Chapter 5: To Puerto Vallarta
A few miles north of Puerto Vallarta on a high bluff overlooking the ocean with rows of swaying palm trees is a charming little tropical campground. After checking in, we were off to the famous beach south of town, Playa Mismaloya, where we rented horses for $0.80 US per hour. The horses were spirited and our gallop through sand and waves was spectacular. It was like something out of a movie and we could envision the slow motion cameras panning to wide angle as the horses splashed along in the surf capturing us leaning far back in the saddle, wide smiles, and a glint of love and romance in our eyes. We were two free spirits doing our best to savor the joy of our liberation from the mundane world of work and pressure. This was turning out to be all that we had hoped for and deep inside, we knew we had made a right decision to attempt such a trip.
The large bay on which Puerto Vallarta is situated was once called Bahia de los Jorobados, meaning “Humpback Bay” because of the many humpback whale sightings. Today it is commonly known as Bahia de Banderas, or Banderas Bay. The town grew steadily from 1850 onwards and has a rich history of maritime escapades, a devastating fire that burned down half the town (legend has it that the damage would not have been so severe if all the inhabitants had not been caught up in the local cock fights at the time of the fire), an epidemic of yellow fever and much success with banana plantations that supported the local economy.
This was our first introduction to para-sailing. In the early 70s this tourist attraction was very new. We sat for a long time watching as the tourists would be strapped into a makeshift harness and dragged across the beach, arms and legs sprawling in all directions, as the parachute would catch the wind and the screaming 40 or 50 year old women would be whisked into the air. I noticed that the supposed helpers who strapped on the harness and tried to guide the helpless tourists into the air were pretty free with their hands, and in the seeming confusion of harness, cable and parachute wires would accidentally grab the breasts and fannies of the women at will. It all looked a little suspicious and the young helpers were just having too much fun, especially with their hand motions of squeezing things and patting things once the paying customer was out of sight.
Sometimes the boat motor would sputter and cough as the captive adult would come sailing down next to the water or worse yet fly past the palm trees and hotels when the wind would shift toward land with onshore breezes in the late afternoon. Whenever the boat motor would fail, there would be a sickening scream from high in the air followed by a torrent of swear words and yelling accusations from the on-looking friends and family. It was all quit amusing and it looked like a thrill that we needed to experience first hand. But, the $8.00 seemed a little rich for a blood. “After all,” Sharlene exclaimed in her most sensible and frugal tone, “eight dollars will nearly fill up the gas tank twice.” We passed on the para-sail ride and I was relieved that I would be saved the consternation of watching my wife being manhandled.
The event that really put Puerto Vallarta on the map and made the area famous was the Hollywood movie industry. The 1964 filming of “Night of the Iguana” by John Houston, showcased the tropical beautiful Mismaloya Beach and the torrid romance of Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Both were married to others at the time and the media had a field day titillating millions with reports of their indulgences. For Puerta Vallarta, the starlit romance generated an avalanche of publicity and the tourist trade of Puerta Vallarta was born. Visitors cam pouring in from around the globe in hopes of gaining a glimpse of a movie star.
The town itself is packed tightly between the white sand beach and the steep hillside. Following our horseback ride on the beach we explored the town. After crossing over Rio Cuale which splits the town into two halves, we traipsed up the north side of town to the hill called Gringo Gulch, named for the many well-connected Americans who came here regularly in the 1950s and 1960s. Among these beautiful homes we searched and searched and finally found the past residence of Elizabeth Taylor, now called Casa Kimberly, which is a bed and breakfast place. Neither of us had ever seen the movie, “Night of the Iguana”, but we looked forward to seeing it some time in the future knowing that we would reminisce about our horseback ride, our exploration of this beautiful city, and the romance we felt as we walked hand in hand down the beach as the sun set in the west.
Lightning and rain storms in the night woke us momentarily but cooled things off so we slept wonderfully through the rest of the night. Up early the next morning to the ever present sound of roosters and ocean waves, a delicious pancake breakfast, and we were off on the highway headed north toward Guadalahara. It was Sharlene’s turn to drive.
