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March 18, 2005

To Live and Die in Paradise

A nurse friend from Ventura, signed up for the ER at a hospital in Oxnard back in the 80's. After a few months she was becoming very depressed. All the gunshot wounds, the stabbing deaths and the young crime victims wasn't what she expected.

It was hard enough to keep a positive attitude about survival in a place where rents were going sky high and the difference between those who have and have not was racing out of control. Add in the manifestations attributed to the frustration of poverty and the declining standard of living for those outside the big bucks, my friend left the Ventura area in deep despair. I'm sure there were more reasons, but those seemed to be the last few straws that broke the camel's back.

Mexicans, here in the state of Sinaloa, the drug capital of Mexico, endure the highest murder rate per capita in the whole country. Are they depressed or worried?

The Weapon of Choice in the Narcotraficante World: The AK-47

The government is concerned but everyone here knows that it's all about the movement of narcotics. If you partake in that dangerous game, you take the risk. The war on drugs, a 40-year old U.S. government failure, that costs more than all the drugs being sold, appears to be one of the reasons Sinaloa has such a high murder rate.
I know this idea may cause some people to question my reasoning but forget it. If you want to talk politics go look up your local representative.

The cartels fight each other and the police, brandishing the weapon of choice, the deadly AK-47. With drive-by shootings from inside armor plated SUV's, they fight for power and access to the never-ending ludicrous flow of money from the U.S. drug consumer. There are even folk songs, called NarcoCorridos, that glorify the life of the drug kingpins as if they were modern day "Robin Hoods." In some cases, the narco traficantes are providing money for public projects that are unavailable anywhere else.

Many U.S. politicians blame the Mexicans for the U.S. narcotic problem. I guess the NarcoCorridos songs just show us how Mexico refuses to take blame for what they believe is really a US consumer problem. Check out this link to NarcoCorridos.

Friends and family are always asking me about the fear of crime in Mexico. We do have a fair amount of petty theft, but that's about it. We also have our share of bank robberies, etc., but all in all, it feels about the same as Ventura. You just have to use common sense to hang on to what you have.

Back in the late 60's when I was living on Waterfront Street, across from Tom Morey's surfshop in Ventura, I left my surfboard strapped to the top of my car. We were heading out for some waves the next morning at daybreak. Well, we woke up to find our boards stolen. Being a naive young beach bum with about enough money for "Spaghetti a la Del Monte Catsup," my spirit was broken.

I was practically penniless, the waves were good and my board was gone forever. I would have to go back to work if I wanted to surf again. ... I felt screwed, royally. It definitely struck a huge blow to my proud, noble leisure ethic.

That night, all we could do was buy a couple of cases of Coors beer, scrape a few mussels off the pier and drown our sorrows. Although I dined like a king on "Moules Cuites a la Vapeu," tomorrow was looking bleak. The next day, in the afternoon, I sat on the porch and played "Tom Dooley" while Claudia stared out at the pier. The last six-pack of Coors stood faithfully by my side.

Claudia and I, a six pack of Coors and "Tom Dooley"

For the most part, guns are illegal in Mexico but still, criminals or jealous husbands find them and commit the cardinal sin. The drug cartels carry the biggest load of murders while family disputes, drunken miscalculations and the other reasons to kill or be killed, seem to fall into the average homocide category.

Tourists bite the dust every year in Mazatlan like the one last spring when a youthful spring-breaker got a little tipsy and fell six stories onto the concrete below. But then when it gets down to the nitty gritty, I feel safer in Mexico than in the U.S. In fact, in Mazatlan you can still use your car horn to warn someone of their erratic driving skills or to acknowledge a woman who could have been in the "Baby Got Back" (Sir Mix-a Lot) video, and, without the fear of someone going off on that road rage crap, pulling out a 9mm and blowing your ass away.

Posted by Steve Immel at 01:10 AM

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March 07, 2005

The Beginning; At Least a Decade After the Beat Scene

In the mid sixties, I lived, for a short time, at the end of Palm Street in Ventura. It was an elegant Victorian home, right on the ocean, that had been split up into four apartments. As the government's Urban Renewal program allocated money to Ventura's run down neighborhoods, in one of them, from the foot of California street to the foot of Palm street, rents went down. Little by little, the houses in this area were sold and demolished. I know it's hard to imagine this part of town as being low end but that's how it was.

Steve and Curly, early residents at the elegant Victorian house.

That old Victorian home was a surfers dream. We woke up to the sound of waves at Surfers Point. It was paradise; one couldn't have asked for more. Also, residing at this counter culture enclave, were a few obscure writers, poets and musicians. Many nights, until the wee hours, were spent reading and discussing poetry or listening to Dylan's "The Masters of War" and "The Times They are a Changin". The Honda 250 Scrambler was the new hot Japanese rocket while Red Mountain wine($1.49/gallon) flowed like in Roman times.

So here we sit, the year 2005, in a Kerouacesque apartment in Mazatlan. Rent is $90 dollars a month. We are less than a block from the ocean and a mere 5 minutes from a good left point break similar to Ventura's Surfer's Point. This apartment will eventually be torn down and a ritzy high end home will take it's place.

Until then, I interact with our neighbors, a couple from Hermosa Beach. Greg is an old sixties surfer and his wonderful Mexican wife, Gude, who was born and raised on a rancho in Guanajuato.

When the waves are good, Greg and I are there, at daybreak and enjoying at least an hour of surfing alone. After noon, we call up the Pacifico Brewery, they deliver, to the doorstep, a case of cold ass Pacifico in the bottles. Gude, will mix up a batch of Agua Chile; a sort of Ceviche made with shrimp, lime juice and hot peppers.

The three of us spend the rest of the afternoon looking out across the harbor, over the cruise ships and to a beach that meanders for over 15 miles bordered by mango and coconut ranchos on one side and the warm blue Pacific ocean on the other.

Hey man, it's a transcendental experience with the sound of an old Bob Dylan CD playing "Ballad of a Thin Man" on Greg's stereo. I yell out to Greg, "turn up the sounds!" ... "it's my favorite part":

"You raise up your head
And you ask, "Is this where it is?"
And somebody points to you and says
"It's his"
And you say, "What's mine?"
And somebody else says, "Where what is?"
And you say, "Oh my God
Am I here all alone?"

Because something is happening here
But you don't know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?".

My favorite Mazatlan Surf Spot

Posted by Steve Immel at 02:38 PM

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