Vallarta, part 1: Lost in the Supermarket

PUERTO VALLARTA, Mexico – I was hesitant about coming here, because towns with reputations that precede them as being incredibly touristy really turn me off. One touristy beach town is hardly different from the other, especially in Latin America. I only added Vallarta to the itinerary because this is where Roby could get the cheapest flight home. The city has proven itself much more versatile than I was expecting, I've actually had a great time, but part of the culture here has still fallen victim to the power of the tourism industry.

The goals of businesses in most touristy towns I’ve been to in Latin America all stress homogenization, whether they realize it or not. Each restaurant owner, hotelier, water taxi captain and artisan is greedy for as much business he or she can get, and whichever has the most success gets imitated to the fullest extent. It’s been four-ish days since we got to Puerto Vallarta, and Roby now knows what I’m talking about.

The culture of the small merchants here is strikingly different from what we encountered in Monterrey, Zacatecas and Mazatlan, and no place is a better example of it than the Mercado de Artesanias here. It has 300 stores and 100 items, with everyone jumping on you as soon as you walk past their section in the merchandise maze. A college-aged, drunk, shirtless Mexican greeted us as we got out of the cab and gargled something about his large T-shirt selection. Business was bad that day. He could cut us a deal. A lot of the shirts were in English, with such endearing statements as “It ain’t a beer gut, it’s an engine fer a sex MACHINE!” and “FBI: Fuckin Boobie Intelligence,” or something like that. The last guy who bought that shirt was probably right up the street that moment getting a pair of breasts tattooed on his calf to show his diligence to the cause, all smiles while his buddy bought an 80-dollar skull and dragon bong up front for “almost free.”

“Almost free.” Once we got away from the first guy, those would be the last two words we heard from anyone chasing us down the aisles as we tried getting away from the merchant cabal. “You want to buy something amigo? How many you like? This one have beads. We have the turtle. Almost free!” I could not stand still and just look in peace, like I am accustomed to doing in Mexico. It’s like the merchants in other cities had treated me almost like family compared to the pack of hyenas they had running wild in this market. And I’ll go ahead and say that calling them hyenas is harsh, because they’re just trying to make a living.

And I appreciate that in Mexico people understand they have to work if they want to make money. Unfortunately for the salesmen in this market, I met a lot of good salesmen on my way here who knew that having Zen-like patience and never letting their want for money get the best of their human side are the best ways to do business. I only call those here hyenas because I felt like injured prey trying to find my way out of that market.

The artisans and merchants aren’t the only ones. Every taxi honks at you; every restaurant has someone in the street to drag you in; you can’t talk to a water taxista without three others trying to distract you; and on some isolated beaches here you will think you’ve found peace, lay your head back and close your eyes, only to hear someone in the darkness say, “Senor, bracelet, almost free!" then "Take a picture with iguana almost free?"

But there’s a reason this is a two-part post about Vallarta. I’m getting the bad things out of the way, because this is easy, because few things inspire me to write as prolifically as my occasionally poor attitude, and because it’s bad form to not end on a good note when you’ve had a genuinely good experience somewhere. I’m going to drink another cerveza (Sol, to be exact), go for a dip and get on later to tell you about how Vallarta won me over.