“Can you believe how lush and tropical this countryside is?” Sharlene chimed as we drove down the pavement. “I really expected all of Mexico to be pretty much desert.” “Yeah,” I replied, “we have actually been through several different areas. Some with barren sandy desert and cactus, others with lots of brush and manzanita bushes and then this tropical jungle with lush greenery, banana trees, palm trees and plenty of snakes.”
“Snakes!” shouted Sharlene. “Where did you see snakes?”
“Right there, in front of us, on the right side of the shoulder. Yikes, did you see the size of that thing,” I exclaimed. “Look, there’s another one. It must be four or five feet long. Wow, I’d hate to have one of those after me. The rain last night must have brought them out or something. I’ve heard that they will often come out and lay on the warm asphalt at night when the air gets cool. Jeeze, raccoons a few nights ago, sharks in the bay, and now snakes on the roadway. You don’t suppose they could get inside the van somehow, do you? Like, up the tires and around the axle and in through some vent hole in the bottom of the floor or engine compartment or something. I think I better look for any openings the next time we stop.”
“Don’t be such a worry wart. Nothing is going to get inside the van, especially a snake that big.” Sharlene spoke with a quiet confidence that was reassuring. She always seemed to make a proper and practical evaluation of things, although sometimes naive and overly simple, and I was always imagining the worst. I saw again how we were perfectly matched for this adventure. She would be the anchor to stay practical and keep my emotions and senseless fears in check, and I would supply the analysis and problem solving to keep us out of trouble and to anticipate dangers before they would materialize so that they could be avoided altogether. It was a perfect match, and I was privileged to have such a solid traveling mate, no, more than that, such a solid and strong life mate.
Just outside of Guadalahara we passed through the little town of Tequila. Field after field of what looked like spiny blue bayonets sticking pointing up at the sky surrounded the town. These were the maguey plants from which the beverage tequila is made. In town we discovered that this little place is responsible for nearly 80 to 90% of all the tequila made in the world. In fact they have a patent on the plant and the process which bars any other producers from calling their beverage “tequila.” When the spiny fronds are peeled away, the inner heart of the plant can be as much as one-hundred pounds. It is immediately cooked in large copper kettles and the clear tequila liquid is poured into bottles at once. Another variety that is golden in color is poured into oak casks and aged for up to seven years, similar to wine processing.
As we left town, I couldn’t help but remember the little song Tequila that was popular in the U.S. just as we were departing on our trip. Many years later, I would become close friends with the man who wrote and arranged that song with its predominant jazz tenor sax sound. A man who was written up in the Playboy Jazz Poll several years in a row as the top jazz tenor saxophonist in the country, a Las Vegas personality and manager/arranger/producer for the well known group The Righteous Brothers, and the man who launched an entire Christian religious movement known as the Vineyard Church Movement. John Wimber was an extraordinary person.
Esmeralda d’Abril lived in Guadalahara, Mexico and we were anxious to connect with her. She was 37 years old and an area manager for Avon products with over 150 women working under her supervision. She is a beautiful women, full of life and energy, articulate in English, and committed to showing her American friends the best time of their lives in her home town. Sharlene had met Esmeralda some years before on a Greyhound bus trip. Their common love of travel and adventure provided a basis for an immediate friendship and after their short encounter they had remained pen pals for years. Esmeralda was a short woman with brown hair cut in a short fashionable style and brown eyes that glistened with and obvious delight in living life to the fullest. She was a little bit stocky but not fat and always kept herself impeccably dressed in snappy bright colored outfits and with perfect makeup. It was no surprise that she was an area manager for Avon. She was energetic and adventurous and always had a new idea of something to do or somewhere to go, whether just for dinner or an outing, or for an extended trip to some exotic place in the world. She spoke perfect English and seemed to know every important person in Guadalajara. Her charm and personality were magnetic and wherever she went it seemed that she was in charge, as though the universe was in orbit around her. Her happy smile and feminine dominance wooed people into her sphere and caused them to respond with service and benefit on every hand. We could not have had a more perfect friend and guide for our stay in Guadalajara.
