Subtitled: Living on the Hill

The angle of repose is the incline at which various materials can maintain a state of rest. The angle of repose differs from material to material; you can stack square blocks to form a steeper incline than if you attempted a similar action with marbles. However, there is a point where the angle of the incline becomes so precipitous that eventually all materials will succumb to the forces of gravity; their angle of repose has been compromised. I believe that there is something akin to an angle of repose within the living and social communities of this planet that wholly govern both individual and group limits and their appropriate responses to the impending forces of psychic gravity when these limits are exceeded. Many things in ones life are governed by the angle of repose, both physical and emotional and we all respond in different ways to the inevitable tipping point.

When I moved into my new home on the east face of Cerro de La Nieveria (Ice House Hill) in the early weeks of April, I did so with a bit of trepidation as to my future life in Centro, the heart of Mazatlan. Simply encountering the narrow streets, mindlessly driven vehicles, non existent street signage, randomly created parking arrangements, trash bags piled on some corners, jugglers, human flame throwers and other forms of traffic hindering panhandlers, my fortitude was wavering; what have I gotten my self into? Since I have felt inherently safe in most areas of Mazatlan, the adventurous side of my id resolved this personal conflict and told me to dive right into the barrios and attempt to go native. Since my recent divorce left me with only shell fragments of my once modest nest egg, cost of living requirements dictated a strict housing budget. I knew that the concepts of frugal and convenient both thrive in these native neighborhoods and I hoped my anticipated culture shock would be offset by the pleasure of living in Old Town.

The first sacrifice I made in this move to the side of the hill was my requirement that off street parking be conveniently available, but that was not possible; a bicycle would be the only vehicle making it to my front door and even that would require a carry. The thought of trying to find suitable street parking for a ¾-ton truck, on the paved carriage paths that pass for streets in Old Town, started to become a nagging ache in one of the slight recess of my ageing and semi-functional mind. So to remedy this dilemma prior to moving, I spent several hours on my bicycle negotiating the loose grid of one way streets that cross hatch the oldest part of Mazatlan. Riding a bicycle through the streets of Mazatlan offers a wide range of experiences that can fluctuate between high quality entertainment and stark terror, sometimes very quickly. I soon found a route into my neighborhood that under normal circumstances would provide access to potential parking places within a 500-foot walk to my front door. Normal circumstances being, that the cars parked along the access streets are accurately parked, no more than 2 inches from the curb, on the proper side of the street, mirrors folded flat and of course no larger than a Geo Metro. The last leg of the preferred path to the potential parking place, placed me precisely upon Penuales.

The final pitch to the top of Calle Penuales is a steep grade with several large rocks placed in strategic locations close the three-foot high curb that stair steps its way up the paved rise. I pondered these purposefully placed piedras for the briefest of moments before realizing I was looking at a local display of the venerable Mexican emergency brake. Each stone was an individual, geologic insurance policy against the inevitable forces of nature. Had any of these large stones not been roughly faceted and rectilinear in form, gravity would have overcome their angle of repose and sent them, rather forcibly, into the neighborhoods at the foot of the hill. Evil children with large round rocks could do some serious damage here.

I have now been navigating this steep, narrow route to my parking place for four months and have acquired a skill that allows me to precisely judge the width of a questionable passage within fractions of an inch. The wild cards in my frequent ascent of the hill are the drivers that ignore the sporadically and subtly placed one-way street designations and naturally, the various delivery trucks that both drive and park where they please. In addition, if some fool parks on the wrong side of the street, just opposite one of the 50 kilo Mexican parking rocks, I have two choices, get out and move it or pull the 4WD lever and climb over the pesky thing. Using this quiet street as my personal obstacle course seems to amuse the children but I think some of the older folks may believe me to be a bit deranged; my antics could have exceeded their angle of repose for gabachos.

Given that I live in an economically challenged area of dead end streets and steep stairs, many of the hillside residents do not own cars and the parking part has turned out to be both easy and relatively safe. Moreover, since I have a functioning emergency brake along with adequate engine compression, I don’t even need a parking rock. Also because my truck is 10 years old and rarely washed, it blends into the neighborhood surroundings like a scruffy street dog peeing on a power pole.

Shortly after making the move, I began to take Sunday morning bicycle rides with a friend and his wife, a perfect way to learn my way around town. They explained that the streets are virtually deserted early Sunday mornings; far less life threatening than any other time. We usually take off about 7AM and head out through Old Mazatlan and into the neighborhoods between Juarez and the Golden Zone. We decide on a general direction and know that we have about 2 ½ to 3 hours before the ominous throngs of traffic overwhelm us. After several of these outings, I gained the sense that Mazatlan is much smaller than it initially felt when I first arrived. All the older Mazatlan neighborhoods are similar to individual villages, each with its own support system of stores and services. Wherever you live, fresh tortillas are but a few steps away and the automobile is not an essential shopping device.

