travel

Viva Algodones!

My first thought was how strange to hear the blare of trumpets over a Mexican town at 8:30 on a Saturday morning. And to see folkloric dancers in straw cowboy hats and black lace-up boots high-kicking across the narrow streets. And strolling guitar players raising their faces to the clouds and bellowing love songs as American tourists danced among the raindrops.

But the party has become a 10-year-old tradition, and certainly not strange to its honored guests, Yuma's 80,000 winter visitors. Every year, usually on the first weekend of December, the tiny village of Algodones turns its sidewalks, streets, shops, and saloons over to the snowbirds for a welcome-back fiesta. The across-theborder celebration has mushroomed everyyear since its inception and now boasts as many as 10,000 revelers. Some begin walking through the international gate, just seven miles from downtown Yuma, as early as 7 A.M.

Sonora, Mexico Welcomes Yuma's Snowbirds

I was accompanied on my first trip to Algodones by retired farmers Florence and Irwin Underdahl of Great Falls, Montana. They've been spending winters in Yuma since 1987. They're also veterans when it comes to the welcome-back fiesta, so I knew I was in capable hands. Not even the rare winter rain could dampen the mood.

"At least I know my hair won't lose its curl," said 75-year-old Florence as we made our way through the crowd.

A question hung in my mind about the unusual relationship between Algodones and Yuma: How did it come about? The first street we walked provided at least part of the answer. Dentists' offices and pharmacies, dozens of them, literally one after another, line the sidewalk. Dental care is much cheaper in Mexico and so are prescriptions. The bargains attract those livingon fixed incomes, and Algodones' town leaders have been more than willing to service the need.

(BELOW) Retirees Florence and Irwin Underdahl enjoy the merrymaking at the welcome-back fiesta in Algodones.

"I get medication down here that costs me $30, and in Yuma it's $90," said 73year-old Irwin. "That's big savings. But a lot of people come as regular tourists, too."

As we talked, Irwin led us to a broad plaza dotted with palm trees and a bubbing fountain. Although just a few minutes past 9 A.M., the long bar against the rear wall already was well-stocked with jugs of premixed margaritas, enough to make every reveler within hollering distance forget the weather, not to mention their names.

But the rapid-fire come-ons of the vendors drew our attention away from the bar. They stood one beside another at makeshift kiosks rigged with overhead tarps that went tap-tap-tap in the rain.

"Cheaper by the dozen!"

"Almost free!"

"Hey!" called one young man, tossing an arm around his competitor. "Meet Saddam Hussein's brother!"

Florence stopped to finger a sparkling silver necklace.

"How much, Mama?" said the seller, closing in fast. "I give it to you $35. Special price."

Irwin elbowed me and nodded toward his wife. "You never pay the first price," he said. "Watch her. She knows how to do this."

Florence and the vendor began a dance that predates music. They heaved prices back and forth, interspersed by funny faces, some tongue-clucking, rolled eyes, a couple of puddle stomps and forget-about-it waves, followed by the fake walk-off, then the conciliatory return with a lower price.

But Florence is no chicken. Anyone who spent 37 years on a Montana farm isn't about to bend to the pleadings of a windy street salesman. She held out for $15 and made the buy.

"I used to feel bad about dickering, but I don't anymore," said Florence, stuffing the necklace into her fanny pack. "They expect to be talked down. It's part of the fun."

But the inevitable buyer's remorse set in a few minutes later when Florence stopped at another stand and bought a nearly identical necklace for $5. After that we found an outdoor bar and decided to hole up under a willow tree, sip a goodmorning Corona, and assess our haul. Florence stretched out her necklaces on the multicolored Mexican blanket that served as a tablecloth and scrunched up her face.

"I think I could've gotten a better price from that first fellow," she said.

I draped the necklaces over my hand and inspected them. "Well, they're both pretty," I said. "Maybe I should get one for my wife."

Florence looked at me and her eyes sparkled. "Sell you one for six bucks."

At about 10, we emerged from the bar to find the sidewalks much busier. We elbowed our way along, enjoying the medley of aromas hanging in the wet air. Cafe Combate brewing in a bustling donut shop. Chicarones (pork strips) sizzling on a grill.

Every few feet the scent changed. Next it was frijoles simmering in a giant pot that threw off billows of steam whenever the chef worked his oar-size ladle.

We passed a seemingly endless array of products as well, everything from luggage, purses, and wallets to pottery and ironwood carvings. Shopping tip: If you still can't find that two-foot-tall clay fire hydrant you've been hunting for, look no more. You can carry it home from Algodones for $20.

"Welcome to my Mexican Wal-Mart!" greeted one vendor through a wide smile consisting of a gum line interrupted by one mighty tooth.

Florence pressed ahead and came upon the open-air gallery of spray-paint artist Fernando Montiel. "We have one of his paintings hanging in our trailer," she said excitedly. "Come and watch. You won't believe how good he is. We found a spot at the back of a group of gawkers gathered around the 23-yearold painter. He does landscape scenes in five minutes. Believe it or not, they're beautiful, and so is the spectacle of watching him work.

