Category: Beaches

Hotel Belmar —– What Belmar?

My first and last visit to Mazatlan

Mazatlan Vieja (Old Mazatlan)

What mahogany? What tile? What swimming pool? What ambiance? Do you mean the broken window? The wire’s hanging out of the ceiling from around the broken fan? The closet doors hanging from their hinges? And no way to lock the door of the room itself.

I was more than disappointed. This was the first time in all of my travels to Mexico that I planned ahead of my trip. Making a reservation in Old Town Mazatlan, unfortunately, I believed the advertisements. Against my better judgment, I made a reservation while still at home. As it turned out, I couldn’t get out of Hotel Belmar fast enough.

Leaving my bag in the room facing the sea, I set off to find a new hotel. I walked and walked until my sandals rubbed red burning blisters into my feet. The sun burned my face. I wanted to cry.

Nicholas, the hotel clerk, was nice. When I said, I wanted to find a new hotel, he said, “Stay, stay”. But I was desperate not to spend my very expensive vacation in the Hotel Belmar. And to top it off, the only beach near the hotel, was a small patch of sand, dark and surrounded by boulders, littered with plastic garbage. It was not even worth exploring.

The malecon swarmed with people. Locals were cooling off in the sweltering heat. Vendors were selling grilled corn on the cob, skewered through on a stick, smothered in butter, and sprinkled with Tajin. Others sold shaved ice, ice cream and soda. Children, covered in wet sand, were squealing. Teenagers were shouting at one another and boom boxes were playing Banda music at top volume.

“I can’t stay there. I chanted inside my head as I walked. What will I do? How will I change hotels? What’s even available? How can I find out? I need water. What am I doing here?” I feared to stay even one night, where the lights flickered in the dark room and the rusty  AC unit ground loudly.

So far I didn’t like what I’d seen of  Mazatlan. A four-lane highway runs between a strip of hotels and the beach. The beach is steep, a thin strip, broken by huge outcroppings of boulders. This isn’t even the hotel district. This is in  Mazatlan Vieja. Right then, I missed my family. What would they say if they saw me now? I was way too hot and my feet were being rubbed raw.

I wished I had picked Acapulco. Acapulco I knew well. I could have gone to Pie de la Cuesta or Zihuatanejo or any number of places that I loved. My dream of buying a small hotel felt crushed, and I certainly wouldn’t be buying anything here.

I hailed a pulmonia. These are small, open-air jeeps with a canopy and music blaring. “Where can I find a cheap hotel?”, I asked the driver in Spanish. These guys get a commission for bringing tourists to particular hotels that they are affiliated with. I also know from experience that when I let them know that I’m fluent in Spanish, they’re going to run into the hotel before me and tell the clerk that I am fluent in Spanish, so there’s no talking among themselves, thinking that I don’t understand what they’re saying.

The driver knows, he says, of a cheap place. It’s called Olas Altas. (High or Big Waves). I’d been traveling in Mexico for a long time, and I knew what hotels go for. But it was peak season, and this is right on the highway with the beach right across those four lanes. Cars were whizzing by and it was quite noisy and dusty. But I was at the point of collapse. Right then I’d pay just about anything.

I wanted to pay $30 a night, but they were insisting on $81. I’ll get a deal, they continued to insist,  if I stay for the whole week. I’m embarrassed to say, I paid over $400. This was unheard of in my experience, but as I said, I thought I might keel over if I didn’t find a place to eat and sleep and soak my damaged feet.

I paid and promised to be back shortly. I hopped on the pulmonia again, back to Hotel Belmar. When I told Nicholas that I was leaving, he was none too happy. He made me pay $100 pesos, for the molestia (for the trouble) I guess for showing me the room. It appeared to me that I would have been their only guest. At this point, I would have paid almost anything. Just get me out of here, I thought. I took one more look at the pool, which was covered with a green slime, and was happy to be gone. I think at one time, this was a very cool and trendy hotel. The bones were still there.

Nicholas kept saying, “Piense bien. Tiene que pensar bien.” You better think it over, he was saying. I said, “I’m sorry, but this is my vacation and my money. Adios.” Did he think that I really could have stayed? So back onto the pulmonia. I hopped on and off I went to Olas Altas.

When I arrived, I instantly dropped my luggage in my room and stripped to the skin. I was as red as a beet, I could hardly walk. I couldn’t wear shoes. I had two or three blisters on each foot with at least one that had burst open and was bleeding… and I’m too hot.

Olas Altas  was just okay. The rooms were new with air conditioning, the beds were comfy. And across the four-lane highway, was the beach and I could see the spectacular sunset.

I also could see the big red signs saying that there would be no swimming because of dangerous currents and the massive waves. I would have to go searching for a good beach for swimming.

I threw on my swimsuit and threw myself into the pool. I floated in the pool until I felt myself calm down. I was in bed by 9:00 pm. I was tired to the bone and had not had a drink of water or anything to eat all day.

