or heat.
Bill, Randy and John Mc were always hungry so we stopped at a taco stand down by the boat docks. Next to the stand suspended over a fire pit was a big black kettle full of boiling water and corn on the cob. The stand itself was really a pushcart with a green and white tarp spreading over the top and hanging down the back. A big piece of delicious smelling meat hung on a post in the middle of the cart; chopped lettuce, shredded cheese, a stack of tortillas and salsa were off to the side. After chasing the flies away the “cook”, wearing a once white straw hat and a not so clean apron, cut off enough meat for one taco. He placed the meat into the tortilla and added what ever else you wanted. Then he folded the tortilla over and handed it to you - no plates, just the hot dripping taco. Bill, Randy and John Mc sat down at some wooden picnic tables near by and ate several - flies and all. I didn’t eat. John, Paul and Gil said they would rather starve. We did buy a whole watermelon from the vendor though.
“You’ll love it.”
That day after we returned to the campground we opened the box Grandma had given us as we were leaving. There were California T-shirts for everyone. And some hard candy that I hid so if I wanted some later it would still be there. Some puzzles and books, that we put to good use as the days passed. On the very bottom wrapped by itself was a black wrought iron plaque with yellow writing that said, “No matter what, no matter where, it’s always home, if love is there.” How true, I hung it in the kitchen.
Everyone went down to the water except Paul. He had a little fever and sore throat so I made the mistake of trying to get him to take an aspirin. You would think I was trying to kill him.
“NO! Please don’t make me. I don’t want to. Don’t. Don’t.” He screamed as I tried to get him to swallow the stupid pill and water.
“I’ll be good. Please don’t.” He wailed.
By then, our neighbors, an older couple from Michigan, were hurrying over to see what was going on. With their hands cupping their eyes, they peered through the screen door.
“Is there anything we can do to help honey?” asked the woman. Concern written all over her face.
I went to the door and explained that the little boy just didn't want to take an aspirin. They looked in again and saw Paul sitting on the floor sobbing. They didn’t see any bruises or blood so maybe they believed me. I glared at Paul and mouthed to him that I intended to wring his neck when they left. They were still standing by the door not sure what they should do, if anything, when Bill arrived. “What the hell is all the commotion about? I could hear him all the way down the beach.” he asked as he yanked the door open.
Gulping for air Paul said, “She’s mean, when you’re gone she’s mean to me.”
From the corner of his eye he could see me advancing on him and his story changed in mid-telling.
“Nothings wrong Dad, she just wanted me to take an aspirin. But I don’t need it. I already feel better, see.”
I offered our neighbors a cup of coffee but they declined saying they had left their dog alone and had to go right back (implying, I felt, that they treated their dog better than I treated my kid).
The boys took advantage of the warm weather and water and spent a lot of time in the ocean. They had to be careful and stay near shore because of ferocious rip tides. So either John Mc or Randy had to go with the younger ones when they wanted to swim. They didn’t seem to mind though. The beach itself was strange, not sand, but millions of tiny, tiny shells. Shoes were necessary for the trip to the water.
Bill and I relaxed, rearranged, repacked and hunted for things we knew were there somewhere.
After four days of sea, sun and exploring, we hit the road again.
From the U.S. border to Chili the Pan-American Highway travels through small villages and large cities, by the ocean and through deserts, and from sea level to 11,500 feet. Our senses worked overtime with all the unusual sights, sounds and smells we encountered every day.
We saw: laundry drying on fences and bushes; cases of empty Fanta (soda pops) bottles in front of every tiny house; TV antennas on big houses and shacks alike; buildings built of rock, adobe and corrugated metal, most painted in bright colors; there were unfinished buildings everywhere. Every town, big or small, had a big Catholic Church most of them dating back to Spanish times and across the street a plaza with a gazebo. Evenings the young men and women strolled around the plaza, always followed by an older chaperone. Mariachis played in the gazeboes Sunday afternoons.
We saw: laundry drying on fences and bushes; cases of empty Fanta (soda pops) bottles in front of every tiny house; TV antennas on big houses and shacks alike; buildings built of rock, adobe and corrugated metal, most painted in bright colors; there were unfinished buildings everywhere. Every town, big or small, had a big Catholic Church most of them dating back to Spanish times and across the street a plaza with a gazebo. Evenings the young men and women strolled around the plaza, always followed by an older chaperone. Mariachis played in the gazeboes Sunday afternoons.
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Arriving in Mazatlan January 26, 1978 in our Pace Arrow Motorhome
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