Part 5: Dec. 16, 1983
Puerto Vallarta

We have just arrived here on the mainland of Mexico after four extremely harrowing days, complete with wringing of hands, gnashing of teeth and much taking of the Lord’s name in vain, etc.

Bright and early on Tuesday morning we went to the ferry terminal in La Paz, and to shorten a long story, after eight hours of wondering, speculation and frustration, were told that it was too rough to sail, and to come back tomorrow. We waved goodbye to our friends who had accompanied us to the terminal (they got on), made our way to a nice deserted beach, had a good sleep and went back to the terminal at noon. By six o’clock we had paid our money, which relatively assures you that you will get on.

We finally boarded this special extra ferry for Topolobampo (laid on because of the growing number of transport trucks waiting in the huge parking lot) that was designed primarily for trucks, with no special accommodations for on-board passengers. We could not return to our trailer for any reason, and it was a very uncomfortable night, lasting to almost noon the next day. There was not enough seating space; the deck was too wet and salty to sit on, so it was largely a choice of standing or walking about. Neither of us slept much.

I had a lot of time to watch the various stars rise in the east, and then the first faint orange glow of sunrise. Dawn is so precise at sea on a clear morning, and, in this case, so welcome! About 6 a.m. I felt the motors slow and then stop while we were still well out of sight of land. The channel into Topolobampo was well marked, but very torturous, and we didn’t dock until 10 a.m. because we had to wait while a large Chinese dredge pulled up his pipe and moved out to deeper water.

We then proceeded in, but stopped again while a small bumboat came out to pick up our bow hawser, take it to the dock, return for the stern hawser and repeat the move, whereupon the ferry winched itself in to the dock. By the time we got off the ferry, the sun was well up, the temperature was approaching 90°F, my eyes were beginning to smart, we were both very hungry and badly in need of a quiet hour in the sack.

It wasn’t until about noon that were able to stop in the shade of a large tree for breakfast and an hour’s shuteye. There were school kids going in both directions, for schools in this area apparently operated in two shifts: from 7 a.m. to noon, and from 1 p.m. to 6 p.m. Kids here only see the gringos going past in their rigs on the highway, and seldom got a chance to observe a remolque (trailer) at such close quarters. They gathered around, about 150 strong, quietly watching, cautious, observing and trying to analyze our every move.

Sleep was out of the question. We finished our breakfast, and I went out to talk to them. The boys were easy to talk with, but I couldn’t get any of the girls to say anything – it was a very rural area, after all. Lois and I were both feeling the effect of no sleep, and decided we would have to move on first. It seemed that the whole school was going to skip classes in order to stand, watch and see what the gringos would do next. We drove on, eventually locating a spot just off the highway, and in spite of the blazing sun, did get an hour’s nap.

The next trailer park that we were sure of was in Mazatlan, about 250 miles from Topolobampo, which is a good day’s run in Mexico. Of course, we were late starting off, so knew that we would have some driving in the dark to do – highly inadvisable if you do not need to – but we did make Mazatlan without further mishap. Next day we had another 250 miles to go, so were at the propane depot bright and early.

There is a very casual attitude towards the handling of propane in some areas. Here there was only one man to handle all the locals with their 100 lb bottles (usually in a wheelbarrow), and the odd ones like myself with a propane-operated vehicle. Because he had to walk across the yard to the little shack to do the paper work and the cash, he left me to do the filling. I told him I would turn off the pump when the gauge indicated 80 percent full. But when the time came, I couldn’t find the turn-off valve and the meter indicated the tank was approaching 100 percent, at which point I began to holler for him. He did saunter over and turned it off, without too much concern, but this is a definite no-no at home. I don’t think I’ve ever had the tank so packed, and the fuel gauge measured full for the next 200 kms.

We did make it to Puerto Vallarta; saw the "Love Boat" in port, and parked for the night.

Saturday morning we did the last 150 miles to San Patricio – a five-hour drive only, and finally met up with our friends, the Jensens. In fact, they said they had heard rumours of the horrors of getting across from the Baja, and had decided we probably wouldn’t make it over until January.

