(This article appeared in the South Florida Sun-Sentinel, 8/05. The photo was actually taken in Jamaica, but it's MY blog and I don't need to burden myself with perfect accuracy.)
“GOD, I wish I had some whiskey!” remarks a man with a North Carolina accent and a Jeff Foxworthy mustache, after kicking the wall adjacent to where the bar would normally be.
“Tequila,” his girlfriend corrects him.
“Alcohol is important,” a Mexican crewmember observes, philosophically, and with empathy.
“Yes. It’s sad,” agrees the girlfriend, equally philosophical. “Do you have any?”
There’s a strong breeze off the Pacific, and, beyond the monolithic stone structures called Los Arcos just off the shore of Cabo San Lucas, the sun falls in a leisurely fashion toward the sea. White fountains of water spurt up here and there among the waves in the distance; there are whales around, but they’re more elusive than usual. From up on deck, the seascape is magnificent, and every one of us, whether we like it or not, is watching it stone cold sober.
This is not some outing for tourists in recovery. It’s a dinner cruise. Ordinarily there would be an open bar, enthusiastically patronized by vacationers just warming up for a night of barhopping among the notorious bars of Cabo San Lucas. It is, after all, a Saturday evening in February, and it’s cold back home, and they’ve paid good money to come to Mexico, and to take a sunset sail on which the liquor flows freely.
But this weekend the government of Baja California Sur has its own plans: elections are taking place, and they want things to go smoothly. No fights. No one too drunk to go to the polls. Therefore, at midnight on Friday, the ley seca went into effect. Dry law. No one, including tourists, is to be served or sold any alcohol whatsoever until midnight on Sunday.
******
Los Cabos is one of those lovely, tropical destinations where the t-shirts displayed most prominently in the souvenir tiendas provide anatomical information (“The liver is evil. It must be punished.”), or personal information (“I’m not an alcoholic. I’m a drunk.”), or offer the gentle suggestion that if one hasn’t arrived with the intention of partying, one might not want to (expletive) show up.
In Cabo San Lucas, ground zero for those who have arrived with the intention of partying, there is, I’m told, a ritualistic protocol to be followed at night. The first stop is the Giggling Marlin Bar and Grill. Next, you’ll march over to Cabo Wabo, once owned by Eddie Van Halen, but now presided over by Sammy Hagar. After that, with any luck and, perhaps, the help of some new friends, you’ll find your way over to El Squid Roe (whose façade is covered with graffiti-like slogans like, “You know you’re old when Happy Hour means Nap Time,” and “Don’t drive any faster than your guardian angel can fly”) for a nightcap or six.
*******
I first hear about the ley seca from Angelica Zamorano, who works for the Hilton Los Cabos Resort, on Friday, the morning before the decree was to go into effect.
“We just got the letter from the government yesterday,” she says. “Last time it was O.K. for the tourists to drink, but this time no.”
“So it’s even in the hotels?” someone asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to honor it?”
Angelica shrugs. I will see the same “Que sera, sera,” shrug many times over the following weekend, but only from Mexicans. They’re used to it (although I imagine that, for the resorts, and especially for the bartenders who make their living on tips, the loss of a weekend’s alcohol revenue is no joke). Americans, unforewarned and not especially concerned about the outcomes of Mexican local elections, are not quite as likely to take the prospect of a dry weekend in Mexico so casually. I’m envisioning riots outside of the bar, uprisings around the pools.
But it is, so far, only Friday. I’m on my way from the tranquil and as-yet cheerfully drink-producing Hilton to Cabo San Lucas go out on one of the whale-watching/snorkeling excursion boats. The dock is a carnival of tourist delights: souvenirs, cigarettes, bottles of liquor, Mexican men and children selling tickets for all manner of vacation activities, a man with a photogenic snake wrapped around his neck. Tourists wander among them like dazed, happy children trying to decide which ride to go on next.
Pez Gato I, which is the catamaran I’ll be sailing on, is not, technically, one of the “Booze Cruise” boats that bob merrily on the water. Before we set sail, though, we are asked to sign waivers, and told with great earnestness that no alcohol will be served until after everyone has finished snorkeling—there have been much fewer accidents since that policy was put in place, we’re told.
