Chapter 4: To Mazatlan
About seventy-five miles down the coastal road we passed through Ciudad Obregon in the southern part of Sonora Province. This is the richest agricultural part of Mexico and the vast fields of maize testified to that fact. The fields were in the midst of fall harvest, but, it appeared that different fields were in various stages of growth and development such that planting and harvesting were taking place on a monthly basis creating a year round activity. I remembered that maize was first introduced by the Mayans and had been the basis of agricultural development in these early civilizations. It was still going on today, some 600 to 800 years later.
At one point we passed a group of four train boxcars along the highway. They were on tracks that looked like a sidetrack away from the main railroad tracks. There were long wooden planks leading up to the open doorways and black chimney tubes extending from the roof of each boxcar. As we slowly rolled past the makeshift housing it was plain to see that several generations of families were making these shelters their home. Further on we passed a four car train on the main tracks slowly making its way back up the coast toward Guymas. Sitting on the top of one of the boxcars were ten or fifteen men each with a small satchel slung over their shoulder. They were the true hobos of Mexico and fellow travelers of a sort. The obvious poverty of these families became a regular sight and reminded me that much of Mexico lives at the poverty level of existence. As dusk approached we found ourselves in the town of Los Mochis. It was a town of moderate size with about half of the main roads being paved and most side roads still dirt and gravel. We had hoped to make the 487 miles from Guymas to Mazatlan, but ran short on daylight. With the kind of driving we had experienced thus far we were not about to attempt much night driving at this early stage of our traveling. The hot afternoons also had a way of sapping our energy and making things move slow. Everything we did seemed to take longer and we began to experience the local custom of siesta following lunch each day. Somewhere along the road from Guymas we completed another travel ritual. We both permanently stowed our watches. From here on we would live by the sun, up with the morning light, lunch when the sun was high, and retiring soon after the sun was gone. No formal campgrounds were available so we began looking for a place to make our own camp. It turned out to be quite difficult. We drove around town for awhile looking for gas stations, dead end streets, vacant lots, parking lots near stores and shops. Each one had possibilities but each also had the prospect of danger, either from too much isolation or too close to people. Bubbles was such a novelty that we attracted the curious everywhere we went. A short stop by the side of the road anywhere near town brought an immediate group of onlookers and children anxious to see the camper and watch the two occupants like fish in a fishbowl. By this time it was actually getting dark and we could check things our only with the aid of the headlights. One shop owner indicated that people sometimes parked at the airport. That sounded like a reasonable idea so off we went in the general direction that he had motioned for the airport. “Do you see anything that looks like an airport?” I asked with quiet urgency.
“There was a little yellow sign with a plane on it so we must be headed in the right direction,” Sharlene answered reassuringly.
“This bumpy dirt road sure doesn’t seem like the kind of main road that would go to an airport, even for a small town like this.” I was increasingly nervous about how dark and late it was getting. “Do you see any lights or anything that might be the airport?”
“No, it’s all dark except for some small red lights way over there to the left, beyond those trees or bushes.” Our eyes surveyed the horizon, now almost completely black with only a faint glow of the retreating sun.
