Travels
from March 2 to March 5:
Ahoy,
OK. What is round, the size of one of the holes
punched in the edge of a piece of paper in a 3-ring binder, colorful, and has
been found everyday in March in almost anyplace aboard Nanjo? To help, "anyplace" translates to
deck (below decks or topside), bunk, hats, pockets, wallets, clothes, backpacks
or John and Nancy's hair.
Answer:
Carnaval 2000 confetti!
The
town of Mazatlan knows how to party.
The week before Lent, before beginning the 40 days of abstinence, the
townspeople cut loose and enjoy the night, a week of them. Carnaval in Mazatlan is reported to be the
third largest in the world. Nanjo
remained anchored in the harbor, since this put us within walking distance to
Party Central - the street of Olas Altas in Old Town. This beachfront boulevard is blocked off for a week, tickets are
sold to grant access and security is much in evidence. Each night the crowds build, starting at
8pm, becoming substantial by 10pm and at full force at midnight.
Stages
for bands were placed about every 2 or 3 blocks. When the bands aren't on stage, the sound systems buffet the
passersby with relentless, bone-rattling waves of Mexican rock music. [Mexicans
love their sound systems: High quality sound, high dB, deep bass, each striving
to dominate the soundscape, competing with the neighboring system.] Between the stages, countless food stands
serve their fare to the crowd. Besides
the usual Mexican street-vendor selections, we found hot dog stands to be popular
and numerous. There was even a stand
actually baking special breads in ovens placed right in the street. Another made potato chips, beginning with a
whole potato; coating a bag full with hot sauces and lime juice. Rather than list everything, let's just
leave it at - you could find just about anything you wanted. Cap'n John sampled many.
We
selected the night of the "naval bombardment" (fireworks) to
experience the Olas Altas party. Our
group was composed of six people, La Paloma and Saucy Lady accompanied
Nanjo. However, we bumped into other
boaters from the anchorage and the marinas.
The fireworks were scheduled for 10pm.
We arrived around 8pm, after having a comida dinner in one of the many
restaurants, above the Centro Mercado in Mazatlan. [This was an experience all in itself, sitting on a balcony above
a major city street with the night crowds and hustle-bustle right below us -
all the noises, smells and sights.] Our
group walked the approximate two miles of the Street Party. Past cliff divers plunging from rocks into
the treacherous night waters, past huge reflecting pools with sculptures of a
naked man and woman standing in a conch shell while a herd of dolphins were
frozen as if frolicking in and out of the water, we walked with hundreds of
people. The night hadn't even begun and
several partygoers had already exceeded their limits.
At
2200, our group had positioned themselves as close to the shorefront stone wall
as we could, about 6 people back. Think
about it, a mile of shorefront with six or more people deep, jammed elbow to
elbow, belly button to belly button, an even larger quantity of people still in
the street. The crowd had to wait only
briefly.
The
"battle" was composed of two pyrotechnic launch sites on the beach. One was just to our right the other was ¼
mile down the beach to our left. First
one would blast a display, answered by a similar display from the other. Soon both were launching simultaneously,
shooting glorious displays like repeat Fourth-of-July "finales". In the middle of the presentation, a
20-floor office building became the "casualty" of the battle: A
fireworks "waterfall" falling from the edge of the roof illuminated
the sides of the building. Rockets and
low-level pyrotechnics erupted from the roof as well. As the "waterfall" was dying out, I looked over at a
big-screen, erected behind the street.
The TV picture showed the building we were all watching. Then the picture switched, showing a crowded
street somewhere. The crowd reminded me
of Times Square in New York at New Years Eve.
As I watched the camera pan, I recognized a landmark and realized the
picture was of Olas Altas: We were experiencing a World-Class party.
After
the building completed its part in the fireworks display, the battle was
renewed, ending in a finale that was The Mother of All Finales for us. Mind you this whole thing was right over our
heads, shrapnel falling on our shoulders, burning embers drifting onto the
street and buildings behind Olas Altas.
We were going to need a serious visit with our favorite chiropractor,
Dr. Salt in Chula Vista, to get our necks and shoulders straight again. But then we didn't know we were about to get
a most unexpected "group adjustment".
Once
the 30-minute bombardment ended, our group reassembled in the street. But then so did about 100,000 people! Our destination was ¼ mile back through the
center of the throng. Before we had
taken more than a few steps we recognized we had to compete for every square
inch of ground we entered. It became
obvious that the successful technique was to form a human chain, a conga
line. Nancy and the rest of our group
formed up behind me and we began to move.
The entire crowd was not going in our direction but many were. My backpack was soon pulled off one arm in
the melee and I pulled it the rest of the way off, placing it in front of my
chest as I rammed forward. Nancy had
the cushions she had been carrying, pulled off her arm and she only held them
in her free hand, the other holding tightly to the waistband of my pants. If the cushions had been pulled out of her
hands, she would have had to leave them behind. The crowd had become a mob.
We controlled our movement less, rather concentrating on staying on our
feet, for fear of being trampled. That
was the rest of our groups' thoughts - I was concentrating on finding another
line I could follow, avoiding an oncoming line looking for competition,
watching for an opening. Actually it
was worse at the edge where there was only pressure from one side, so I kept
our group in the mob.
