Jeff,

Another much appreciated stoy. Espescially for those of us stuck on the
graveyard shift.

On 4/7/07, Jeffrey Olson <jjolson@gwtc.net> wrote:
>
> This is for all of you working the graveyard shift...
>
> On the way south on our search for the perfect Mexico experience we
> stopped in Mazatlan to get a starter.  We'd been push starting the bus
> for 900 miles, and it was getting old for the pushers.  I was the driver.
>
> Mazatlan in 1974 was just beginning to expand south.  There were a
> couple big hotels, but only a couple.  South of the hotels was wide open
> beaches and dirt roads to reach the beaches.  Rolling Stone magazine had
> had a big article on travelling in Mexico not to long before we left,
> and they'd spent a goodly amount of time talking of other young
> American's experiences with outlaws who would plant pot in the
> American's car and then threaten to arrest them.  Apparently they did an
> excellent job really scaring people because they always got the money.
>
> AFter we replaced the starter we headed south to find a remote beach on
> which to drive the bus and camp.  I don't know if others have found
> this, but the 66 VW camper does really well in sand, even soft sand.  We
> never got stuck, although we had to use the pushers a couple times to
> get us going.  We did try and avoid really soft sand because we knew we
> had to let air out of the tires and didn't want to use the bicycle pump
> to pump them up.  Now there's a job - it takes forever to pump up a tire.
>
> Prior to crossing the border we'd taken a road off the highway to find a
> place to stash our stash.  We decided that there would be nothing less
> obvious than burying it next to a fence post.  We did this, and wrote
> how to find the specific fence post in the middle of nowhere on the
> piece of plywood separating the passenger front seat from the ice box
> behind the passenger seat.  Those directions were legible for 12 more
> years - up to the day I sold the bus, front seats down to springs,
> bedframe busted, little dents and creases on every body panel, engine
> blown.  $75...
>
> We drove around on dirt roads for a while, trying to find one that took
> us to hardpan on the beach.  We wound our way through brush six feet
> high and finally found a little peninsula that led down to harder sand.
> We angled the bus just so - sun blocked if you sat inside, or next to
> the side doors under the homemade awning.  We settled down to an
> afternoon of playing in the whitewash of the surf - the beaches there
> are way too steep to do any swimming - this was the case of most of west
> coast mexico actually, reading and drinking beer.
>
> About an hour after we had settled in we heard the groaning of an engine
> surging and receding, getting closer.  This made us a bit nervous.  We
> were at least 200 yards or more from the highway, with nothing but scrub
> brush between us and it.  We'd talked about what we would do if the
> scenario described in Rolling Stone happened to us.
>
> A big 50s Buick or Cadillac pulled up, bouncing on shockless springs,
> its pain almost totally gone - the car was rust red with streaks of aged
> paint.  There were three men in the car.  The driver turned off the
> engine and they just sat there, 15' from us.  We waved at them, and
> walked the line between paying attention to what they were doing and
> cleaning up the bus.  We'd already realized that four people crammed
> into the bus required patience and grace with each other.  But more
> importantly, the bus had to be neat.  Everything had its place.  I think
> this is what helped us through the next 20 minutes.
>
> After a couple minutes of watching us attend to the bus all three doors
> opened at the same time.  The driver was well-dressed in jeans, western
> shirt, boots, straw wide-brimmed hat.  He was wiry and wily.  The man
> that got out of the back seat was rotund, wearing one of those short
> sleeved, shapeless and faded shirts that half the men in Mexico wore.
> He had a big grin on his face as he slammed his door and flanked his
> compatriot.  The guy that got out of the passenger seat was your tall,
> big silent type.  He was an Indio, high cheekbones, pitted skin, long,
> greasy hair under his cowboy hat.  His eyes were dead.  He also had a
> giant pistol in a western style holster and belt.  I'd never seen such a