“This is bad, really bad. We shouldn’t have waited so long to find a place. Boy, if every night is going to be this kind of nerve racking experience, I’m ready to go home.” My frustration and sense of panic was rising to the danger level. My speech increased in velocity and pitch with a gruff anger exploding from time to time in bursts of anxiety. We had heard so many stories about robbers and bandits in Mexico that we had developed a kind of paranoia about people dangers. It was really rather foolish to be so afraid of foreign people. Our heightened sensitivities caused every TV and newspaper report before we left to seem directed specifically at us. The idea of lying flat on your back asleep with people all around poised to break a window and seize you by the throat haunted my mind for weeks. With our curtains pulled we would be laying with our face no more than a few inches from someone’s grubby hands, beer drenched breath and evil intent to do us harm or at least rob us of our precious goods. In America we had rights, laws, authorities and rules that kept people in check. But, in these foreign countries anything seemed possible with no recourse to any authorities. We were the strangers, the weirdoes, the foreigners. Where had all of this fearful imagining come from? The ever present thought that something bad was likely to happen to us was a difficult thorn to extract. Deep seated issues of abandonment, low self esteem and fear seemed to war against me. There was something very earthy, very biological about this traveling we were doing. It stripped away the masking and façade of typical American life and forced us to take a good look at ourselves. The raw truth about who we were as people seemed to be elevated as we faced the unknown day after day. The false assurance and security that comes from knowing our way around in our natural surroundings is remarkable. What we think is safe is nothing more than a middle class umbilical cord of material security developed and propagated generation after generation. It is a kind of socio-economic maze that we like rats confront every day, some are winners and some are losers but all act out their script in the sterile environment of the safe maze. It is only when we venture forth beyond our comfort zone into the realm of true risk that we see with new eyes and gain new understanding of ourselves. I became painfully aware of the difference between prudent caution and unfounded fear. Only after many days of traveling did I genuinely begin to relax and let go of the debilitating fear. This particular night would not be a good one for dealing with fears because we had a genuine adversary to be afraid of. “Look,” I shouted, “the dirt road turns into a big flat paved roadway just a few feet ahead. Where in the world do you suppose we are?”
“It is a little strange to have this huge big road out here in the middle of nowhere,” Sharlene stated with practical calm. It was a strange sight. The near one lane dirt road bumped up onto a black smooth paved roadway nearly thirty yards across and running straight off to the left toward the glow of the red lights in the distance. It was like an experimental super highway with no lines or markings. I slowly eased the camper up onto the pavement, turned left and sped off toward the red glow in the distance. Suddenly from nowhere came the two brightest headlights I had ever seen and the loudest engine I have ever experienced. The strangest thing was that the lights were coming at us from high off the ground having just cleared a low stand of manzanita trees. Like a drill sargeant in the army I shouted, “What in the heck is that?” Sharlene just screamed and ducked her head.
“Oh my God,” I exclaimed as my mind raced through all of the possibilities in an instant and landed on the correct choice. “We’re driving on the damn runway at the airport and that’s a plane that is just landing.” We veered back and forth like a drunken sailor as I attempted to gain my bearings and figure out a way to get off the runway. I could barely see tall grass and what looked like pools of water all along the left side. Fortunately, I had stayed close to the left side of what looked like the roadway, otherwise that plane would have put his tires right through the roof of the van. If we kept going toward civilization my mind told me we were likely to face the authorities with all kinds of explaining to do. These kind of innocent mistakes often landed foreigners in jail or worse. The only good plan of escape was to head back to the dirt road that brought us here. I whipped the car around and headed back toward the dirt road, which by now I had concluded was some kind of an access or service road leading to the runway. I kept glancing intently in the rearview mirror. No lights or vehicles were following us yet. I gunned the engine and we raced to the end of the runway, found the dirt road and bounced off the pavement edge with a thud. Once we were a few hundred yards away from the runway, I stopped the car, shut off the lights, turned off the engine and sat in the silence listening for any sound of people or vehicles that might be coming after us. Several minutes passed in silence. Sharlene picked up immediately on my tactic, as if reading my mind, and sat silently until I gave a signal of all clear. “Wow, that was a close one. Let’s get out of here,” I declared. I started the car and we slowly backtracked our way to town. Now it was night and we still didn’t have a place to stay for the night. Eventually we decided on a side street near an ols ramshackle motel in an area that seemed to be where the shopping district morphed into a neighborhood of shanty houses. We pulled along side of the curb, broken in many places, and positioned ourselves between two street lights. That way we could see clearly in both directions for several hundred feet but we became somewhat obscured at the point where both lights began to fade into the blackness of the night. We