I drug myself to a table by the pool. There was a small restaurant in the hotel and I immediately downed two bottles of Pacifico before drinking glasses and glasses of water. I ordered caldo Tlalpaño which was a soup of rice, avocado, and chicken. I believed it was the best soup I’d ever eaten. And then I had a platillo Mexicano, 1 sope, 1 chili rellano 1 tostada, 1 quesadilla, guacamole, and frijoles.

I didn’t stop until I had my fill. I rested my head in my hands and almost fell asleep. It was time for me to go to my room. I fell into bed and as soon as the traffic died down on the highway, I slept like a baby, listening to the giant waves crash on the shore.

Tomorrow I’ll eat breakfast at Pueblo Bonito. They want to sell me this place, but right now. I don’t want to be sold anything ever.

I spent the rest of the week in Mazatlan staying at Olas Altas. Unlike all of the other times that I’ve been in Mexico this was not fun, not comfortable, not interesting, not anything. I never found the beach that I was looking for… someplace to swim.  I did find some good places to eat, which is easy to do in Mexico. But I found that the food in the hotel restaurant was the best food to be found.

I understand that there are people who love Mazatlan. They buy houses and condos and businesses, and vacations and retire there even. But after that experience, I never wanted to go back… to Mazatlan that is.

Fe Dáncio

A night of passion… or not

His long, curly, disorderly salt and pepper hair exposed his age, for his body did not.

Every morning, he sailed his small fishing boat out into the bay of Zihuatanejo and back again in early afternoon.

The rest of the day was spent selling fish and cleaning the boat inside of a small boat house perched over the bay. Fe Dáncio had been a fisherman from childhood and had lived in Zihuatanejo from birth.

While in Zihuatanejo, I spent my days on the beach where the pounding waves pummeled me, where I lay in the sun, where I ate in the small cafés along the beach, where at night I could be found in the small clubs along the beach, dancing.

Tired early, I returned nightly to a small hotel just steps up from the sand. At one time, it had been painted pink with white balustrades with cool orntamental Spanish tiles to walk on. I slept on the balcony in a hammock swinging under palms and flowering plants. I slept soundly. The soft breezes swished through the leaves, murmuring secrets from the past, as did the waves on the sand.

I woke early with the sun and watched the fishing boats bobbing out into the bay. All I wanted to do was the same thing that I did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. For a few dollars, a small cafe next door offered my favorite breakfast of pancakes, papaya, and other fresh fruits and all of the orange juice I could drink… And Nescafe.

Throwing on a swimsuit and a pair of shorts, i would walk into the sea, spending hours doing nothing. The waves were unpredictable. At times, they were gently rolling, and at other times, they came in violently, casting me to the hard sandy bottom. More than once, I hit my head on a rock. My brown skin was often bruised.

From my place in the sand, I could see the fishermen coming in, and as usual, Fe Dáncio drew my attention as he walked from the boathouse. I can’t explain it, but to me, he was muy atractivo. His skin was dark. He was muscular. He was weathered but smooth and shiny, if you could imagine it, and his hair was wild and wind blown. I, of course, noticed that he had an eye for the women.

One day, he approached me. We took up a conversation, and he invited me into the boathouse to see his small fishing boat. Since I am fluent in Spanish, we talked for hours, and he told me about his life. We sat in the sand later, continuing our conversation. He seemed as curious about me as I was about him. We ate some dinner, and then he invited me to his house.

(My acceptance of his invitation was not unusual for me, for I visited many houses belonging to strangers. Remind me to tell you the story of visiting a family on an island in a yellow lagoon in a village that grew coconuts only accessable by flat bottom boats.)

Not Fe Dáncio’s place

We walked to a secluded area of the beach where the locals lived in small houses, surrounded by gardens. He lived in a small board cabin outside of his mother’s house in the soft sand among mango trees and lush plants. His mother offered to feed us, but we declined having just eaten.

It grew dark. We sat in his house and talked into the wee hours of the night. I grew tired. He offered his bed for me to lie down on. As he laid down beside me, he offered me a smoke. We smoked quietly, staring into the darkness of the sky. The candle light was dim, and I began to drift away. I was high like I had never been before. I was mesmerized by his gentle touch.

Once in a while, he would send me to the outdoor shower where soft, cool, and refreshing water woke me once again to a night so pleasant, I didn’t want it to end. I only remember waking to a chicken crowing in a tree outside his front door.

Fe Dáncio had gone fishing. He left me a plate of mango and papaya and a glass of orange juice. I hadn’t heard him wake or leave. I slowly dressed. After a night of such indescribable hallucinations and pleasure, I was surprisingly refreshed. I went to my regular café for breakfast and returned to the beach to swim and to lie in the sun.

I never saw Fe Dáncio again. I did not see his boat return, nor did I see him walking along the beach. Though I spent weeks in Zihuatanejo, I was left only with this memory of him. It is so vivid, yet I wonder if it really ever happened at all.