> huge gun.  This guy was really creepy.  He just stood there, looking at
> us.
>
> Sharon was your typical california girl, white blond hair, sunny, fairly
> surface disposition, and a well-toned and tanned body she had no qualms
> about displaying in her pink bikini.  She greeted the two men after
> nervously glancing at, and then ignoring, the big Indio.  She didn't
> know much Spanish, but did know enough to ask, "quieres ayuda?"
>
> That means, "Do you want help?"  The two guys laughed and the Indio just
> looked at her.  They spoke English and said no, they didn't need help.
> The driver said they were policia and that they were making sure people
> along the beach were ok.  We started acting friendly and joking with
> them.  We thanked them for looking out for tourists, for checking up on
> us.  The joking went back and forth for a while and we asked questions
> about good places to eat in Mazatlan, just trying to keep them talking.
> For some reason this seemed like a good strategy, even though we hadn't
> really talked about what we would actually do if we were going to be
> robbed.
>
> After a couple minutes the driver wandered over to the open side doors
> and started making comments about the bus, the shelves in one door, the
> fold-up table on the other, the awning hooks, the ice box and on and on.
>
> Rob had stayed in the bus and was sitting on the seat right behind the
> driver's seat.  His feet were in the aisle and one arm was on the
> laquered replacement table I'd put in for the trip.  His big, hairy face
> leaned out into the space at the end of the table.  When the guy had
> moved toward the bus Kim had sat down on the floor, his feet on the
> ground.  He'd turn around when the guy asked a question, but essentially
> blocked any access to the interior of the bus.  The passenger door was
> closed, thank god.
>
> I kind of jittered around, addressing the backseat guy who stood a bit
> back, his face getting increasingly less cheerful, while speaking in
> Spanish to the guy looking at the westy details.  Rob swears that the
> driver who was poking around had a film cannister in his left hand.
> He'd gesture with his right hand, and rest his other hand.  We watched
> him like a hawk.  Sharon had put on a shirt - she was feeling a bit
> uncomfortable with their repeated, unhidden up and down lascivious
> perusal of her body.
>
> There was lots of movement, but apparently, we had our space
> well-covered enough that the driver couldn't plant the cannister.  He
> backed up in frustration and asked us directly if we were carrying mota
> - marijuana.  We went into our song and dance that that would be stupid,
> that we were in Mexico to vacation and spend money.  Both his face and
> the rotund guy's faces were now grim.  The Indio put his hand on the
> butt of his pistol.  The driver warned us to be careful, that there were
> lots of bad people who would try to sell us mota, and that the laws were
> very strict and harsh.  We thanked him for his information, maintaining
> face and bravado, acting as if there weren't a whole lot of levels going
> on.
>
> The driver made disgusted grunting noise and inclined his head toward
> the car.  They did their macho swagger to the car, got in, barely got it
> started, raced the engine, and backed up and away.
>
> We just stood there looking at each other, and then started talking all
> at once.  I kind of did a leaping walk-dance, saying, "it was them, the
> guys in Rolling STone.  Yes!!!"  We war storied and said what we saw.
> Rob's noticing the film cannister got the rest of us big eyed, and we
> went off to what would have happened if they'd been able to plant it.
>
> We decided we'd had enough of the beach and loaded up the bus and drove
> back into Mazatlan where we got a nice bug infested couple of beds in a
> 50 peso a night motel.  We had to completely unload the bus because it
> was easy to break into.  This was one of the reasons we really didn't
> like staying in towns - we were carrying a lot of stuff...
>
> The next day we got up and gladly left Mazatlan, heading south on our
> quest for the untrammeled, unspoiled tropics and a decent beach for
> surfing...
>
> Jeff Olson
> Martin, SD
>

--
Thanks,

Jeff
90' Carat (It's Blue, It's Beautiful, It's naked inside - IT'S ALIVE!)
86' (We call this one Parts)
85' GL (Sidelined and feeling neglected)