With a mask over his face and a canvas of cardboard resting on a spinning tabletop, Fernando began applying his colors, spinning the canvas one way, adding a splash of color, then spinning and spraying again and again. His hand movements were almost too fast for the eye to follow, and they were accompanied by a boom box playing a driving beat that perfectly fit the frenzy of his creation.

As Fernando worked, his young assistant prowled in front of the crowd motioning toward his boss, just like the models on "The Price Is Right" when they're showing off a Sony big-screen.

In his final flourish, Fernando sprayed paint through the flame of a cigarette lighter, sending a fire bolt across the cardboard to dry it. He did that twice, each time blowing on it to extinguish the flame. Then he stood, ripped off his mask, and raised his work high over his head. The crowd gasped and applauded.

"This man is the master!" declared the assistant, stepping forward to take orders. "Twenty dollar. Includes frame."

Fernando's showmanship got me feeling lucky. Earlier, Irwin had mentioned a sports betting parlor he'd visited on a previous trip to Algodones, and I asked if he could find it again. He said he could.

"The Broncos have a big game tomorrow against the Steelers," I explained. "We're betting on Denver."

"We are? Why?"

"Because my brother lives in Denver, and he roots for the Broncos."

Even though Irwin was obviously unschooled in such sophisticated gambling techniques, we set off to find L.F. Race & Sports Books. Irwin's search led us to an unmarked door at the end of a long alley, and in we went. The room was lit mostly by the flicker of a dozen TVs set into one wall. Even the sudden intrusion of outside light from our entrance didn't draw the notice of the bettors. They were hunkered down, oblivious to everything but their programs and their tequila.

Irwin still wasn't sure about the Broncos. "I used to play nickel slots back in Montana, but they closed them down in the 1940s," he remarked as he inspected the odds board.

"Did you have any luck?"

"Oh, sure," he deadpanned. "All bad."

"Don't sweat it, Irwin. This is a lock. We're going to win."

We went to the wager window and put $10 apiece on the Broncos. If they won, we'd get our $20 back, plus a sultan's haul of $18.50. High rollers.

The sky brightened somewhat as morning turned to afternoon, but the sun never showed itself for more than a moment. The more we walked, the more Florence and Irwin bumped into folks from back home.

One couple just down from Great Falls here, another from Kalispell over there. The latter spotted Irwin's Montana cap, and a conversation broke out. It was a mini-Montana reunion on a Mexican sidewalk.

"It's like this every year down here," said Florence. "Matter of fact, I think we'd see a lot more people we knew if the weather wasn't so raw."

Lunch was at Pueblo Viejo restaurant. The large, low-ceilinged room was stuffed with diners, but we lucked out when a table emptied. After settling in, we realized that rainwater was leaking through the roof and splashing onto tabletops along our entire wall. But the indoor flood only added to the carnival atmosphere.

We ordered and Irwin told a story about taking a Montana couple to this same restaurant a few years back. The lady grew up on a sheep ranch and had become an expert whistler. As they waited for their food, she grew more and more impatient. When she couldn't take it anymore, this genteel daughter of the Plains jammed two fingers into her mouth and let out a whistle that would make the engineer on a steam train lose his cap.

"The whole place went quiet as could be," said Irwin laughing. "And everybody turned to look. The manager came over and wagged his finger at her. 'No whistling,' he said. But he didn't throw us out."

Florence and Irwin told more stories as a trio of musicians strolled from table to table, strumming and singing. Sweat-faced waiters in guayabera shirts sucked in deep breaths and squeezed through the throng with steaming platters held aloft. Diners bumped shoulders as they swayed and sang along with the music.

Viva Algodones!

After lunch we made our way toward the border gate and home. We passed a huge blue tent where townsfolk were still serving heaping plates of rice, beans, tacos, and chimichangas, and dancers in red-fringed denim skirts were still shaking the stage in the town's main plaza.

What a day it had been. The good news was that Florence's hair kept its curl. But I was wrong about the Broncos. They lost. I felt guilty about coaxing Irwin into following my hunch and gave him a call a few days later.

"Where do you want me to send our big winnings?" he cracked.

I deserved that. But there's a lesson here that all winter visitors to Algodones should heed: If it's 9 A.M. and a waiter asks what you'd like to drink, get the orange juice instead of the Corona.

WHEN YOU GO

The fiesta is usually held the first weekend in December. The official hours are 9 A.M. to 1:30 P.M., but those who wish to come earlier and stay later may do so. For more information on this year's fiesta, including the date, call the Yuma Convention and Visitor's Bureau, (520) 783-0071.

Algodones is located seven miles southwest of Yuma. Follow Interstate 8 west to the Algodones-Andrade turnoff, and go left (south) to the border crossing. The Quechan Indian tribe operates a parking lot on the American side; the cost is $2. Admission to the fiesta is free. American citizens do not need passports for visits of less than 72 hours and within 75 miles of the border. Upon returning, be prepared to orally declare U.S. citizenship and subject yourself to inspection. Canadian citizens should carry their passports. Import restrictions exist on certain products. For alcohol, it's one liter per person per month. For cigarettes, it's one carton per person per month.

Prescription medicine is okay as long as it's for personal use, and the subject holds the prescription form. Dollars are welcome. For more information, call the U.S. Immigration office, (520) 627-8816 or 627-8817.