by Neil Peart
One of my main reasons for stopping in La Paz was to book passage on the ferry to Mazatlán, and once my “essentials” were safely recovered, I hustled over to the ferry office, only to learn that I could only book one day before, not two or three. Oh. However, I learned that I could book my cabin at the company’s office in Cabo San Lucas, so I decided to take care of it there.
On the way back to the hotel I passed the cathedral, and felt drawn inside. In the Catholic fashion, the interior was vast, ornate, and silent, filled with gilded, colorful statues of the Virgin, various saints, gory crucifixes, the Stations of the Cross around the walls, votive candles burning at the altars, and the afternoon light filtering through the tall stained-glass windows across a few bowing figures, mostly women. I chose an empty pew in the middle and sat down to enjoy a moment of stillness and peace. Not prayer, exactly, but perhaps “a step outside myself.”
In a Catholic church I often felt a connection to Selena, though not in a religious way, but because of a memory of her response to the church of Sacre-Coeur, in Paris. Near the end of Rush’s most recent tour of Europe, part of the Roll The Bones tour in 1993, Jackie, Selena, and Deb had met me in Paris for a few days. After one day off together, Selena drove with me and my driver, Peter (an old friend from my younger days in London), to Amsterdam for a show, then back to Paris, where we spent another few days walking the streets of that beautiful city. It was Selena’s first visit to Paris, and she was powerfully impressed.
One day, the four of us climbed the high stairs to the church of Sacre-Coeur, perched in white splendor atop the Butte de Montmartre. Like her parents, Selena would never “get” religion, but we all understood spirituality, and at age 15, Selena was suddenly and completely entranced by the devotional atmosphere inside that church, the nuns singing softly, the respectful hush, the incense and candles. Wanting to light one of the votive candles herself, she decided to light it for the only Catholic she could think of, her cousin Sean.
As we walked quietly through the church, and up around the dome to admire the view over all of Paris, Selena was wide-eyed and filled with the spirit of the place, the awesome scale, the stillness, the grandeur and the grace — exactly the effect churches were designed to have, but religion too often degraded. After that day, Selena had been forever impressed by the spell cast by that church, and now that she was gone, I discovered that visiting the Catholic churches in Mexico helped me to connect with her, as she was then, and to the good memories of that time in Paris.
The trip home from Paris had been memorable, too. Deb flew back to Toronto, while Peter drove Jackie, Selena, and me to Southampton in England, where we boarded the QE2 for a five-day voyage to New York City. Truth to tell, the girls were a little bored sometimes, but I had just loved that crossing — reading together in our cabin with its private deck and sliding glass door looking out on the open ocean, roaming the deserted decks on cold, foggy afternoons, playing deck games together, wonderful food and drink, and formal dress for dinner every night — that part Selena had loved, for she always loved to get dressed up. I was glad to have those memories, at least, but they still burned me. The tears came as I sat in a pew in a Mexican church and thought about all that had been. One step forward, one step back.
The next day I continued on to Cabo San Lucas, and over dinner that night in the open-air restaurant I noted my impressions of that fabled resort town.
Nov. 29 La Paz — Cabo San Lucas 95,779 (243 kilometres) [152 miles]
Well. About as expected. No, not as bad, so far. Can’t swim in ocean, because of riptide. Sound of surf from room is nice, though, and the air is noticeably warmer since crossing Tropic of Cancer today.
Solmar Suites hotel, swim-up bars (three pools), massive, manicured beach (empty), beautiful rocks and cliffs behind, real little poinsettias on bar tables, real fan-palm palapa (shelter), romantic Mexican pop music (sentimental, anyway), good margarita. Cactus wrens, English sparrows, American “yackers.”
Thinking how my opinion softened toward that loudly self-amused, fat American with brutish face and cigar. Three of them caught marlins today, he fought his for 45 minutes, and said (or shouted), “I’ll never forget today! I’ll never forget today!” Had to forgive boorishness for that boyish excitement. A little, anyway . . .
[Later] Dinner. Weird to be in resort atmosphere like this, alone.
