Gringo Vagabonds in Mexico

I met these fresh faced young American vagabonds in a restaurant near the marina.  We spent several hours chatting and three of them eagerly accepted my invitation to visit Liberty, where we spent a couple of pleasant hours on the foredeck as I listened to their incredibly adventurous tales of vagabonding in various countries.

From the left - Ian, Sarah, Dingy and Liz

I had seen Ian and Sarah performing on the street earlier in the day - he on the violin and she the accordion.  Ian and Dingy also juggle.  It's called "busking" and they call themselves "buskers" - a common term for street performers that I was not aware of until now.

Ian and Sarah are riding bicycles laden with camping gear and related that in Mexico they are seldom hassled as they camp along the roads.  Here in Mazatlan they were allowed to camp below the lighthouse because it is public property.  The police did fine Ian 400 pesos when they caught him relieving his bladder the following morning.  Liz speaks fluent Spanish (having hitchhiked Mexico alone when she was just 17.  She's now a very old 22), and pointed out the in-congruency of permitting camping and not permitting the campers to pee. The cop's response was "You shouldn't have let us see you doing it."  Arrest was avoided and the police no doubt pocketed the 400 pesos but the vagabonds shrugged it off as part of the cost of living as they do.

Dingy and Liz got to Mazatlan by riding Mexican freight trains.  I asked them about the risks and they said the authorities knew they were riding the trains and often times pointed out which cars they should and should not climb aboard.  They also said the northbound trains are the dangerous ones because they carry hundreds of Mexicans bound for the U.S. and the bad guys know their pockets often contain their life's savings.

They told the tale of bribing Federales armed with submachine guns in order to be permitted to ride the same train they were protecting.  The Federales relented with the understanding that they were not there to protect the vagabonds but rather the expensive crane that was on one of the flatcars.  There had been a band of train robbers who were stopping the train on this particular route and stripping the new cars of parts to be sold on the black market.  

I asked Liz about the dangers of hitchhiking alone when she was younger and she said it was quite the contrary.  That in Mexico, with so many good Catholic men, she rarely had to wait for a ride and once she had to beg a truck driver not to take her home.  He had done a u-turn in the highway and told her he had a girl her age and she should be home with her parents.  She said he had tears in his eyes, but she convinced him to continue in the direction she wanted to go.

Some would condemn these kids for the seemingly dangerous lives they live, but there is an element of faith and trust in the Universe that I admire.  More and more I see danger as impossible to qualify.  

The Titanik

This party boat passes by several times a day and I always smile and imagine the captain's name is Jesus.  Mexico is a country that seems to ignore the fate of its namesakes.

Check out my video

I made a video of my sail from San Diego to Mazatlan. You can check it out here 1000 Miles to Mazatlan

Pouring the roof

Since I arrived in Mazatlan two months ago I have been watching the construction of a two story house as it is made "by hand". Yesterday as I passed they were pouring the roof. To pour the entire roof continuously until completed - which would make the roof stronger as one whole slab - required a lot of cement, more men were called in to help and a concrete mixer replaced the usual hand mixing with a shovel.

Pouring the roof.

There were about ten men climbing narrow boards to the rooftop, shouldering five gallon buckets full of wet cement, in a sort of "bucket brigade". As you may know I am, and always have been, interested in the way anything is made. I'm particularly curious about the Mexican methods of construction and currently in the process of adding a room to Paco's house. I wanted a look at the roof to see how it had been reinforced in preparation for the cement.

I asked the "jefe" if I could take a look. He shrugged as if to say "It's your life... go ahead." As I began to climb the narrow boards supported by a variety of posts and boards precariously attached in an obviously temporary construction I felt like I was on a high wire in the circus. I couldn't imagine doing it with a bucket of cement on my shoulder.

A dozen workers had all stopped what they were doing to watch the crazy gringo. It was obvious they were delighted, and were yelling unintelligable words of encouragement as I slowly picked my way up the boards which seemed to get narrower the higher I went.

Once I reached the top there were rough hands shaking mine and congratulatory pats on the shoulder. I looked around and made mental notes of the wire, rebar and blocks of foam insulation which is molded into the roof providing insulation as well as making a grid of reinforcement to support the roof.

When it was time to descend the board my built in warning buzzer went off in my brain - the one that has preserved me all these years when I've been about to do something that would likely result in serious injury or death. Much to the delight of my newfound Mexican friends I sat down and inched my way down the boards on my butt.

There is a beer "Deposito" within a block of the house. I went there and returned with a cold beer for everyone. The friendships were now setting like the wet cement, catalyzed by cold cerveza.

This morning when I walked by the construction site all hands were waving hello.

Posing with a cold Modelo

The room addition

Pacito's little house only has one bedroom and so we're adding another for his two daughters to share. The materials are simple - cement, sand, gravel, steel reinforcing bars and concrete blocks. Mexicans build their homes almost entirely of brick and with concrete "castillos" to support the walls, ceilings and roofs, which are also made of concrete.

I've had a lot of experience over the years in U.S. style construction and now I'm getting some first hand knowledge of the Mexican way. I did insist on a few concessions - like new lumber for the forms... with straight edges.

Paco's dad and me.

Mixing cement in the street is not only permitted it is customary. Where else?

Mexicans usually poor the floor last, after the walls and roof. We do it first in the states. We'll see if that works in Mexico.

Time to refuel.

A Mexican Graveyard

Last weekend I was invited to go with Paco and his dad (Paco Senior) the small village of Coyotitan an hour north of Mazatlan to place candles at the grave of Senior's parents on the anniversary of his mother's death. Coyotitan is the "Rancho" where Paco and his eleven brothers and sisters were reared.


As an adopted member of the family I am invited into the lives of my Mexican friend's to experience their culture in ways I never could as a tourist or resident. This visit was a prime example.

Mexican graveyards are, if nothing else, interesting. Above many of the graves the families of the departed erect small chapels or shrines in which they place photos of the deceased and religious icons, flowers and on occasion lit candles. The cemetery at Coyotitan was also occupied by a small herd of Mexican cattle grazing on what little green vegetation was there - which wasn't much. No one seemed to consider it a sacrilege, or was bothered that the owner of the cattle was enjoying some free range.


Paco told me a funny story on the way back to Mazatlan. A few years ago one of Senior's aunts died while visiting Mazatlan and it would cost the family a large amount of money to have her body transported back to Coytitan. Paco volunteered, placing his aunt's body in the passenger's seat of his pickup wearing a pair of sunglasses to hide the death in her eyes. She drew a curious look from the attendant when he stopped for gas (they still fill your tank for you in Mexico) but Paco explained that she was simply sleeping... soundly I'd say.