The high season was still a week off when I arrived in Mazatlán, fleeing the collective cabin fever that is December in Seattle. Perhaps the slight nip in the evening air — the southern edge of the cold front that gripped Seattle — further helped keep the tourists away. One barkeep blamed baseless lingering anxiety over last year’s swine flu outbreak in Mexico.
Certainly a more persistent epidemic, narco-violence, was scaring some away; Mazatlán had seen a reported 300 narco-related killings in 2010, and widely publicized shootouts this past September and October, one of them just a few blocks from the beachfront tourist strip. In April the U.S. State Department advised travellers to “visit Mazatlán during daylight hours and limit the time you spend outside tourist centers.” So where to go at night? The roads and highways in the surrounding state of Sinaloa, home to Mexico’s leading drug cartel, are deemed even more perilous; U.S. government employees are only allowed to drive them by day, in armored vehicles.
Worst yet for the tourist boosters was a breezy recent piece in the Washington Post that purported to reveal which parts of Mexico “are safe to travel to, and which are dangerous.” It concludes by declaring some areas “an easy call [to avoid], such as destinations along the northbound drug routes and near ports, such as … the resort town of Mazatlán.” That despite the fact that Mazatlán’s port is a minor one and it’s off the main drug routes — unlike Tijuana, which an expert quoted in the same article mysteriously declares “perfectly safe.”
That’s not to say Mazatlán can’t be dangerous, at least for the Mazatlécos. One local businessman told me the city had seen a record 600 homicides in the first seven months of the year. Drugs weren’t the main driver, he explained: Extortion — kidnapping and good old-fashioned protection money — was. “If you don’t pay on time, they beat you up. If you go to the police, they kill you.” He paid. “They don’t touch the tourists” — though a couple had gotten caught in crossfire. “They’re afraid of the United States.”
However scary all that may sound, another city just 170 miles to the north on Highway 15 has always sounded much, much scarier: Culiacán, the capital of Sinaloa, the headquartes of the notorious Sinaloa Cartel and for many decades a marijuana-industry mecca. Even in the 1970s, when I bused and hitchhiked around Mexico, the word was to watch out in Culiacán and stay out of the fields around it. “You should defer non-essential travel to Culiacán,” the State Department now warns. “Since 2006, more homicides have occurred [there] than in any other city in Mexico, with the exception of Ciudad Juárez.”
Sounds like just the place for a couple of bright-eyed young viola players from Seattle to go to pursue their art? Yes, indeed, I discovered to my delight — because whether or not Sinaloa and Culiacán live up to their reputations as narco-meccas, they’re eager to establish themselves as homes for a very different business, classical music.
Tourism downturns have their upsides: a cheap flight with room to stretch. Million-dollar sunsets for less than $40 in the best beach-facing room in Mazatlán's Hotel la Siesta, which looks like a set from an old Bogart movie and has a bronze plaque commemorating Jack Kerouac’s stay there. The restaurants had plenty of room, the waiters had all the time in the world for you, and the ambient conversations were in Spanish, not English.
The tourist discos were closed (no loss), but a very different entertainment venue was packed the night I arrived: the beautifully restored 19th-century Teatro Angela Peralta in the Centro Historico. I learned there was a concert there by chance, while riding the elevator down from the rooftop bar atop the only semi-highrise on the Olas Altas beach.
A young couple boarded, she in black gown and he in white tie and tails. Both carried viola cases, and they spoke in distinctly American — perhaps even Northwest — accents. What’s on the bill, I asked? “Mahler One,” she replied with a smile: Gustave Mahler’s formidable First (Titan) Symphony, plus the good ol’ 1812 Overture as an appetizer. You don’t sound like you’re from around here, I said. “We’re from Seattle,” she replied. And thereby hangs —a tale, a fable of cultural diffusion and globalization.
Like what you just read? Support high quality local journalism. Become a member of Crosscut today!