Dec. 24, San Patricio

It is very easy to fall into the siesta routine as the temperature climbs toward 90°F. There is little shade outside, and it is too early and too hot to go down to the beach, so Lois and Jeri have been making plans for the Christmas fiesta manana.

Yesterday, while we were enjoying our two-hour "duty" stint on the beach, five young boys happened along, and said "Hola." When we replied, they stopped, stood around for a while and we exchanged pleasantries. They had a lot of questions, which we did our best to answer, until it was time for us to leave the beach. They asked me if they could talk to us tomorrow, and where would they find us. I told them we were the only ones in the trailer park with an Ontario placa, and sure, come around in the morning. We were still finishing our coffee when the five appeared, all smiles, made themselves comfortable under our awning and waited patiently for the conversation to begin.

We covered many subjects; they corrected my pronunciation when necessary (often), but it seemed to be more a case of correcting the accented syllable. It became a mutual learning experience.

I dug out the large map we carried of North America, located Jalisco State on it, but Alfredo, one of the boys, seemed to be the only one interested in continuing the geography lesson, so we scrapped that. The conversation flagged a little until a small boy came by peddling sweet tortillas and one of this group insisted on buying me one. I told them that I was addicted to coffee in the morning and they all nodded very knowingly, and I would have to make myself a coffee to go with it, and would they like one? "No," they replied in unison, but they would condescend to accept a licore (soft drink), so I sent one of them over to the local store with a 100 pesos to buy five drinks at 19 pesos each. Now, putting that into perspective meant that Oscar, one of the 14-year-old boys who worked full-time in a bakery, could only buy a round of five soft drinks with his daily wage!

In the afternoon the boys were back with their football to enquire if I would like to join them, and would I prefer American style or soccer? It was a loaded question, because no matter what my response, I would have to join them. In the end I did, but only in the cheering section. These kids literally launch themselves at the ball when tending goal. Thanks, but no thanks. They nod knowingly and understandingly.

In the evening Lois and I walked a couple of blocks to the local church in the plaza. There was very little activity other than walking, so we returned and went to bed.

Christmas Day is quite unlike ours. Most of the kids do not receive a present as such. For them it is just another day. The families are just too poor, or have too many kids, or both. In past years, apparently, local kids have come through the trailer park knocking on doors, all day long, which became quite a nuisance, like Halloween, only all day! So last year the regulars here organized themselves, made up about 200 little bundles, got the kids to line up outside at the park gate at 7:30 a.m. and handed out the goodies. They were short about 100, so they decided this year to make up about 400 with everyone contributing. Again they were short about 100. I think they bused the kids in from the hills. It was fascinating to observe the many and varied reactions of the lucky 400, but was most disconcerting when the supply ran out with the smaller kids still in line.

So, having got up this morning earlier than usual made for a longer day, and we found ourselves ready for the beach around noon. Size and intensity of the waves have been decreasing steadily since we have been here, so going in the water is more to keep cool than to enjoy the surf.

I found myself included in a Frisbee throwing contest with a young man and his six-year-old nephew. The kid was very keen, ready for anything we threw him and anxious to do it right. When I pleaded cansado (tired) and sat down for a descanso (recess) I learned that the young man was a teacher of primary school. I asked him if he had to follow a set curriculum, or was he at liberty to use his own methods? He has complete freedom to do as he pleased, apparently. What I have noticed here is that, by and large, the children are taught only what the teacher is able to teach them; and conversely, the teacher instructs in those subjects he is able to. For me, it emphasizes how terribly spoiled we are, in addition to fortunate and privileged!

For our Christmas dinner, a very pleasant change from the standard turkey, Vern made a ceviche (chopped fresh raw fish marinated with various spices, and then chilies and hot peppers added) and he barbequed the rib steaks beautifully. Jeri came up with a stuffed zucchini dish, and Lois provided a delightful cold but flavoured rice dish. With cerveza oscura (dark beer) and margaritas beforehand, and a bottle of Paarl Cabernet-Sauvignon during, I would say the meal was a success. The steaks, which we had brought from northern Alberta, turned out to be just about the finest pieces of meat we have ever had. So the occasion was fitting, and dinner lasted from seven o’clock to 10 p.m. after which we were all quite pooped and ready for the sack.

Next issue: New Year’s Eve in San Patricio