One Man’s Family’s 20 Year Love Affair With Mazatlan : Same Time, Next Year

We went back to the Bungalows Sandra last year--Mom, Dad and I--back to where it all began. The cab driver shrugged and said, “ No existan “ when I gave our destination. I had to direct the way, along the coast road with its endless tawny beaches and battalions of palms picketing the median strip. As each tree whispered by, another memory flashed momentarily to life.

We rattled past the once-infamous Copa de Leche cafe, up the steep switchback where the Collegio Pacifico hangs out almost into the surf and into the saddleback of the hilltop where, to the southeast, all of Mazatlan sweeps out below.

The bungalows were still there, hard by the crumpled concrete of the street. And “ours” was still inhabited. But its once-dazzling, canary-yellow walls were gray and scabrous. From broken window panes came exhalations of soured foodstuffs and hopes. In ironic contrast, an orange bougainvillea that was but a stick in 1969 had erupted into a glowing lava flow of flowers over the front of the building--nature adorning that which it consumes.

We got out of the cab and walked half a block up the precipitous road, sniffing the air, marking the years. When it all began, I was just back from Vietnam and it was to this enchanted hilltop retreat that I brought my bride to escape the blood dreams and the hatreds that poisoned the United States. For a year we basked in mellow Mexican sunshine and some of my youth was miraculously restored.

That Christmas, my parents, Obie and Tony, came all the way from Missouri by land to visit. It was their first real trip outside the United States. Obie has an ear condition that prevents her from flying, so traveling long distances is arduous. But they came--partly in parental concern and partly because of the lip-smacking letters we had written about the beauty of the town, the beaches, the people. With a single sampling, they were hooked.

Every year since--21 in all--they have returned to Mazatlan for a few weeks at Christmastime. And every year save one, I have flown from my California redoubt to be with them. This weekend I pack my bags yet again.

After bunking with us in the bungalow the first year, the family subsequently moved to a hotel. The best in those early days was the Playa Mazatlan at the northern terminus of the paved coast road, a few miles from city center.

There were a couple of other decent hostelries in town, but for ambience, comfort and elan, the Playa had no rivals. All the local swells, their lilting senoritas (and their duenas ) swarmed onto the expansive ocean-side terrace to sip exotic rums and dance the darkly sensuous steps of Latin courtship.

Vacationing in Mazatlan could be a challenge. Water supplies were iffy and tended to peter out as the day wore on. But all that has changed now. This year, the Playa even added special taps in the bathrooms delivering purified water for drinking. In a perverse way, we miss the old days: Spotting the folks--caught in mid-shower when the water died--as they sneaked into the dining room with shampoo still bubbling in their hair.

The years have brought vast changes to the Playa Mazatlan, but the important character of the place has remained the same: tiled floors and balcony corridors, a casual elegance that permits bikini and tuxedo to meet on equal standing in the public rooms. There are much grander hotels now--the imposing Camino Real; the stark, high-concept El Cid, and dozens of others purveying myriad notions of what a resort hotel should be. But for my money, the Playa is still the only place to be.

Of course, the Munzell family, like many others that migrate annually, has been assimilated by the hotel family. The hotel staff has had remarkably few changes. Obie knows all the names, the spouses and the children. And she knows as much of the dramas of their lives as she can piece together with her limited Spanish, their limited English and her uninhibited--and wholly inventive--sign language.

Tony, too, weighs in with his share of local lore, though he is more restrained when it comes to nosing into other people’s lives. But since he is the fisherman in the family, he hobnobs at dawn, waist-deep in the surf with locals and tourists alike. In the brotherhood of fishermen, rank is determined not by nationality, salary or color of skin but by the size of the catch. It’s a great lesson in egalitarianism. And rankings change daily.

Until recent times, Tony would sail for the horizon aboard one of the many sport-fishing boats several times each vacation. And I, the ever-dutiful son, would accompany him on one outing per annum. In the years before the divorce,while my bride was still in the picture, she was an ever-eager accomplice. But I set a strict limit. My excursions are remembered through a poison-green haze. Most of the time I doubled over the rail and prayed not for marlin but for deliverance.

Shopping, Obie’s passion, does for Tony what deep-sea fishing does for me, but he is ever the courtly accomplice on her sprees. Obie could shop todo Mazatlan in six hours as late as 1973. Tiendas catering to the tourist trade were limited then, but there was always the wonderful downtown central market with its dazzling displays of vegetables, brightly colored clothes, trays of squid and prawns, and nameless pastel fishes. And . . . carnicerias .