And now — here come the mariachis! I put my 20 pesos in the big guitar and asked for “Guadalajara,” which was . . . perfunctory, I guess. Maybe I’m spoiled by Mariachi Cobre [an excellent “progressive mariachi” group whose CDs Brutus and I had bought in Mexico City]. Or Oaxaca [where we had first heard real mariachi music].
(Another half-baked theory, this one on the roots of the mariachi style: combination of flamenco, gypsy, folk, opera, Moorish. Name comes from French “mariage,” as they were hired for weddings during French occupation in 1800s.)
Been in Mexico one week now. Half in Loreto, I realize. That seems to be the place. If I had any brains, I wouldn’t tell anyone about it.
But I don’t, and I will.
[Later] Big ring around moon, three or four days from full. Rain coming? Big wave every 10 seconds, sometimes like distant explosion, booming sub-bass.
After lengthy struggle with phone (for reasons too stupid to go into, to quote Mark Riebling), finally got through to Steven, who seemed exasperated not to have heard from me, to know what I wanted to do; when I had thought it was understood, and had been waiting to hear from him, back in L.A. Oh well. Guess he’s got his problems too . . .
Jackie’s brother Steven was a semi-retired diving instructor and “old salt,” and he had also been hit very hard by the family tragedies and the waves they sent through the whole web of relationships, and by the sudden, shared shock that everyone around us felt — that such things can happen to us. Steven had been part of my life and one of my best friends (in every sense of the phrase) since my teenage years, when he and his brother Keith (now the majordomo of my Quebec home) had worked at the local record store, Sam the Record Man, in my hometown of St. Catharines, Ontario. The record store was the second-favorite hangout for a young musician, after the musical instrument store, Ostanek’s, where we would stand around among the guitars and drums for hours, talking and dreaming of our golden futures.
During our early 20s Keith, Steven, and I had lived together in a house in the country with another friend, Wayne, just before I started going out with Jackie. In fact, I ended up moving out of that house to move in with her, and I remember being nervous about telling them, afraid they would be upset about me “living in sin” with their little sister. But Steven had actually steered the two of us together in a way, sometimes asking me to give Jackie a ride home from the record store if I was hanging around at closing time, so I needn’t have worried; the two brothers were happy for us both.
Through the unimaginable twists and cuts of fate, everything had changed for all of us, and like me, Steven found it a heavy weight to bear. He was the kind of man who felt responsible for everyone in his family, all the time, and perhaps deep inside he felt these losses as a kind of “failure” — as if his loved ones had died “on his watch,” when it had been his job to keep them alive. I understood that feeling, because of course I shared it. Perhaps the first responsibility of a husband and father is to protect his wife and child, and deep inside myself I felt that I had failed at that, too. For anyone who knew and cared about Jackie and Selena, there were so many shades of darkness in those tragedies.
I have already described Steven’s leading role in that long-running nightmare, visiting us in London and helping us get situated, moving into the Toronto house and to Barbados with us, supervising Jackie’s treatments and care (he was also a trained paramedic), and playing “gatekeeper” when the number of concerned friends at our door became overwhelming.
His wife Shelly, an emergency room doctor, became another tireless and invaluable friend, lending her medical expertise and sharing th
e late-night watches during Jackie’s decline, and I hadn’t seen either of them since Barbados. They were planning a visit to Belize in December, and I had promised to meet them there, and was still intending to do so. I guess Steven had forgotten that when I say I’m going to do something, I generally do it, and had been waiting for some more formal plans to be made. He didn’t understand my loose travelling style, by which I had been gradually making my way toward one spurious goal after another — to Vancouver to visit Danny and Janette, to Las Vegas for the racing school, to Belize to meet up with Steven and Shelly. It all made sense to me somehow, but perhaps not to anyone else.
From Cabo San Lucas I made my way back to La Paz for the ferry crossing, then started working my way across the “mainland” of Mexico, a story taken up in a letter to Brutus written a few days later, with journal entries as I included them to him.
Dec. 5, ’98 Hotel Camino Real Oaxaca
¡Hola, Pollo Loco!
Once again, this is a place I don’t need to describe to you, but don’t go running away (ha ha); I’ve got some stories to tell about getting here.