To our delight, Esmeralda had a home with a separate guest quarters so we had our own bedroom and private bath for the days we spent with her. It was a welcome break from the cramped quarters of the camper. For three glorious days we hit all the hot spots of Guadalajara; Colonel Kentucky Fried Chicken, hamburgers with milkshakes and fries, Pizza Hut and Dairy Queen. One evening we went to a fashionable night club and heard the music performance of Amando Manzanero who was reveling in his world-wide hit song, “It’s Impossible.” After his first set of songs he took a break and after leaving the stage, hot on his heels was Esmeralda. She followed him back to his dressing room and with her typical charm and determination, convinced him to come out and sit at our table for awhile and visit with her American friends. She really was incredible.
Another evening was filled with mariachi music as we sat in mariachi square near the center of town and listened for several hours to no less than five different strolling mariachi groups. Being a lifelong trumpet player myself, I was fascinated with the artistry of the mariachi trumpeters. As I sat listening I remembered my music classes from UCLA and suddenly recalled that originally mariachi bands were primarily string bands. Brass instruments were only added later. I could still hear one old professor of South American music explaining that the bands originated with playing folk music at weddings. The word “mariachi” was actually a Mexican-Spanish derivative of the French word “mirage” meaning marriage. I chuckled to think that when I was at the University I was so critical of the ethnomusicology department where they reveled in their old moldy manuscripts. Now, here I was in Guadalahara with a mental commentary on the origins of mariachi music. I never would have believed that such information would ever have become useful.
Back at Esmeralda’s place we said goodnight and retired to the comfort of the immense queen sized bed. In the early hours of the morning we were suddenly awakened from the sound of a pistol firing off several shots near the front of the house. Apparently, such occurrences are common and we were once again reminded of the rustic nature of the Mexican culture. In the midst of what appeared to be a modern country, there was still a prevailing sense of the survival of the fittest. It was imperative that we stay reminded of these dangers and not become complacent thinking that the culture operated the same as in America with our strong adherence to rules, laws, personal protections and personal rights.
Another personal tragedy struck in Guadalahara. By this time in the trip we had used one full roll of film with 36 slides. We decided to get the roll of film developed right here in Mexico rather than send it back to the States. The counter on my fine Nikon camera registered 36 so I began the rewind process according to the instructions. For some reason the rewinding felt much to easy with little or no resistance on the small rewind lever. I was struck with apprehension as I wound and wound the lever for several minutes, never seeming to reach the end of the film where I expected to feel the normal resistance just prior to the film slipping off the wind shaft and escaping into the film cartridge. Finally, I determined something was wrong so I slowly opened the back of the camera. There sat the film with the end extended as though being first loaded into the camera body but failing to thread into the take up reel. Result, we hadn’t taken any pictures at all during the first two weeks of our trip. The film had never advanced in the camera as we clicked our pictures so there were no pictures of exposed film. The whole first roll was ruined.
As I explained the situation to Sharlene, a growing gloom settled over me, followed by anger, followed by embarrassment and finally ending in a black despair. This was a once in a lifetime experience and now the entire first section was without a record, no pictures. All of those beautiful camp grounds, ocean views, travelers we had met, the raccoons, the shark in the lagoon, the sunsets, the beach at Puerta Vallarta, all lost, all gone, forever. The gnawing desperation I felt is hard to explain. I considered going all the way back to the Mexican border and starting over with proper film. It was a strange emotional upheaval. My sense of planning, perfection and execution had been radically violated and I was nearly sick over it. And worst of all, it was my own fault, totally my own fault. I actually grieved over the loss for several days.
Sharlene, on the other hand, handled the tragedy in her usual carefree style. Her emotional stability and practical sensibleness always came through to pull me out of my emotional crises. I didn’t realize it at the time but there would be many more of these episodes where I would nearly emotionally collapse and “rock of Gibraltar” Sharlene would just steadily press on as though nothing had happened. More times than I could count I heard the words, “Get a grip, it isn’t that bad.” Once she pulled me through the deep valley of emotional bleeding, I would get my own brain in gear and usually create a solution to the crises. Without her help in those crises times, I never would have made it. Again, we realized how perfectly matched we were for this type of travel odyssey.
Once I started to think again, the solution to the lost pictures came easily. We went to the huge open market in the city and found souvenirs and mementos from the places we had been to thus far on the trip. Separate poses from Sharlene with souvenir hats, scarves, little statutes, a cactus plant, and other items displaying the names of the cities and tourist locations, conveniently filled in the names of places we had visited and at least gave us a somewhat manufactured picture record to fill in the first two weeks of the trip.