Ten minutes out, however, the crewmembers come around with cups of beer. They’re playing music by the Doors, and making guacamole and ceviche below deck. We are, apparently, here to party.
******
On Saturday morning, still not quite believing that the liquor fairy won’t be making any stops in Los Cabos this weekend, I go to the Hilton’s Deli to see if I can buy some tequila to bring home to my husband as penance for the fact that I’m in Mexico, and he’s not.
“Es possible comprar tequila hoy? I ask the shopgirl in something resembling Spanish.
There it is again. The shrug. She shakes her head, and smiles.
I ask her if I’ll be able to buy liquor at the airport when I leave the following day. She’s not sure, so she asks a few guys who also work at the hotel. They shrug. They don’t think so.
“But I’ll be leaving!” I say. “I promise that I won’t change my mind and come back and vote!” They laugh, and shrug.
That afternoon I tour the little artists’ village of Todos Santos, an hour up the coast. This place, I’m thinking, might be off the government’s radar. At lunch in a pretty restaurant called Los Adobes, someone in our group asks our waiter for a margarita. We all wait to hear his answer.
“No, no te puedes,” the waiter tells her with the patient but firm voice of a father telling his little girl that she can’t have any candy.
Fortunately, the mahi-mahi tastes very nice with only a Diet Coke to accompany it.
*****
On the way back in to Los Cabos for the dinner cruise that night, our group speculates as to whether or not drinks will be served on the ship.
“We’ll be offshore,” someone says, hopefully.
But no. An announcement is made as soon as everyone is on board that no alcohol will be served.
“Yeah, right,” I’m thinking. “And no drinks until after everyone has snorkeled.”
But the bar is bare of bottles, and I’m offered a virgin pina colada. It tastes like ice with pineapple juice, which is basically what it is.
Now, even in my pre-children, out-until-the wee-hours days, I never understood the point of flying to some warm, exquisite place only to drink oneself to the verge of incarceration or emergency hospitalization, and return home a week or so later with the right to boast that one remembers next-to-nothing about the trip. I have every intention of remembering every waking moment of my first trip to Los Cabos.
But I do like margaritas, especially when they’re served at sea as the sun sets, and dinner without wine always seems a little lackluster. I can’t say that I’m not disappointed—not quite as disappointed as the man with the Jeff Foxworthy mustache and his girlfriend, but disappointed nevertheless.
The food served for dinner is delicious, and the floorshow afterwards is fun, if a little hokey. I’m sure that the performers are used to a more exuberant audience, and more enthusiastic participation in the sing-along portions of the show.
Back in Cabo San Lucas after the cruise, the streets are almost empty. On the docks, there are no vendors, no snakes, no cigarettes, and no liquor. A few depressed-looking Mexicans sit waiting for customers in their stores, and a few depressed-looking tourists walk around in the dark stillness of a party-free night in Los Cabos.
When we get back to the hotel, though, we’re greeted with a miraculous vision: the bar is open. Several of us waste little time going in, where a girl with an incredible voice is singing disco songs, and where we’re gratified to find that several of the drinks have our names on them.
We don’t bother to ask why this wonderful exception is being made.
******
At breakfast at the hotel the following morning, I notice that the restaurant tables are mostly populated by big, polo shirt-wearing men with the accents of Texas CEO’s. They’re talking about their days as football players in high school and college, and about their days as golf players now. They’re not the guys you’d find on one of the booze cruises, or at El Squid Roe.
A little later I go to the open-air lobby to check out. Chairs, couches, and tables have been arranged around the fountain.
“What’s all this for?” I ask the woman at the desk.
“Super Bowl,” she tells me. Oh, that. I’d forgotten.
On the counter in front of me is a flyer advertising margaritas for five pesos during the game. Not only are they serving drinks at the hotel, they’re selling them at half-price.
I guess it’s true that you don’t mess with Texans, especially when they’re on vacation, and there’s a Super Bowl to be watched.
By Nancy Bevilaqua (c) 2008
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