Insofar as I could gauge the situation, the pirates (some of which I think I spotted during my second day at the port) are trained fighters who frequently dress in military fatigues and use speedboats equipped with satellite phones and Global Positioning Systems equipment, and, the locals alleged, get help from the Gabachos! I was informed they are typically armed with Uzi semi-automatic weapons, anti-tank rocket launchers and different types of grenades. Far out to sea, their speedboats depend on larger cargo ships. Most hijackings (real or faux) end with plenty of pesos to payout. Piracy, sadly, is now considered the biggest moneymaker in the area, and tourism, on which Sinaloa had subsisted for decades, is bleeding one dollar at a time, and the Topolobampo fishermen and merchants are desperate. Wishing to educate myself more on the subject, I read that pirates had hijacked up to $35 million USD (I don’t know how many pesos) in ransoms, and who knows how much from “rescued” narcotics cargoes just in the last year.
The Mexican Navy is right to battle pirates in the open seas and come to the aid of genuine vessels under attack. Nevertheless, everyone complains they have been stymied over how to respond to boats under pirate control, fearing an all-out reprisal could imperil crew members held hostage ~ and it must be remembered the entire cast of characters, as it were, was Mexican. On the previous Monday before my arrival, Sinaloa authorities were monitoring a Mazatlan tourist boat seized by pirates sneaking out of Baja California-Sea of Cortez after the passengers and crew were told not to visit the area. But, tourists will be tourists, and the guides have to make a living.
Five American tourists were on the boat, El Caravel, when it was seized. The affair was serious and invited American intervention.
After wallowing on the dock taking in the glorious Pacific breezes, and tossing bread crumbs at the hovering sea-gulls and pelicans, I decided to take a local tour of the bay. It was quite invigorating, and it was hard to believe all this piracy was taking place. Yet, the tale of El Caravel was typical of the hijackings; 14 pirates had seized it just a few miles from the rocky coast. And, besides the tourist boat, a Panamanian ship was seized later that afternoon. Then, a Chilean tug was boarded the following Saturday, followed by assaults on other American ships originating from California. And where was the Mexican Coast Guard during all of these happenings? The intransigence and sloth of those people really gave everybody else cause for disgust!
Statistics I’d read on the Internet listed a total of 16 boats and over 200 ship-hands were under piratical dominion at the time. Though their misfortune is to be regretted, I was just glad that I had no encounters with these would-be buccaneers of the Mexican Coast.
Reminiscing about California as I questioned the motivations that impelled the pirates to lead this sort of dangerous life, my thoughts flew me to a memory of a San Roman movie I had seen long before I even knew who Fulgencio was. It was called El Gringo Bucanero (American Buccaneer), a fictional tale inspired by the true-life career of William Walker and his attempted take-over of Nicaragua in the early part of the 19th Century. As I recall, much of what was transpiring in Sinaloa mirrored the plot of the movie. It was a poetical case of Life imitating Art. I suppose Fulgencio was on the side of the pirates ~ he applauded initiative, self-motivation, strong Will, determination against the odds and the elements, against the unjust social structures that imprisoned decent men in a cage of conventions and conformity while others rejected this slavery to society, and acted from a sense of their own autonomy and carnal desire. I too would agree with non-conformity if those in power are unjust and deny opportunity to the self-seeking man. But, piracy? Only in my romantic dreams. Only if I truly had no choices left in life but to lash out against the oppressive powers of conventionality.
A day passed, I soaked in the mild sun of early Autumn, enjoyed fresh shell-fish, and nearly got botulism from tainted mollusks; I was intimate with a toilet for most of the day. Nonetheless, I took time out beforehand to visit the City Hall and inquired if they had updates about the status of the country’s eminent citizens. They were actually helpful and friendly, and within minutes I learned that Fulgencio’s condition had not improved, though was stable and conscious. I continually asked myself, “would I be able to see him again, speak to him once I’d finished what I had set out to accomplish?”