Within
two blocks of our destination, we hit a "wall". The oncoming crowd was successfully
defending a rugby-scrum. But the mob
going in our direction would not be denied: They pushed forward with renewed
vigor. The six of us were in the
middle, being compressed. Then we began
to be pushed back. I looked right to
find an escape. They were being pushed
back too! Ah, but not quite as
badly. I veered right and added our
weight to their thrust and we broke through.
This phase of our trek took far more time than it has taken for you to
read about it. It was the most
dangerous point in the mob and the last effort before we were in the clear.
The mob
was mainly fun loving young people, upper teens to 20-somethings. Yet every once in a while, a Mexican granny
could be seen pushing forward with determination. She probably came out each year for her adrenaline rush. Our group stopped at the edge of the crowd
to let our adrenaline dissipate and to check all of our parts. The tops of our shoes had been used as much
as the bottoms. The shoelaces were
trailing, our shirts were hanging out and the excitement had our voices
elevated. The consensus was we wouldn't
trade the experience for anything, but then we probably wouldn't do it again
either. We felt lucky we got through
without an injury or worse.
It was
almost midnight when we passed back out the "gates". The crowd outside, coming in, was still
huge. The party was growing, not
winding down.
Once
back on Nanjo, we saw the searchlights' beams darting over Olas Altas. The throb of the bands and sound systems was
only slightly muffled by the hill between us.
All the food I had eaten was apparently used during the push back
through the festive crowd - my b/s count was ideal. As we undressed, Nanjo received its first cloud of confetti that
night.
The
second confetti dusting occurred the next night, after the first Carnaval 2000
parade.
We
double-dated with La Paloma, catching a bus down to the beach road between town
and the Hotel Zone. About 3 miles of
4-lane boulevard was blocked off, the parade route bordered by ropes. The crowds here were families, tens of
thousands of people. Pushing was still
the sport, only now it was from the back.
Soon the pushing became mothers and children forcing their way in front
of those already in position. Soon
Nancy and I realized we had to stand our ground if we didn't want to be pushed
any further away from the parade route.
Franny and C.E., from La Paloma soon became claustrophobic in the press
and escaped to the rear.
However,
before the crowd became aggressive, I retreated to a curb alongside a building
to take my glucometer reading. No
sooner had I planted my fanny and reached into my backpack, a security guard
confronted me and indicated I was not allowed to stray away from the crowd, his
backup waiting to provide assistance if need be. I spontaneously refused to move, informing him I was diabetic,
continuing to remove the meter. The
young guard was stymied and watched as I set up the meter and loaded a
strip. His backup came to his side as I
drew a drop of blood and informed them I needed to know the amount of sugar my
blood had. They began to relax and were
intrigued with the process. As I dropped
the blood on the target and the evaluation began, the meter started counting
down from 45. I wondered if they were
ever concerned that it was a timer for explosives - they didn't say anything
and I didn't try to pick the meter up (figuring that they would not expect me
to sit right beside a bomb about to explode, and I wasn't going to give them a
concern about me throwing it). The
result displayed on the meter's face after the counter went to zero. [No explosion!] They both walked back to the crowd and smiled at me when I
returned to the parade route. I was
very impressed with the security at the perimeter.
Mexican
Navy sailors and officers patrolled the parade. Each carried a long length of PVC pipe. I didn't see any of them get rough with the occasional individual
who darted under the ropes, so they were probably there as a deterrent and as
crowd control, if things got out of hand.
The
parade was composed of huge floats constructed in wood and painted. Their themes varied between history and
contemporary: Mayan splendor and the fantasy of Batman, etc. Ahead of each float a group of 15 to 20
teenage dancers, dressed in costumes in the float's theme, would cavort and
undulate in rhythm with music from a sound system. Some had occasional routines, but all would end up at the ropes,
mirroring the dancing in the crowd.
Many times they would draw a particularly active observer into the
street to join their dancing. People
had a great time.
The
beautiful girls and handsome guys on the floats tossed candy, pens, lighters
and streamers into the crowd. I grabbed
my share of bootie out of the air. The
crowd threw clouds of confetti back toward the floats, covering us, as well as
most of the people close to the ropes.
From 5:30 to 8, the floats would move and pause, trinkets would fly out
and confetti fly back. Famous Mexicans
rode on many floats - probably politicians, actors and actresses, singers and
other popular icons. A roving TV
reporter and his cameraman stopped near us while the reporter interviewed a
particularly active young woman just in front of us. We were part of the background throng, Bo and Clint. Again, we wouldn't have missed it. We didn't go the second parade a few days
later, though.
At the
end, the family-crowd dispelled almost instantly. We headed for a spot to have a drink and something to eat. Nancy and La Paloma decided on Pollo Loco, I
went in search of another hot dog.
Earlier I had bought a few pieces of pizza and a roasted ear of corn for
my 5pm-meal. We sat outside Pollo Loco
and dumped the confetti off our hats, drifts of the stuff. The Park household in Chicago could have
used their snow shovels and winter skills to clear the mounds of the stuff. We watched the children in their Carnaval
hats, faces made up or hiding behind masks, playing kids' games and shrieking
in their excitement and leftover energy - still throwing confetti.
There
weren't many Gringos around and we liked that.
Crew of
Nanjo