The first time Obie wandered into the meat quadrant of the market has become a chapter of family lore. Half carcasses of cows with stripped ribs lounged across worn counters. Pigs’ heads gazed hither and yon as though vaguely looking for their missing bodies. Entrails were heaped here or slopped in buckets there. Everywhere was the smell of blood and the sound of a thousand flies who had found nirvana. Obie took one gander, lost a week’s worth of sun coloring and backed out the entryway. Now she can’t wait for the first downtown shopping day to see if it’s still the same as she remembers. (It is.)

Then and now, much of the shopping in Mazatlan can be done from the comfort of one’s palapa on the beach. Intrepid merchants haul the booty along the Zona Dorada, where all the swell hotels and shops have sprung up (the coast road has now been paved for miles to the north of the Hotel Playa), and display it with dramatic flourishes just outside the rope that separates hotel-owned beach from federally owned beach.

Bargaining was tortuous for Obie initially until she realized that for the merchants, it’s the zest of the transaction. Pride is at stake, not just pesos. There are more shopping opportunities than ever these days, but there’s not much buying by us. In 20 years, the Munzells have purchased at least one of everything ever whittled, cut, fired, woven, painted or ball-peened in Mexico.

That stunning serape in tropical fruit colors looks irresistible on the beach, but where to hang it in a stateside formal dining room of ivory and powder blue presents a major interior-design dilemma. Countless crafts have moved from Mazatlan through customs, into our homes, up to the attics and into sidewalk sales virtually without pausing.

Vacations can be divided into two categories: those for sightseeing and those for sloth. Mazatlan, for us, caters to the latter. There is much to be said for lying on a beach and having people bring you things. And so it is, day after dreamy day. Our routine is to arise in the morning at no appointed hour. Tony is usually out before sunup to fish and to put marker towels and paraphernalia on chairs and table in order to “reserve” our palapa in the first-come, first-served world of beach etiquette.

Obie and I wander down between 8 and 9 a.m. Rogelio and Jesus, two of the meseros de la playa (beach waiters), keep an eye peeled for us and deliver coffee while we contemplate a breakfast order.

After some fruit or a few strips of bacon (the best this side of Irish rashers), we rest to prepare for our arduous day. Mid-morning, if it doesn’t disturb our reading, we may swim or take a short walk down the beach toward the cathedral-like laser disco, Valentino’s, which soars skyward from a bold-shouldered rock in the surf at the southern end of the Zona Dorada.

Then, of course, there’s lunch--a cunning little pepino (steak sandwich) or a plate of cold prawns. I usually order French fries, another taste-bud tantalizer from the hotel kitchens. I think they may cook them in an olive-oil mix. I’m not sure about the technique, but the result is sublime. And I can point with pride to the fries for at least six weeks after returning home every year. They make a nice little ring of flab to hide unsightly belts on dress pants.

Swimming in the afternoon is almost imperative. Obie likes to stroke out beyond the waves to float and paddle around. I like to merge with the breakers and ride them crashing onto the shore. This always deposits buckets of sand in my suit and gives my physique a somewhat “heavy diaper” silhouette, but it’s a small price to pay for such thundering, foaming excitement.

A subsequent miles-long forced march down the beach is optional. Tony invariably finds a compelling reason to absent himself. But this is Obie’s constitutional, her concession to physicians’ yammerings and the pervasive Jane Fonda consciousness. I enjoy the hike.

It is during this time that hometown gossip is relayed and family matters shaken out for airing. It’s been 25 years since I left Jefferson City, Mo., to follow a career on the coasts of the United States, but Obie manages to perpetually overlook that little detail. “You remember that darling girl over on Meadow Lane that you used to date?”

“No.”

“Oh you know. That darling girl--what’s her name? Well, she married one of the Weber boys--he’s an insurance agent now, nice boy (over 40, still a boy . . . ) and they have two adorable little girls. Well . . . “ What then ensues will be a link in the daisy-chain of small-town life, the retelling of an anecdote or event that knits people into a community and leaves a marker notch in time’s passing. These stories give a texture and flavor to life that is often absent from the big coastal city where I live. It’s something I miss and I relish its taste during those long walks along Mazatlan’s sun-splashed beaches.

After returning to the palapa , we get serious about rest. Too much activity can be hazardous to your holiday. Mid- to late-afternoon is reserved for reading, reflecting and gazing through lazy-lidded eyes at the passing parade on the beach, the boat-pulled parachutes, the jet skis and wave runners and boogie board riders.