The Price of Friendship. Silver or Gold?

She asked me if I was wearing silver or gold. My answer was silver. Her response was, “then go”.

Her accent was foreign to me. She was probably nearing 70 years old. She wore a form fitting swim suit and lay on a lush towel on the white sand. She was beautiful. Her hair was full and dark and streaked with sun bleached strands. I laid not far from her on a cheap hotel towel.

A tall and lanky young man in a tight red speedo, that left not much to the imagination, stood towering over me. He was dark brown and muscular. His life on the beach made him appear darker than the skin peeking out from under his suit.

I had met several of what I called “the boys on the beach”. Because I am naturally curious and an ethnographer, I had spoken with many of them and had even befriended a couple.

They made their livelihood by providing services to the tourists on the beach. Some worked giving rides on jet skis and inflatable bananas. Some drove boats for para-gliding. Most of those that I met had started quite young… 13 – 14 years old even.

If they were lucky they would meet women who would then take them out to dinners, buy them clothes and would even give them money.

I had watched these scenarios on the beaches in Mexico many times. One might see older women out in the clubs at night dancing, escorted by these young men. Some might even call them gigalos. Everyone benefited.

So, here was Gilberto, offering to take me out on his paddle board, out to the La Isla de Roqueta. He had cold beer in the compatment on his board, he added, hoping to convince me. I was reluctant. Even though he was a cousin to one of the men I had gotten to know, I didn’t know him except by sight.

He was trying convincingly to encourage me to go with him to where only the locals would know. He knew of a cove with white sand, he said, where there was every color of irridescent fish and beautiful coral and unusual rock formations. But I have no money, I said, hoping to discourage him.

I was equivocating even though I knew him slightly and I was used to seeing him everyday on the beach taking others out into the bay to the Isla. Tired of our discussion, it was then that the woman lying near me stepped in with her question, “Are you wearing silver or gold”?

I told her that I was wearing only silver. She then, with an air of authority said, “Then go”. I felt like my mother had just told me that I could go ahead and go on a date with that boy on the motorcycle.

I gathered up my towel and climbed onto his long board. Gilberto stood on the front of the board with a paddle, looking not unlike a statue of Adonis. I relaxed as he handed me a beer from his cooler. This wasn’t the first time I had accepted an invitation to do something a little adventurous, to some maybe, dangerous

He was practiced and proficient as we glided past the submerged statue of Nuestra Señora de Los Mares or better known as La Virgen Guadelupe.

This statue is not very deeply submerged and is a popular tourist attraction, often visited by the glass bottomed boats that transport tourists and locals alike, between the beaches and the island. She’s located in the Bay of Acapulco off the coast of La Isla Roqueta. Though beloved, it seemed really creepy to me.

Nuestra Señora de Los Mares or the Virgen de Guadelupe

By the time we were out into the bay and gliding and rocking along, I was so glad that I overcame my trepidation and went along. I was so glad that the lady lying beside me on the beach had encouraged me to go. Then, as now, I’m glad I did not miss this experience.

As we drew near the dock where the boats landed and let people off to visit the restaurant on the island, we took a turn to the right and circled the island staying near the shore. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool and the water splashing over the board was refreshing.

It wasn’t long and Gilberto guided us into a small and hidden cove with a white Sandy beach. The smooth and glistening rocks at the water’s edge were every color and shone in the sun through the translucent blue, green water. Gilberto unloaded the cooler with the beer and a few snacks onto the beach.

Cove on the Isla Roqueta

For a short while I laid on the beach and drank another beer. Gilberto encouraged me to move into the water and I laid and floated on the gently sloping beach. As my eyes adjusted to looking under the water, I saw schools of beautiful small fish, iridescent in the sun and shining in every color. Gilberto moved in and lay beside me. I lost track of time.

For a minute I thought Gilberto would try to make a move. He did but as I moved a little away from him, he did not persist. I didn’t blame him for trying, as this is how he made his living. He was possibly hoping that I would be one of those women who would spend their vacation taking him out to dinners buying him clothes and spending money on him.

We talked softly, drank more beer and rocked in the water until the sun sank into the horizon. It was time for us to reluctanty return to la playa Caleta. The air was still warm as stars began to appear in the sky. This had been a magical day.

I jumped off the board just short of shore and walked through the gentle waves onto the warm sand. I laid my towel out and sat down, exhausted from the day in the sun and sea. Gilberto sat next to me. I asked him what I owed him. He wouldn’t take my money. No matter how much I insisted he refused to take even one peso.

I wanted to at least pay for the beer. I wanted at least to pay him for his time. I knew that if he hadn’t spent the day with me, he would have made money doing what he does best, which is to entertain the tourists.

Instead, Gilberto and I had become friends. Maybe this was worth more than silver and gold to him. I know it was to me.