all-inclusive – Mazatlan, Sinaloa

We started early in the morning in Topolobampo. The sun was brilliant and it was hot by 7am. The town was alive, the market was crowded, and with the brightly-painted homes stacked atop each other, seemingly woven into the steep hillside, I thought of coastal southern Europe.  We didn’t notice any tourists at all, and hit the road somewhat begrudgingly. We’ll be back here on vacation, one day, but we’ve many kilometers to cover, and a movie to make.

I’ve always wanted to visit Mazatlan. When we arrived, however, we were met by a town that didn’t appeal to us at all. Tourists, large hotels, and construction sounds deafened us. We sat in traffic, bombarded by signage espousing luxury and bar after bar crammed against each other along the strand. We got out of the car at the north end of the beach, fought through town looking for parking and an inviting place to eat, but didn’t get out again. We opted instead to leave the city unexplored and find our sustenance elsewhere.

I can think of other times in my life when I could have lost weeks here, barhopping and swimming in the sun, but it’s a chapter of my life that has closed. It’s an odd feeling, observing from your minds eye your phantom self at its basest level. I can envision my youthful debaucheries- waking up in a blurry room, next to some new ‘friend’ with whom I’d ‘had a great time.’ Exchanging real intimacy for momentary thrills. I probably would have recommended this city highly if I could remember any details.

Now, however, married and ‘on the wagon’, it’s a very different set of eyes with which I see that place. I see the rapid impact of tourist money stamped as ‘progress’ on what was once a pristine coastline and fishing village. Where families once had little beach-side restaurants, massive corporations have constructed edifices to immediate pleasure. I could almost hear ‘Viva Las Vegas’ piping from loudspeakers. But, like Vegas, this town’s underbelly can be seen just a few streets off the main strip. Ubiquitous garbage and poverty cannot be masked by high-rise resort hotels, condominiums, or a posh marina.

We edged out our way through the traffic and down the highway, searching instead for a quiet place to camp along the beach. We made our way along the laguna El Huizache, and found fresh mangos in a tree. Ela purchased a massive sandia (watermelon) from some easy-spirited locals, and we drove along the shore past families barbequing as the Friday sunset grew brilliant over the sea.

I whipped up a fire, fighting the strong onshore breeze, and as we were about to set up camp, we noticed a massive storm growing up from the hills. The dark clouds cracked with lightning again and again, like fireworks, and the concussions of thunder grew closer as the darkness of night descended. The storm was gathering strength, and moving against the wind toward us, so we opted to set up the Expatriot (Berta) to sleep in back, rather than use the tent.

We washed the sweat from our bodies (as has become our custom) with a large jug of fresh water, and watched contentedly as the fire burned on one side, and the air crackled with energy on the other. Fresh from our ‘shower’, the rain started coming down in warm drops, and the lightning storm gained intensity, now striking close around us.

We could not help but laugh with the elemental purity of it. Sea, sand, fire, thunder, lightning, husband and wife. We closed ourselves into the Jeep as the storm tap-danced on the metal roof. This deep, earthy satisfaction would be missing from even the most all-inclusive of resorts.