Folks in neighboring palapas visit, compare prices on purchased treasures, exchange restaurant tips or slip into slumber abetted by the yellow heat, blue water and white noise of the waves. Later we retire to the room to bathe, dress for dinner and lounge on the balcony as the sun screams away the day with neon colors--surely the inspiration for all those vivid, acrylic-on-black-velvet paintings.

Evenings are a wild card. Often we’ll just meander down to the hotel dining room, which is open to the night sky and lapped by surf at high tide. Other nights we’ll venture forth in search of a new culinary experience. Senor Frog’s, the local fun-intensive link in the famous Carlos and Charlie’s chain, is a must at least once every year. Obie loves the theatricality of it all. A waiter might snatch your hat and wear it all evening. Another, passing behind a lady’s chair, might dangle a rubber spider down her decolletage. A central-casting bandido will have double-shot glasses in his bandoleras , and his holsters will house a bottle of tequila and another of Sprite. These are mixed half-and-half and slammed down on the table to detonate all the carbonation and make the concoction look like milk in a frenzy.

Diners are supposed to down the drinks in a single gulp. One is liberating. Two are electrifying. Three are lethal. Tony loves Senor Frog’s baby-back barbecued ribs, which, admittedly, are unparalleled in the hemisphere. One note of caution: When dressing for this place, accessorize with earplugs.

There are Mexican fiestas at the Playa hotel on weekends and holidays. The Munzell family has attended these exuberant if somewhat amateurish celebrations with devotion bordering on obsession, thanks primarily to Obie’s insistence. The shows never change. We have watched sylphlike teen dancers thicken and slow into shuffling matrons over the years. We have seen the magician’s act so often that all of us could perform it without a hitch.

This year, Obie finally asked Manuel, the chap in charge of the show, why he never adds new routines. After some stammering and stuttering, he confessed that we were the only ones ever to buy tickets more than once, and that so far as the rest of the world is concerned, the show is perpetually new-minted. Obie threw back her head and howled. And promptly made reservations for the next show.

The penultimate day of this year’s vacation, Obie left the beach early to have her hair done. That evening, friends from Denver--Ken and Verna Allen--joined us fordinner on the terrace. Obie was regaling them with the comic differences between a Midwestern beauty emporium (swift, efficient, businesslike) and her favorite Mazatlan salon, where the operators pursue endless love on the phone, leave customers under dryers until they crisp and generally devote themselves to matters of the heart instead of matters at hand.

When the waiter inquired if we cared to order cocktails, Obie, a virtual teetotaler, gushed, “Oh, let’s do. Let’s all get a drink.” We did. As the beverages arrived, she lifted her glass and said, “Let’s drink to . . . “ Inspiration failed her. We all waited with glasses aloft. “Let’s celebrate . . . “ Suddenly she beamed, “ . . . my hair !”

In the perfect circle of family, friends and vacation fun, no more appropriate toast was possible. It was a full minute before the bubbles of laughter in our throats permitted us to drink.

On the evening of their departure, I rode to the train station to see the folks off to Nogales, the first leg of their six-day overland journey home. I trotted beside the departing train and waved them off into the night, then took a cab back to the center of the city. El Centro used to be just that. Now it’s called “Old Mazatlan” on tourist maps.

Not much has changed there. Municipal improvements are slow in coming. Sidewalks are narrow and buckled. Streets aren’t much better and mud seems to seep up through cracks in the pavement when no one is looking. Some of the storefronts haven’t tasted paint since cars had fins.

But I love this part of the city. I particularly love to walk through it at night when the hubbub is reduced to a few hot spots around food stands or shops that stay open late. It’s after the tourists have streamed back to the Zona Dorada that the real flavors of Mexico come through.

As I strolled down the streets, moist and slightly steamy after a short shower, I could smell the smoke of carne asada broiling over an open fire in an enclosed courtyard, and I could hear laughter echoing down rainslicked alleys. But everywhere I turned, I felt the lingering presence of Obie and Tony. The surroundings said Mexico but my heart said Mom and Dad. My mind’s eye added their forms to every backdrop I saw because at one time or another over the decades, they have been there in the flesh.

When the next burst of laughter bounced off the building beside me, I added a great dollop of my own to it and sent it rolling toward the central market. I was cackling like an idiot but I couldn’t help it.

To the empty streets, I shrieked: “And then she said, ‘Let’s celebrate my hair!’ ”