pulled the curtains and quickly changed into our bathing suits for a quick dip in the motel swimming pool. It was dark now, so no one hassled us at the motel not knowing if we were guests or not. The common area toilet was convenient and a welcome sight. The swim was refreshing and served as a makeshift shower. Returning to the van we quickly fixed a makeshift dinner of crackers with sardines from a can. It was uncomfortable sitting inside the camper with stragglers walking by, many staggering home from the local bar where the cervaza was poured freely. We could hear them talking as they walked by, some close, some far away. Several would stop a few feet away from the van and just stand in silence, listening for any sounds of occupants or contemplating what this strange looking camper van with California license plates was doing parked next to their neighborhood. We didn’t talk much, fearing that someone would come pounding on the windows and tell us to get out of there. We finished the sardines, dowsed the lights and got ready for bed. By now it was close to 10 p.m. We didn’t feel like we could leave the windows open so the front windows and back door were left closed without the snap on screens. Fortunately, there was one small sliding window on each side of the van near the rear seat that could be cracked open a bit to allow for some fresh air close to where our heads laid. I was thankful that Ed Andersen had agreed to replace our fiberglass top with a different model so that we had the advantage of the louver type windows at the top of the roof. Ed had changed from the sliding windows in the older model because the louvered ones, opening form the bottom out like the narrow flap on a shit pocket, could be opened in the rain and would allow for circulation and fresh air without the rain coming in. Ed was a genius at details. With the top windows opened and the lower sliding windows pulled back ever so slightly, there was a reasonable circulation of air that kept the interior from becoming stifling, yet made us feel secure that we were not open to the public in any significant manner while asleep and vulnerable. Even with this arrangement, it was still hot and muggy inside the camper. We laid on the bed restlessly as we swatted flies and mosquitoes that always found a way to get in, finally dozing off for an hour or so at a time in fitful sleep. It was about 2 a.m. when the car lights pulled up behind us about 50 feet away. I was roused from my slumber as Sharlene shook at my right arm. I had taken the place of sleeping on the left side of the bed nearest the door, unconsciously fulfilling my role as protector of the house should anyone break in through the sliding side door. The headlights flashed on and off several times before Sharlene bolted upright. “Randy, wake up. Someone is behind us in a car that just pulled up,” Sharlene spoke in short breathy phrases and with obvious anxiety in her voice.
I sat up and listened intently. Dogs barked, the rattle of a diesel truck was far off in the distance, and I could hear the muffled tones of talk not far from the van. It sounded like three people from the footsteps and the talk. Sharlene started to say something more and I held my finger up to my lips and motioned for silence.
The shuffling steps seemed to move around the van, stopping momentarily from time to time as if taking mental inventory of the outside of the vehicle. First down the right side of the van stopping near the right front door. Then around to the front with a stop near the license plate and then to the left front door. Then a voice called softly from the left side of the van but down low near the street. The answer came from the rear right corner of the van but I couldn’t understand what was being said. It appeared that the observer had bent down to look under the van or at something lower on the left front door, like the special locks we had installed below the door handle. More muffled talk with quick interchanges. One of the intruders was now just outside the sliding window on the left side no more than 12 inches from Sharlene’s head. WE could hardly breath, Shar reached for my hand and squeezed it hard. I continued to motion for silence. Finally, the trio was all gathered again back at the right side rear of the camper and their muffled conversation continued in rapid chopped phrases. Suddenly, one of them quickly walked up to the right side of the van and grabbed hold of the sliding door handle and gave a downward jerk. The van rocked slightly back and forth from the force of the pull on the door handle, but the lock was secure and the door remained closed. We both gasped under our breath and continued holding our breath so as to not make a sound and waited for whatever would happen next. Another few short exchanges and the trio began moving away from the van back toward their own car. Doors slammed shut, the engine started, headlights blinked on, now showing the faint silhouette of the two shaken occupants of the van, and the car rushed off barely missing the left side of the camper. Our hearts beat wildly and we didn’t speak for several minutes but sat frozen looking at each other in the dim light.
“That really scared me,” Sharlene whispered without reservation.
“Me too,” I replied with equal sincerity. “They’re gone now, probably some drunks looking for a quick buck by ripping off a tourist.”
“Do you think they’ll come back?” Sharlene inquired.
“I don’t think so,” I said with some confidence in my voice. “They probably saw us sitting here in silence when they turned their lights on. You know we doubled the cloth on these curtains to keep out the light and the lookers, but with the headlights that close and shining right at us, I think they could still see our outline. They were probably as scared as we were when they saw us, we could have had a gun and just started shooting or something. They had no way to know any different. That’s probably why they drove away so fast.”