It was time to hit the road again. Esmeralda became infected with our obvious enthusiasm for travel and as we shared an extended goodbye over thick Mexican coffee, she began to talk about her future. By the time we finished, plans were laid for her to meet us in Mexico City in a few days, to meet us again in Acapulco whenever we finally got there, and possibly to meet us in Morocco in a year or so as we considered the possibility of crossing the Sahara Desert and traveling down the continent of Africa. She was certainly an ambitious lady and openly declared that she was ready for some dramatic changes in her life.
In her ever generous way, Esmeralda had contacted one of her Avon clients who was a doctor and had secured a key to his summer cottage on Lake Chapala. The route to Mexico City went right past the Lake and his place would make a perfect stop off for our first night back on the road. Following hugs and kisses of gratitude and a hearty Adios, we were headed out of Guadalahara toward Mexico City.
As we departed, we made a wide swing to the north of the city to see the Grand Canyon of Mexico, called Barranca de Oblatos. It is a stupendous sight with the Rio Santiago hurtling down white water cascades some 2,000 feet down in the gorge with reddish brown walls. The yearround mist from the cascades and the thermal rivulets plunging down the walls create a tropical climate in the gorge which allows for the growth of papayas, oranges, guavas, bananas, mangoes and other tropical fruits. Nearby we passed the sports arena where the soccer games are played and next to it the bull ring of the famous Mexican bullfights. Last stop was the grand market where we bought potatoes, vegetables, delicious tropical fruit from the Barranca and several loaves of tasty bread for about 2 cents each.
Forty miles south east of Guadalahara we came to the beautiful Lake Chapala. The Lake is the largest fresh water lake in Mexico and a favorite resort and retirement destination for many Americans and Canadians. In the mid-1920’s D.H. Lawrence wrote “The Plumed Serpent” while staying at a lavish estate on the Lake. The key that we got from Esmeralda got us into the gate of the doctor so we had a perfect camping spot right on the Lake to enjoy its tranquil beauty. It had rained earlier in the day so everything was clean and bright with plush green grass, white puffy clouds and the deep blue waters of the Lake.
“This place is really beautiful,” Sharlene was busy snapping the mosquito netting to the front windows of the camper. “This place would be perfect if it weren’t for these pesky mosquitoes. They’ve eaten as much of this American flesh as I care to share with them.”
“I agree,” I said with conviction. “We’ve tried everything that we brought with us to fight these critters but it seems to have little effect. Do we have any more of these coils that burn to keep them away?”
“There’s only one package left with three coils. That will just about last for tonight and, after that, it’s every man for himself,” Sharlene chuckled as she scratched her legs viciously. We both had bloody scabs from scratching the welts that would appear each morning after a night of being served as human sushi to the bugs. They were so annoying. The screens that we had specially made for the front windows, the sliding door opening and the back door worked pretty well, but there were always a few commando mosquitoes who would find there way into the camper through the cracks and then feast on our flesh as reward for their extra efforts of invasion.
Sharlene got a bright idea, “I think we need to take one more picture to finish the record of the camera film mishap.”
“What picture did you have in mind, dear,” I spoke with suspicious drama in my voice.
“You see that little bench over there in the front yard?” Shar asked.
“Yes, the one with the Lake in the background,” I replied with an inquisitive look.
“Well, you go sit on the bench and hold the ruined film up in front of you so I can take your picture.”
“You really want to rub my mistake in, don’t you.”
“Well, it was your fault. You’re supposed to be the know it all. Anyway, it will be a good picture and after that, I’ll never bring it up again.”
I felt the pangs of failure once again but less intense this time. We got the picture and she kept her word, she never brought the failure up again. We slept wonderfully that night due to the cool breeze off the Lake and the rain that had cooled the temperature a bit.
Next morning we were off to Mexico City, approximately 500 kilometers to the south east of Lake Chapala. By this time we were living like the natives, getting up at first light and going to sleep when it got dark, no watches and no clocks. We had learned the trick to multiply kilometers by .6 and add a little bit more to get the miles equivalent. So 500 kilometers would be 300 miles plus a little more or about 310 miles to Mexico City.
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