Interamericana

The Bay of Acapulco after dark is a seductive and strangely hypnotic spectacle. Clusters of glimmering lights illuminate the hills like some rare jewel-encrusted tiara, silhouettes of great yachts dance upon the dark waters, and party cruisers criss-cross the waves on some spirited adventure, adorned with blazing neon hearts.

Nearby, on the shores and beaches, revellers drink rum and groove to the easy rhythms of Copacabana.

The Bay of Acapulco, alive with legends of glamour and sleaze.

“Hey Amigo,” begins my cab driver, as we speed towards the old town in search of my chosen hotel. “You got a reservation? A lot of people arrived in town yesterday, and you know, it’s late, so the hotel is probably full.”

“No,” I tell him. “I don’t have a reservation.”

“Look, amigo,” he says. “I think your hotel is full. But I know a place near here, small, economical, very similar to the place you mentioned. You want to try it?”

“Ok,” I tell him. “Sure. Whatever.”

We round the corner and arrive at a small, basic hotel on the seafront. A real cheapie, dank and dirty and popular with working class Mexicans. We jump out and make enquiries at the desk. Alas, it’s full, no rooms here.

So we get back in the car and crawl down the road to the next place. Same story. Full. So we try the next, and the next, and the next. Nothing. Everywhere is booked out and I’m beginning to get nervous.

“Look, amigo,” says the driver. “What’s the most you can spend? I know a place down the road, a little more expensive, but we can try.”

I pluck a figure out of the air, around double my budget.

“Oh, around 400 pesos. That’s the most.”

“Ok, amigo.” Says the driver. “Everything’s under control.”

We continue down the coast around and arrive at Hotel Capri where, fortuitously, they have some space. They charge me the rack rate of 450 pesos for the last room in the house. I’m about to pay for the night when the driver interjects:

“Just one night? Hey amigo, you better pay for two. Because the prices will only rise tomorrow.”

I’d figured I’d find a cheaper place in the morning, but somehow, in my exhaustion, this seems right. I pay for two nights and tip the driver for all his hard work and trouble. He pats me on the back and cracks open a beer.

I haul my stuff past the unsmiling receptionist and up to my quarters. The room is dirty, smelly and noisy, lacking air-conditioning, TV or any charm whatsoever. That’s Hotel Capri, the coast road, Acapulco. A real shit-hole.

The next day I make the rounds of the hotels in the surrounding area. All of them are empty with dozens of cheap, comfortable and very available rooms. Slow season, they tell me, Acapulco’s dead. Not a gringo tourist in sight.

It takes a moment to dawn on me that I’d been royally screwed by the taxi driver. And all for a miserable commission.

Welcome to Acapulco!

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