“I don’t know if I can sleep any more now,” Sharlene said as she adjusted the sheet on the bed. “What time is it anyway?”
“Don’t you remember,” I spoke through a long yawn, “we put the watches away and I’m not about to go digging them out in the middle of the night. Just try to go back to sleep.” We both dozed off again and didn’t wake up until the morning sunlight was in full bloom. By early afternoon we drove into the outskirts of Mazatlan and found a beautiful flat campground situated on a bluff overlooking Olas Atlas (High Waves) Bay. It was nice to again be in a formal campground where we could relax and open up the camper. Mazatlan is a beautiful and restful place. Situated on a small peninsula, it is the largest Mexican port on the Pacific Ocean. The Sierra Madre mountains nearly reach the coast at this southern point which makes the surroundings majestic. On one side of the peninsula, the beach is fringed with swaying coconut palms; on the other side a promenade overlooks a number of small islands. Around the lagoon formed by the peninsula there is a long walkway separated from the water’s edge by a strip of sand where many people stroll at days end to watch the famous sunsets over the Pacific. The campground was situated so that each camper had a green and white stripped canopy to use as a shelter for a table or, in our case, we parked Bubbles under the covering to keep the sun off and maintain a tolerable temperature in the van. We were serenaded day and night to the wonderful sound of the surf crashing on the shore with sandpipers frolicking in the foam. The cool breeze kept us refreshed and we slept that first night better than we had for many days. In the morning we were off to the beach to body surf in the large relentless waves of the Pacific Ocean. Later we strolled along the promenade and listened as the tourist guides proudly rehearsed their history pitch with the tourists. One of the guides was well informed and interesting to listen to. He used just the right amount of historic fact and peppered it with little known tidbits of information that gave you just enough insight to enjoy the perspective being shared without being overly burdened with long boring history lessons. He spoke with a polished English from many years of guiding tourist groups, “The name Mazatlan comes from a native Indian word “mazat” meaning “place of the deer.” This area used to be covered with deer which came down out of the mountains to the north of town. Not many exist today. Prior to the Spanish conquest of Mexico, itinerant sailors dubbed the region “islands of Mazatlan due to the numerous hills, lagoons, islands, and estuaries in the vicinity. The town was officially founded on Easter Sunday in 1531 by 25 Spaniards and remained a somewhat dormant settlement for several years. Spanish galleons often departed loaded with gold from the inland mines. It s commonly believed that pirates buried their treasures in secret coves up and down this section of the coast. In the early 1820’s a more permanent settlement was formed after much anarchy in leadership a group of enterprising Germans brought organized government to the town. They developed the port facilities in order to import agricultural equipment and international trade began to flourish. The port was besieged on numerous occasions, first in 1847 by US troops during the Mexican-American war and later in 1864 during the French occupation of Mexico. At one point the town was even overrun by American Southerners who escaped from the ravages of the American Civil War and attempted to perpetuate Confederate ideals south of the border.” About this time everyone in the tourist group was ushered back onto their bus and we lost the informative narration that was being given. Actually, we had heard enough with our eavesdropping and were satisfied that we now knew a little more about this wonderful land we were exploring. We were told by the locals that we arrived just behind several days of torrential rains that had blown through the region. Later that day we were to discover the physical evidence of those rainstorms. Mexico is a country comprised of 32 states divided up into basically eight regions. We had traveled through two states, Sonora and Sinaloa, along the western coast of the Gulf of California through the region known as Northwestern Mexico. When we returned to the campground we encountered a traveling couple in an older Ford or Chevy conversion. They were just packing up and told us of a quaint little fishing village further down the coast called San Blas. Apparently it had beautiful half-moon beaches and was still in its rustic unspoiled state with little or no effects of tourism. It was a place where travelers could see Mexican fishing villages in their natural state. In addition, we were told that San Blas was the starting point in 1768 where Jesuit missionary Fray Junipero Serra began his northward walking journey to establish the chain of missions in the wilderness of northern Mexico and Baja California. It sounded interesting so we tagged along. At the appropriate mile marker, we turned off the main highway and turned right. Immediately we were pressed on each