Mazatlan #8: Skin of our Teeth? Getting my head around Mazatlan.

"Anything can happen anywhere" has long been one of my credos. Bad things don't necessarily respect geography. I know this. But, to use another cliche, living in fear is not living at all.

I'm trying to get my head around Mazatlan.

Last night, had Greg and I opted to walk rather than take the bus down our usual route along the malecon, we would have been in the eye of a gunfire storm.

Earlier we had bussed to a palapa restaurant on the malecon where we ate while being serenaded by waves and a CD of Beatles' hits played on pan flute. The beach was alive with people of all ages, enjoying the water, or watching the sun begin its descent. At least one marauding dog left a deposit on the sand not far from us.

"See those red lights down there?" I asked Greg. I was looking south, along the malecon, toward the Old Town, where we are staying. "The police. There's something going on down there."

Down there was Playa Pinitos, a beach not far from our home that we've walked and run past dozens of times. The small beach is popular with Mexican families. One of our rental options was directly across the street from this beach.

On our way home from the restaurant we decided to flag a pulmonario (golf cart turned taxi) and as the driver approached aforementioned beach, we had to detour around police cars, including one with three men in the back seat. I saw their faces.

I didn't know until I'd read this morning's NorOueste that at 6:15 last night, two people had been shot and killed and a bystanding 8 year old boy was injured -- shot in the ankle -- during the brazen AK 47 gunfire.

I quote NorOueste:

"Violence comes to public places."
"Broad daylight."
"A group of gunmen in a red car."
"Without any fear of the authorities."

This was the second shooting of the day.

A few days ago I read that Mazatlan is sending a commission to Canada
-- specifically to Vancouver, Edmonton, Calgary and Saskatoon -- to encourage tourism in this city. Until the violence and the underlying problems that contribute to it -- namely, the drug trade -- are brought under control, I cannot fathom how tourism here can be successfully promoted.

I am an outsider, and have far too little knowledge about any of the above to make any claims or recommendations. I can only observe -- I saw their faces -- and try to process.

And what I see is that something is not working. Assassins seem to have the upperhand. Every day, grisly murders are front page news. Murders in 2010 are up over 50% compared to 2009.

And then there is the other Mazatlan. City of sun-lounging iguanas, singular ocean vistas, and paradisiacal Stone Island. As I write this, the parrot in the house of the Mexican doctor who lives across the street has turned positively verbose. He talks a bluestreak, and sings. Just now the bird's whistling the tune "The more we get together, the happier we'll be ...."

There are joyful, ambitious children -- like 13-year-old Jorge, whom we met in a bar (he was looking for English-speakers to converse with; he's in summer school to improve his English) with his mother, Julia, a few nights ago, and visited in his home yesterday. And there are children as young as 3 or 4 begging on the street.

There are glorious sunsets.

And every minute of every day, I am aware of how privileged we are.

The contrasts, the ironies, the similarities. Injustices. People I've met who live in what we would consider slums and those I've met who live in homes far more beautiful than I. They are all "good" people. All my friends.

It's hard to get my head around this. Damn hard.

Yesterday was eye-opening for Greg. Like a good percentage of travellers, his Mexico up till now had been of the all-inclusive variety, in Puerto Vallarta. (I've been to PV -- a genteel city -- as well.) Anyone who knows me knows that the words "all-inclusive" make me cringe. (Note: Greg has an explorer's heart, and even when staying in AIs, does venture out, patronize local restaurants, etc.)

Mazatlan is not Puerto Vallarta. Nor Merida. It's not Cozumel. Or Cancun. (But this is at best a mute argument, for neither is Victoria Winnipeg, nor Regina Ottawa; each city has its own distinct personality, at least wherever I've travelled.)

De todos modos (anyway), yesterday. Julia, Jorge's mother, had invited us to her home for "donitas" and the other pastries she makes to sell to businesses. (While Greg was conversing with Jorge in the bar, I was hablando con Julia, who speaks no English).

We walked in a part of the city we were unfamiliar with, and although we had Julia's address, we could not find her street. I had a borrowed cellphone, and called. We agreed to wait for her at the CristoRey (Christ the King) Cathedral. (Greg is sitting in front of it, above).

Julia arrived in a few minutes, and took us to her humble home.

Shelley on Julia's rooftop.

Greg and Jorge, walking and talking.

Greg and Jorge visit in his home.

Julia, mother of 6, grandmother of 1, with her cathedral behind her.

Neighbourhood children.

Last night was a semi-close call for us, and a rarity, gracias a dios, but for Mazatlecos it was a daily reality. Real and present danger.

Perhaps I am making too much of things. But last night I saw what may have been the eyes of an assassin. It gives one pause.