Living in Centro, even perched on the side of a 30-degree slope, the easy acquisition of quality goods and services has been a very pleasant surprise. When one of my propane tanks ran out, I called the gas company and had a new one within 30 minutes. That included lugging it up the stairs, along the footpath, through the house, down more stairs and then installing it and removing the empty tank. The 20-peso tip was accepted with appreciation and given in gratitude. To pay my electrical bill, I can go to a machine that is available 24/7, similar to an ATM, show it my bill and then feed it some pesos, very quick and easy. An 8-minute bicycle ride will take me to the shrimp market where I can buy very fresh, very large shrimp for about $3.75/ pound and have them back home in the fridge in 15 minutes (going back takes longer, it’s up hill). A couple of weeks ago, I discovered a very talented tailor that is capable of exactly reproducing my favorite hiking shorts for $17 a pair and he is only three blocks away. The Centro Mercado is about six blocks down the hill and in the mornings, you can watch deft butchers dismember both large and small animals, or… enjoy a glass of fresh orange juice while browsing some of the less graphic venders. Imelda would love shopping in Centro, there are more women’s shoe stores in downtown Mazatlan than in the entire state of Wyoming. It would seem that enough Mexican women tend toward Compulsive Footwear Acquisition Syndrome to make the shoe business in Centro quite brisk.

In the mornings and evenings, Snickers and I will ascend the stone stairs on the east flank of Cerro De La Nieveria and circumnavigate the road that runs around the crown of the hill. Both the sunrise and the sunset provide a spectacular backdrop of light and color that accentuate the brightly painted buildings that make up the heart of Mazatlan.

The constantly changing silhouettes of the various ships in the harbor are a reminder that this is Mexico’s largest port. Whenever a cruise ship is docked, I am always startled by its imposing size and stunned by occupancy levels that will approach that of a modest Midwestern town. I am also acutely aware that the passengers will never taste the true flavor of Mazatlan, just another stop on a frenetic itinerary that does not allow for any type of consequential intercultural interface. I guess it is for the best, if all those folks knew what they were missing this quaint town’s carrying capacity could really exceed the angle of repose of its infrastructure. As it is now, the City of Mazatlan is somewhat overwhelmed by the rapid growth and increasing demand for city services.

A 10-minute walk will take me to the Plaza Machado, the cultural heart of Mazatlan. The Colonial architecture along with the sidewalk cafes, gives this area an old world charm that is thoroughly captivating and enjoyed by gringo and Mexican alike. The Pacifico Bar & Grill has a decent pool table and across the plaza, the Mediterranean restaurant serves world-class deserts flambé. Nevertheless, even here in the flat part of the city, the angle of repose can be compromised. A couple of weeks ago on the plaza, while having lunch with a friend, I witnessed an incident where a delivery truck instantaneously succumbed to the forces of gravity, momentum and madness.

We were at a sidewalk café enjoying a couple of ice-cold beers when we heard a metallic scraping sound followed by a loud crash. The gnashing sound of metal against concrete, with a punctuating impact, was just a little too close. We immediately turned and saw that a small, flatbed truck had jumped the steps to the plaza and had come to rest against a light pole 30 meters away. The right front tire was dangling inches above the raised portion of the central plaza while the left front tire was still planted on the pavement and of course, the front bumper was at a 30-degree pitch. The sound we heard was generated by the under carriage of the vehicle meeting the concrete steps of the plaza with an anguished howl followed by sudden contact with the light pole. What we saw next vacillated between the cosmic comedy of life and life’s ever-present tragedies; a true Mazatlan experience employs all of the emotions.

As we waited for the next act to unfold, the rectification of the situation, we were not disappointed. When the driver emerged from his high-centered truck, both my friend and I were somewhat stunned by his physical disability. Having spent some time in a wheel chair, I believe myself to be as empathic to the handicapped as any able bodied person can be, however one should know their limitations, their angle of repose. It is my considered opinion that a person that drives a truck with a standard transmission should possess at least one arm, preferably two.

When the door of the truck opened and the young driver appeared, it was painfully obviouse that he was not adequately equipped to properly aim his hurtling mass of metal. His birth defect was similar the Thalidomide deformities of the 60’s that effected the arms and hands. There was a two-fingered claw that protruded from where his left arm should have been and the two-fingered appendage on the right was attached at the elbow. This kid was driving a stick shift delivery truck, through the narrow streets of Old Town, with only slightly more than half an arm. The question that immediately came to mind was; is this his first day, or am I looking at an experienced delivery truck driver? I decided that either scenario was equally unsettling. With help from sympathetic bystanders, he was able to dislodge the truck from the steps and then trundle down the road with few new rattles and clanks. The sight of this almost armless man piloting a vehicle, emphasized just how close to the edge some things are in this part of the world. A year ago, an episode like this would have induced a moderate dose of culture shock, now it is simply part of the charm.

There have been times in my life I have stacked my pieces too steeply and they have tumbled and other times when the only things available to stack were marbles. However, after a year in Mazatlan, my personal pile of pieces are beginning to stack quite nicely. I am beginning to feel my American cultural angle of repose giving away to the psychic gravity of the uniquely Mazatlan experience.