side of the road with dense green jungle. The other vehicle had left the campground an hour or so before we were ready to leave and now we saw no trace of them. A short way down the empty roadway, we came to a flooded area. The broken tarmack made a dip into a little gully where it appeared a small stream regularly flowed across the roadway. Now, because of the rains, the entire lowered section of the road, some 20 to 30 yards, was underwater with a swift current running to the south. We stopped the car up out of the water and gazed at the flood for some minutes. It looked fairly shallow but the strong current caused me to stop and take stock of the situation. Finally, without having said a word, I gunned the engine and splashed into the water. I could feel the current pushing the front tires dangerously to the left and I had to fight the steering wheel to stay in a straight path so as not to run off of the tarmack, any slip and we could be sunk in the mud and possibly lose the vehicle. By the time we had traveled 10 yards I wished we had not plunged into this dangerous situation without more consideration. What in the world were we doing. This was really dangerous, and fool hardy, and now there was no way to turn around and go back. We could tip over, or sink in the mud and flood the van, or get washed off the roadway in some unknown depression in the road that would be too deep for the wheels to stay their grip on the asphalt. My heart was pounding now and I could see Sharlene’s knuckles turn white as she gripped the door handle. We slid back and forth one time, then another, correcting the steering angle as though we were slipping sideways on ice. Then suddenly, we were through to the other side and back on dry land. We continued down the road, now a little slower in our pursuit. Finally, we came to a large open area where the road completely ended as it slid down into the water deeper than what I could see to the bottom. A rive like flood was again moving in a southerly direction only this time the distance to where the road emerged was over 100 yards long. The road came out in a place further down the river so that we could see that the road had to make one or more turns under the water as it crossed the long stretch of brownish dirty river. We just sat there for a long time wondering what to do, then a startling sight appeared before us. Coming up the river current close to our side from behind the dense foliage that jutted out into the water was a makeshift ferry boat. Actually, it was a small rowboat lashed to a long dug out canoe with a small outboard engine attached. Large wooden planks had been laid across the two dingys and fastened in some temporary manner to make a flat area big enough to handle a small car. AS they came toward us, I could see that the older of the two operators was motioning to us with an inquiring gesture that said “do you want to cross?” At this point, I had visions of us sinking up to the roof in the water and totally losing the vehicle and everything inside. I got out of the van and waived the makeshift ferry off, I was not about to test fate once again. The last traverse of the flood zone was almost more than I could handle and this section was far worse. There was no way that this 4,000 pound camper was going to be balanced on those flimsy dilapidated pontoons and make it to the other side. As we turned the van around on the narrow roadway, the ferry operators landed and came over to greet us. With broken English they indicated that it was safe and no trouble to carry our VW on their ferry. Then with sadistic glee, the younger one said in quite understandable words, “Be careful, Signore, when it floods like this there are crocodiles in the flooded areas and near the swamps.” That was a real comforting thought, if we didn’t die of drowning we could count on being eaten by crocodiles. We made it back through the shallow flood, now with a steady rain falling outside. We were very thankful to be back on the main highway headed south again. Both of us spent many quiet minutes throughout the remainder of the afternoon contemplating how easy it would be to make a mistake in judgment and for the whole trip to be ruined. We began to wonder whether we could really and truly expect to make it all the way to the bottom of South America and much less down the whole continent of Africa. We had already faced obnoxious border guards, unfriendly animals, dangerous road hazards and the ever dangerous drivers of trucks and buses gulping cerveza by the bottle. With so much adversity and danger in such a short time, the final destination seemed more impossible than ever; but we were determined to try. With all the courage and ingenuity we could muster, our goal was to make it all the way to Cape Town. We were ready to give it our best effort. That night we camped in a little town called Tepic. Just outside of town was a small campground that charged 16 pesos for the night, about $2.00 U.S. From here a choice would need to be made, whether to head east to Guadalajara or continue south to Puerta Vallarta. We would make that decision in the morning.
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