August 11, 2024, México. I awoke and packed, heading to Mazatlán. It was already a scorcher at 8:30am. I hoped to arrive early enough to walk around the old town. I’d been warned not to drive through Ciudad Juarez and heeded the warning, taking a significant detour around the city known to be a narco hot spot. Nevertheless, I was stopped several times that day by men wearing black bandanas over their faces. Twice I was told to pull over for inspections. Later I learned from locals that unsavory characters sometimes drop a bag of drugs during an inspection only to point them out and charge the innocent bystander an arm and a leg. In Sayulita I met a Mexican man who was repeatedly beaten and imprisoned in the 1990s during such stop and frisks. Apparently the government condoned such violence.

The second time I was stopped, I felt fear and anger arise as I pulled over to await being searched. With mounting dread, I imagined what they might take or plant during their search. With California plates, I was a gringo target. I turned around and noticed that the inspector wasn’t looking. Feeling desperate, I slowly inched out of the shoulder and back onto the highway. I accelerated slowly not to call attention to myself and tried not to look back, though I saw two white trucks following me that looked exactly like a federali government vehicle. Imagine my relief when they finally passed. I was home free, at least for the moment.

Thankfully that was the last inspection point I encountered on my travels, though I wouldn’t know it until I crossed the border. Fear is a strange thing. The feeling of anticipatory dread about encountering more of these caused me to seriously rethink my trip. I considered driving back from Puebla via Mazatlán and taking the ferry to Baja in hopes of avoiding being inspected on the route back to Nogales. You never know where these will pop up. I continued to see white government trucks full of soldiers holding machine guns throughout the trip, usually driving to a new inspection point. As a friend pointed out later, they can feel your fear. You have to be okay with any eventuality. And get used to the idea that life is cheap. Entitled white Americans aren’t used to such treatment.

Needless to say I was greatly relieved to arrive at my Airbnb in Mazatlán. Parking inside the house’s locked gate was close to impossible. The driveway was steep and the spot just big enough for my car. The gate practically touched my tailgate. If I gunned it too much I’d end up driving into the house. I’d been warned by various people in the know that off street parking was a must. Apparently, parts of your car may go missing by morning if you leave it on the street. I didn’t want to take that chance and did my best to find places that would allow me to park behind a locked gate.

I unloaded the car and drove to the historic district. I’d hoped to walk there but it was 5 miles through an industrial part of town. I’d become an expert in parking in tight spots while driving through Europe, so I managed to find a postage stamp sized spot near the old town. I decided to walk out to the lighthouse point and walk up the many steps to enjoy a view of the port and harbor. A ferry bound for Baja made its way out of the harbor as I watched, and many families were together, walking and joking around as they went. It was a Sunday afternoon, very much a family day in a country that values filial connection.

After a brisk walk up to the overlook, I walked the circuitous path back to my car, and drove a few miles to the historic center. Miraculously, I found parking nearby, and proceeded through the beautiful neighborhood, admiring the architecture, until I got to the main square, Plazuela Machado. I could tell it was steeped in history just by looking at the buildings.

Vendors were selling their wares. I bought a small textile coin purse with Mazatlan emblazoned on the front. A man selling Huichol beaded work had a table, and I admired the beauty of the pieces. A few years earlier, I had purchased a Huichol created jaguar head with traditional peyote button design on its crown, but was sorely tempted to buy another. A man encouraged me, saying that without tourists buying their art, these people would suffer. I felt torn and guilty, as $100 was a lot for me. I ended up buying it the next day.

I wandered through the streets till dark, then sought food. I’d happened on delicious street fare when I saw a line snaking around the block. I inquired, and porteños told me that this was a special treat, some of the best food in Mazatlan, fresh and homemade. I had lucked out. They were only here on weekends between 6 and 8pm. I decided to give it a try. As I sat down at one of the communal tables, I heard a man wish someone buen provecho, literally good enjoyment (appetite). As I watched the other guests, I learned that the proper time to wish someone this was when you leave, and others are still eating.

I stayed till 9:30 or so, then headed back to my flat, where I barely got my car in the gate without crushing the house or my car. I ended up asking the host to park my car the next evening. It was harrowing, especially since the driveway was not only tiny but uphill.

August 12. I decided to stay another day in Mazatlán. The Centro historico was lovely, and I enjoyed wandering its quaint streets. I made my way back to Plazuela Machado and spent the quiet Monday wandering the neighborhood. It was nice to have a day of rest, especially after all the anxiety.