Mostly I tortured my conscience, telling myself to shut up, to not worry about trifles about things over which I had no control. Speaking of shutting up, during the previous night I’d finally called my girlfriend Lucinda, who’d recently moved to the East Coast from California with her college girlfriend in order to explore so-called new opportunities. After we’d exchanged a few pleasantries, we got into an argument that started off having nothing to do with us, but the outcome left her feeling small and weak. In trying to comprehend her dismissive attitude towards me, I referred back to a conversation I’d had with Becky a few years ago in which she insisted that I was the quiet type. Considering how other boors have found it so easy to walk all over my feelings and interests, what she said about my character made much sense. Anyway, I guess I still am the silent type but I definitely let my words be heard when it comes to injustices. The only problem, I believe, is that even though I try to stay within reason in an argument I tend to get worked up so seriously, combining my feelings with a staid masculine perspective, that the typical aggressive male proto-type tends to come out. I don’t mean to be cold or cruel, and I’m not necessarily saying anything bad to the person, but it doesn’t look good (in fact it’s downright scary to some people, especially if one was brought up in an ideal “white” family household). I come across as cold-blooded as well as blood-thirsty. How is that possible? Perhaps it is the inner pirate within me? Perhaps it explains the unquenchable wanderlust within me, and the desire to strike back at society for denying my identity, and rejecting my desire to prosper within the patrimonial regime.
The way I try to get my point across, I guess, is just too forceful and people don’t understand or like that, for good reason. I have been molded to react and behave in a certain way, and I work so hard to get out of that. This manipulation by outside influences and forces really illuminates the causes why people rebel, turn to piracy, and send everything else to perdition. I further tried to relay my thoughts and feelings to Lucinda, but she was “not buying it.”
My idea therefore was to just keep my mouth shut, choose my battles wisely and think happy thoughts. Or, I could pretend to be oblivious to something, like my parents used to for decades.
It is regrettable that my girlfriend was taken aback by my sharp repartee, but that is one of the other facets of my character. People don’t appreciate one’s intelligence until one is forced to reply, and then they are shocked by the clarity and forcefulness of one’s convictions, especially if one tries their best to stay within reason. On the one hand, it could be argued, this is a good thing ~ you make your stand, you make your convictions known, and if someone is offended, oh well! On the other hand, being a sensitive type as well, you can’t help but reflect on the sentiments of others ~ you worry that your words may have given offense, and you feel a bit of remorse. That is also the diplomat lurking inside of me.
But, if I were to approach this philosophically, well, I suddenly recall the words of Voltaire: if you wish to see how ridiculous your enemies are, and how foolish your friends can be, guard your silence and just listen to them!
Well, since I am a loud mouth who more than once has put his foot in it, I can’ help but admire people who can hold their mouths, and then speak their minds clearly and unambiguously when called to do so. Usually I say stupid things, and then, when challenged, I get so pissed off that I clam up and can’t say what I want to say. I just fume and fulminate in frustration and regret not having spoken up.
Then, on the third hand, my parents might have had the best idea. And, and if I am anything like them, then I should just enjoy the feeling. Again, to be philosophical, nothing matters in the long run.
All is vanity, all things bide their time and t
hen pass away, et cetera, blah, blah, blah. So, if my own parents could be oblivious to the harsh realities, I would certainly learn from them. I am too sensitive to my surroundings, and, especially, to the bullshit and abuse of others. Why? I don’t know except to admit to the facts that I’m an idiot, and I heed their bullshit; this is why they don’t respect me.
No, I argue with myself, stick to your guns. Life is hard enough, as I should well know being a mature, experienced man in my own right. Things are too tough already without others trying to make one feel guilty for not being the sweet, little toy they may have taken one for, with no opinion or intelligent thoughts to share.
With some people, even if it happens later rather than sooner, it is best that they get a taste of your mind so that they learn once and for all that you may be the quiet type, but you carry a very big stick ... metaphorically speaking.