When last we spoke, I was “lounging in Loreto” (for I’m hoping you received that letter — and this one, for that matter!), which I did for another day after that. It joins my select list of excellent small towns, along with St. Helena, California, and Moab, Utah. Maybe I’ll take you there sometime.
[Recap of ride from there to La Paz to Cabo San Lucas]
With everything I had read and heard about Cabo San Lucas, I was prepared to hate it, but it really wasn’t that bad. I stayed at a resort-type place out toward Land’s End (“Finisterre”), which was fairly empty (continuing my progress as “Mr. Out-of-Season”), and walked into town several times taking care of business, and even for dinner and a stroll around at night. And you know, despite the Hard Rock Café and Planet Hollywood, and even KFC and Domino’s and Burger King, it remains a Mexican town at heart, in so many subtle but unmistakable ways. That character is pretty hard to kill, and it ends up that the franchises look out of place, while the town survives despite all. If you’re looking for it, anyway.
From Cabo I followed the “loop” back to La Paz, with the blue Pacific on one side and miles of green cardón cactus (similar to saguaro) on the other, stopping in a charming little town called Todos Santos for breakfast, at the Hotel California (since 1928, and claimed by some to be the inspiration for the Eagles’ song), which would have been worth a stay, I think.
Maybe I’ll take you there sometime.
Back in La Paz nice and early, I stopped in at a small motorcycle shop recommended by the invaluable Mr. Salvadori, bought some good 20-50 oil, and performed an epic oil change right out front. “No problemo,” a big contrast to places like Yuma, or even Whitehorse, where I got turned down all over the place. Never understood why.
The helpful travel agent in Cabo, Eduardo, assured me that I needed to be at the ferry dock by noon (for a three o’clock sailing), and so I was: only to sit and swelter for three hours, and be the last one loaded on, along with three California dudes on incredibly loaded dirt bikes, carrying huge packs, surfboards, and even a guitar. They admitted they didn’t have much advantage over me, and had been having some trouble getting through sand. I guess so!
The ferry turned out to be one of the nicest I’ve ever been on. Though fairly old (built in 1974, and a veteran of the long-discontinued Cabo-Puerto Vallarta run), I had a nice cabin with two berths separated by a little settee and table, and there was a proper restaurant, like on the Naples-Tunis ferry. People were friendly, and music played everywhere: a live band in the bar, a “CD jukebox” in the open-air bar at the stern, and even when I wandered up by the bridge, I heard music playing from there. In the restaurant they were playing a Madonna anthology, and that got a bit weepy for me when things like “La Isla Bonita” came on, and reminded me of Selena and me driving in the Porsche from Lac Echo, with the top down and that song turned way up loud. Everything else I heard, however, was Mexican music, in Spanish, which again testifies to the strength of their excellent culture.
The moon was almost full, and the Sea of Cortez was calm, with enough of a tailwind behind us to make the air on deck seem still. Altogether it was a very enjoyable crossing, getting into Mazatlán about 8:00 the following morning.
Dec. 6, ’98 Cuernavaca
Okay, it’s a new scene now: I hope you’re keeping up with the program. We’re staying at the very excellent “Las Mañanitas” here, one of those Relais and Chateaux joints, I noticed by the front entrance when I arrived; after touring around for a while looking for it! Cuernavaca remains as difficult to navigate in daylight as it was when we arrived in the dark.
Apparently this place has been ranked among the best hotels in the world, and I can believe it, with lush lawns and gardens in a peaceful walled courtyard, decorated with peacocks, crowned cranes, flamingoes, and parrots, and an elegant suite with a private terrace. And yes, I chose it from the Lonely Planet guide. I can’t imagine how we ended up in that lowlife “posada” last time, unless you were going through the Rough Guide in what’s-her-name’s Volkswagen, on the way from the airport!
