March 23, 2007

Mazatlan, con’t

A night at the fiesta

The jitneys picked us up at 6 pm. Janice had purchased a new shirt for me in the afternoon so I would look like a more respectable senor. A mere golf shirt wouldn’t work. The jitneys were basically light duty Nissan pick-up trucks with a canopy and seats in the bed. Soon we were zooming in and out of traffic on the way to our destination, about a mile away.

Upon arrival we were herded like cattle to our seats, which ringed a rectangular stage. Though this was clearly a large restaurant, the motif was that of a cantina. Drinks were free, not a great sacrifice, since it was soon obvious that somebody had watered down the booze in the backroom. There would be no drunks in this crowd, unless somebody snuck a flask in.

We were prepared by our leaders to be ready to rush to the food line. They had even slipped la mordida to our waiter to give us a signal when the serving tables were ready to open. I regretted that I was not wearing my tennis shoes, as this was looking like it might be a real footrace. The signal given, we whirled our chairs about and headed for the feed-bag. It was pretty good fare—beef, chicken, chile relleno (my new favorite), tamales, beans and chips. We hauled it back to our place, fighting through the massive line that had formed behind us. Reaching our seats, we sat in semi-darkness, the Mexican band pounding out the music in the background. Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. I probed at my plate in front of me, hoping that my fork would snare a morsel of food.

The waiter was bringing cubre libres like a mad-man. I judiciously emptied my glass only to have another appear instantly in its place, as if sprouting from the table. After several trips to the restroom to offload the fluid build-up, I declared, in the words of Roberto Duran, “No mas!”

And speaking of restrooms, this place was doing its part to solve the local unemployment. A gentleman was standing by the paper towel dispenser, and would crank out about a foot of paper towel and hand it to you. He would then look at the nearby little basket on the counter which he had salted with a peso coin. He was standing in the doorway, and the implication was that if you didn’t want to spend the rest of the evening in there, it was time to reach in el pocketo. I flipped a peso coin in and he stepped aside. (One must wonder about the conversation between he and his senorita, when he returns home after work, pushing a wheelbarrow of centavos and pesos: “How was work tonight, dear?” “ Tough one tonight,honey. Had to change the paper towels a couple of times, and, of course, there’s those background noises in the 'juan' I have to deal with….but sweetie, don’t forget to wash these coins before you use them…” )

After about an hour of dancing by patrons on the stage (Macaraena, etc.), it was time for the show. There were a couple of dance acts which were no better than some of the young people we saw perform in cantinas along the way. Oh, and the rope twirler. Vocalists were good, except I didn’t understand a word. The last act was a comedian/musician whose finale consisted of pulling a forty foot cloth strip out of his mouth, the colors changing from white to green to red. All this time he was making contortions as if this was being pulled from way down in his stomach. If the brown strips started coming, I was going to be outta there....muy pronto!

Back in our jitneys, we raced back to our campground condos.

On tap today is a bus tour of the nearby mountains: a brick maker, a bakery and pottery shops. Report to follow.