By Tobin BarnesWe decided to do the resort thing down in Los Cabos, Mexico.
Had never gone somewhere primarily to sit around a pool and walk along a beach before. Had never been to Mexico. Thought we’d give that stuff a try. Maybe find some other resort-kinda stuff to do, also. Experience a little local culture perhaps. It was like, what the hey?
Cashed in points we’d been hoarding to get “free” lodging at what looked like a swank place and bit the bullet on some over-priced plane tickets.
So allow me to tell you about our adventures.
Got up at 3:30 in the morning, and before noon, we were in sunny Mexico, down at the bottom of Baja California. Took a long time to get through Mexican customs--winding back and forth through a serpentine barrier--but no big deal there. Pretty much expected and delivered.
It was after we got through the luggage scanners that we got our first taste of Baja. Before us stood a phalanx of what at first appeared to be twenty or so chamber of commerce greeters, out in full force. Regaled with I.D. tags and similar shirts, they literally bumped into each other, trying, it seemed, to be the first of their multitude to welcome our arrival.
“Holla, senor. Do you have transportation?” the first competitor asked.
“No,” I responded, somewhat bemused. “We were just going to take a shuttle or taxi.”
“You can arrange that right over here,” he said, leading me to where he wanted me to be.
“Over here” was a seemingly endless row of well-manned cubicle counters. We were quickly turned over to an associate who broke out an arcane sheet of information that seemed overly complicated for a plain-old taxi ride--and with good reason.
I quickly deduced, having no straw in MY hair, that this was actually the beginning of a sales pitch. But for what, as yet, I had no idea. The broken English was a definite impediment to fully comprehending my fate.
Having been forewarned of the sales acumen of Mexican entrepreneurs, I, with difficulty, detached myself from the gentleman, looking again for a simple way to jump in a cab and head for the hotel, as though I were in control of the situation.
It was not to be. “Simple” just wasn’t done there.
Before we’d gotten ten feet away from the row of cubicles, we were almost literally collared by another greeter/bull-dogger.
“Do you need a shuttle or a taxi? I’ll pay for your ride to the hotel and back again to the airport when you leave.”
(The above is an admittedly vague interpretation. The meaning could have been more or less, actually. Again, as with all the “greeters,” I was getting about half of what was communicated.)
Highly dubious about such an unwarranted blessing of free rides--it couldn’t have been my good looks--I asked the guy what we had to do to get this.
“Just come to a free breakfast, and we’ll pay for the taxi to get you there.”
But what do I have to do? I continued to insist. Ah Chihuahua! Tell it to me straight, por favor.
“Just listen to a presentation while you have breakfast. Man at a podium talks while you eat breakfast. Hey, maybe we’ll give you a free dinner, too.”
About this time, my wife headed off to the lavatory, leaving me at the mercy of a stranger bearing strange gifts. I continued to tell him that all I wanted was a taxi or a shuttle, and he continued to tell me that was exactly what I was getting...with strings.
But no matter what I said, I couldn’t shake him. I was like Br’er Rabbit battling Tar Baby.
Finally, my wife reappeared, so I used the distraction to break loose, but other greeters were hungrily waiting for me--the prey evades one wolf just to be harassed by the next until the pack makes the kill.
I looked back and saw my wife snared by the same guy I thought I had eluded. That slowed my momentum something fierce: Should I continue struggling for freedom or wait for my wife? Freedom was a near thing, but the hesitation became my undoing. I was in their clutches again. It was like trying to run a football through the Stanford Marching Band. There was just nowhere to go.
To make a long story shorter, we finally succumbed to a mustachioed bandito named Alberto. To him we forked over an extravagant $28, down from an original $60, for a shuttle ride to our hotel, for which he said we’d be reimbursed. He also promised a free ride back to the airport when we left, and a free ride from our hotel to a free breakfast and back.
By then my wife had caught the spirit, stood her ground, and wangled a free dinner in Cabo San Lucas and two rounds of golf, cart included, at the “best course” in Mexico. But we never knew at the time whether we’d get any of this, other than a wallet that was $28 lighter.
During the haggling, Alberto wanted to know if I liked to play golf for money because he might show up to play with me. I told him no way would I play golf with a shark like him.
(Tune in next time to see how all this turns out.) Adios, amigos.
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