Anyway, we’re getting ahead of our story, aren’t we? Getting off the ferry in Mazatlán, around eight in the morning, I had been powerfully tempted to head straight for the old “Devil’s Backbone” up to Durango and the “silver cities,” but adding up days, subtracting Sundays (for “practical purposes,” i.e., Mexico City service and resupply), and planning toward meeting up with Steven in a week or so, way over in Belize, plus not wanting to repeat the same route exactly, I decided to head south for a bit. Now we join my journal entry from later that day:
Restaurant Cuiza on island in river, mid Puerto Vallarta, nice jazz playing. Feet and eyes worn out from sticker-hunting, of all things, but it keeps me off — er, on the streets.
In a tourist-o-rama town like this, you’d think it would be easy. But you’d be wrong. Must have looked in 25 or 30 stores (the tackier the better) all along the malecón, all through the old town, and found one cheesy little sticker in the far corner of the funky old-town, by Playa des Arcos. But it’s good to have a quest, however cheap and meaningless. Or maybe especially so.
Nice hotel, though a bit messed up with pre-season renovations; that’s what I get for being “Mr. Out-of-Season” again. Restaurant pleasant too, right beside river, lights in trees, candles on tables, good music. Shame to be alone. (No tears tonight please.)
Such lush greenery today. Was trying to remember when I last rode in the shade. Truly can’t remember. Tunnels of trees and palms hung with ivy, tall grasses, cliffs and mountains, some great twisty bits, winding up and down through trees.
This place, hotel just across river, and back streets of town (cool church, e.g.) proof that there’s always a real town behind the schlock. Maybe even in Acapulco. Though probably not in “Canned Coon” and “Cozusmell.”
Good meal too, blue corn and crab chowder, “three ravioli” combo with crab, shrimp, and fish in cream sauce. Now cheesecake with fruit, and coffee.
Strange feeling riding away from Mazatlán. Felt less remote, somehow; maybe because at least partly “familiar.” Though didn’t really recognize anything, possibly because when Brutus and I went up that way, from Manzanillo, we were pretty tense: after the big crash and all. [As mentioned, in our first trip through central Mexico, Brutus had gone off the road in this area, cracked a couple of ribs, and messed up his bike pretty badly.] Yet I had a stronger sense of “foreign.” Maybe because it’s not desert! Tropical green, all around, until sight of the bay (thick haze all day too), which is thought to be an old crater.
So much passing today, constant trucks and buses, especially before Tepic, turnoff to Guadalajara and Mexico City. Diesel cheese!
Jovial Mexican on street says to me, “Señor! Where is your wife?” Ach.
Dec. 3 Puerto Vallarta — Zihuatanejo 97,200 (752 kilometres) [470 miles]
Handful to spell
, this town, but not to sing! [“Zee-what-an-ayho!”] Passed by here with Brutus on way to breakfast stop in Ixtapa, before his mighty crash. Experienced that whole day today, but in reverse.
Passed 40,000 kilometres [25,000 miles] today, during this long, long ride. Very tough, with either lots of trucks and buses, or relatively empty and ceaselessly narrow and winding along coast. No Pemex [gas station] for long way; we must have been lucky, for I had to use extra can at about 340 kilometres [213 miles], after filling up near Manzanillo. Had thought of aiming for Acapulco, but this was plenty far enough. In about 4:30, after nine long hours; and with no breakfast. My first sort-of plan for today was to stop at Las Hadas for two or three days, but started looking at map and adding up days, and decided to “do” Oaxaca now, and maybe get to Palenque or something after Mexico City.
Different “wave sound” here, more “white noise” and constant. Got up last night to see big waves coming in, like a storm. This morning passed “John Huston’s Restaurant,” Playa La Blanca, I think it is, with original sets from Night of the Iguana. Like Las Hadas, next time. So beautifully green and lush around there, with palm-furred mountainsides, and the same all the way. Occasionally bits slightly drier, more scrubby, but always green.
Too late and too far away (and too tired) to check out this town for “realness,” but last night’s live music at the waterfront amphitheatre was almost all locals. Seems to be generally true that if there was a town, there is a town. Just have to look for it. Mexican culture is strong: “You cain’t stop it.” And glad I am.
Well, hadn’t meant to give you such a long extract there, but it all seemed to be stuff that might interest you. Sorry about all the talk of nice meals and that; probably a bit of a torment compared to the fare you’re receiving at that Relais and Chateaux joint!