For what it was worth, here’s a poem that encapsulates my “piratical” feelings about Life;
“Like each night you sleep,
I would like to be your soul,
And know what it is you feel,
If it is little, much, or nothing at all,
Like each night you sleep ...
The night is made long,
The darkness is my friend,
And with her I speak face to face,
I like to think aloud,
Perhaps you hear me ... though it matters not,
Well only my words,
Speak of a sentiment,
that yesterday we had ... and that day to day,
We’ve been losing,
Like each night you sleep ...
The new day approaches,
I hear the crow of roosters,
I shall erase these laments,
Unite myself to you, even if it is only ...
In dreams,”
... And yet, the fire of impatience, the passion for adventure, the thirst for blood (as it were) impelled me to move forward, to prey on those who’d betrayed my love and trust ... but not before discovering who my ancestors were, and, in so doing, who I am!
MISCONCEPTIONS ABOUT MEXICO
In corresponding with well-wishers, many have remarked that my descriptions are quite humorous. One former work colleague wrote, “Your words about the Mexican Riviera were funny as hell.” Their image of it is this wonderfully tropical oasis, but now that I think about it I guess it’s only meant to be briefly visited. As for my own well being, I hope I survive the month of September. In other parts it goes between light rain and perfect 70 degree days. I actually enjoyed the Mazatlan coast and wouldn’t mind if it was always like this because the moisture and breezes keep it clean and green.
Los Mochis turned out to be more distracting than I had supposed. In between dragging my feet, literally, through the warm sand, having special fish-tacos under the palm-covered huts, or contracting a launch to take me out to pet the frolicsome dolphins (one of them almost jumped in the boat, said the guide, because they are young, the hormones are working over-time, and, supposedly, the young males confuse such a boat for a passive female), and then we sailed a bit further out to watch the gray whales play and dive. It was all quite an experience. A popular activity among youth in Los Mochis is the “Leyvazo”; where people park their cars or cruise along Gabriel Leyva Avenue in downtown Los Mochis. Also, there is the “Riazo” where the people park their car to listen to music, talk, and eat in the restaurants. Some people just cruise down Gabriel Leyva Avenue in their car with friends; this is known as “Dar El Roll.” People also gather for a drink or barbecue under “Los Alamos” which are poplar-trees that line the highway to the Bay.
It all seemed like a scene from AMERICAN GRAFFITI.
Besides these activities, many residents of the city enjoy visiting the nearby beach of El Maviri. One very popular event occurs every ten years when the youth of the city gather to reenact the battle which is said to have founded the city. Often the fattest person in the town will swim out into the water, float into the beach and begin to attack the youth waiting there. This is said to mimic the actions of the city’s first enemy, David Illingworthos, who invaded the city in 1908 on a panga and drank every drop of beer in the city. Many people visit this semi-desert island to spend a day at the beach or enjoy the seafood delicacies.
Mazatlan turned out to be even more entertaining, but, once again, I had a brush with gastroenteritis, and this time I believe the drinking water had something to do with it.
The citizens developed Mazatlan’ into a thriving commercial seaport, importing equipment for the nearby gold and silver mines. It is Mexico’s largest commercial port. It is also a popular tourist destination, with its beaches lined with resort hotels. The Centro Historico has been rediscovered by newcomers and locals alike, spurring a renaissance of restoration and entrepreneurial endeavors. Once-fine homes that had fallen into literal ruin have been restored to their former glory and family- houses and boutique businesses. The wet season (July to September) is short, very rainy, and very humid, but it has been drizzling a great deal since I got here. The sky clears up quickly enough.
Culiacan is the largest city in the state of Sinaloa. Beginning in the late 1950s, Culiacan became the birthplace of an incipient underground economy based on illicit drugs exported to the United States. The completion of the Pan-American Highway and the regional airport in the 1960s incidentally accelerated the expansion of a workable distribution infrastructure for the few enterprising families that would later come to dominate the international drug cartels along Mexico’s Pacific Northwest. This is public knowledge.
The well-entrenched cartel families, or “Gomeros” as they are known, enjoyed the fruits of their criminal enterprises which linked opium farmers in the Sierra with local black tar heroin refineries. This, coupled with the thriving demand for marijuana stuffed local banks and private coffers with enough local capital to expand the “above the board” economies. The diversification included alliance building efforts that resulted in the formation of powerful cartels based on traditional clan and familial relationships of the founding families. This local clan network continued into collaborative relationships that linked the Culiacan-based drug trade with other networks in Latin America, Asia, and Europe. In part due to US-led successes against the Colombian distribution networks in the Caribbean and in South Florida, the 1980s also saw the rise in the fortunes of the Pacific Coast cartels as they filled the vacuum created in the cocaine trade. Culiacan’s reputation as a narco city has made it the de facto home of the Mexican Narco-corrido. In the midst of the Mexican Drug War, many Culiacan-based corrido musicians said they were hesitant to play certain songs for fear of offending the wrong trafficker.
I’m just content that I had no run-ins with narco-traffickers!
I guess I have been unjust to Mexico in general. The average “neck of the woods” for most people is little more than a living cess-pool. There are many a fine beach-front town on both coasts, great fried fish and Corona beers to be had before jumping into the tepid water.
Down-town commercial and residential districts in many a big city have their colonial charms, lots of quaint restaurants (though the food, in my opinion, is vomitable in most places ~ stick to the local tourist-guide recommended restaurants or familiar American fast food joints, they are at least clean, you know what you get and it is cheaper). The main square of Mazatlan was closed off during the weekend for art fairs and dancing in the streets, for the locals and the tourists. It made for a pretty post-card, and if I had come with my girlfriend I am sure I would have a fine time soaking up the local atmosphere, figuratively and literally speaking (though I would not recommend you literally soak up the real atmosphere, unless you like the sensation of pimple-oil oozing from your skin, morning, noon and night).
Some residential districts in the cities of Sinaloa are as elegant as San Marino or Bel-Air in California. Great colonial towns on the Islands of Palmito Verde, Palmito de la Virgen, Altamira, Santa Maria, Saliaca, Macap
ule and San Ignacio invite the curious to explore their unique charms. They are enticing locales where you can have a great swim, or jump off from a 100 foot precipice into the mocking waves below, like many gringos do. Sinaloa is a great state to visit. It is just me and my shit-hole of a quest that is far from all the fun and action, so I was not enjoying the attractions of the state like I should have. Sinaloa is like Jalisco, a great state with lots to see, but I felt like I was perpetually stuck, the accidental tourist, in one-horse dumps (little changed since the days of my ancestors), and had no way of getting the fuck out!
So, based on my unique experience here Sinaloa, and Mexico in general, suffering the local walking turds who acted like typical “Mexicans” (the stereo-type gringos would have you believe in) who pissed me off to no end with their “Soy chingon’, Y, Que!” attitude, no amenities in the local hotel to make my stay more comfortable, and greedy yokels who watch as you spend money and then descend on you like vultures, and the damned humid weather this time of year, I can’t wait to fulfill my mission and get out of this fucking country!
As I think back to memories of Sinaloa, I remember my friend Billy Miles who used to grow pot up in a farm outside of Culiacan. He ostensibly used to go to college in Mazatlan to study oceanography, then studied botany and the culinary arts. Soon afterwards he smoked his first roach and found happiness amongst many mota burn-outs who carved out their piece of turf to grow more happiness in the virgin Sinaloa fields.
He often complained that he hated the weather, that it was like living in the belly of Beelzebub. Personally, I find it to be beautiful and wouldn’t mind setting up a hut of my own, laying back on the nearest hammock to idle the days away drinking Coronas and Cheladas, hearkening back to days of yore when some of my more roguish (or less puritanical and hypocritical) ancestors lurked about these coasts perpetually looking for trouble, finding ways to maintain a perpetual erection, and thus seek out bodily orifices in which to stick it, and giving Mexicans a bad name in the process.
A Wetback in Reverse Page 30