Traveling the streets of Mazatlán can be exciting, frightening, enlightening, appalling, tons of fun and at times incredibly exasperating - all during a single outing. I’ve traveled the city streets on two wheels and four wheels, in buses and taxies, and of course in the venerable pulmonia. I find the pulmonia to be the most unpredictable, the buses the most consistent, a motorcycle to be the most dangerous, and walking to be quite gratifying.

Most trips around town are uneventful, but after living here awhile, you begin to expect the unexpected to occur at any moment. There’s also that faint notion in the back of your mind that a real surprise could be right around the corner. This could be anything from a high-speed vehicle blowing through a stop sign to giant mechanical bugs crawling through Olas Altas. My conclusion is that this apprehension is not trepidation, but actually anticipation tinged with an element of risk.

That’s what’s in play when the locals slow down at intersections, even when the cross street has a stop sign. Many Mexican drivers honk when entering an intersection, especially in Old Town. It took a few months and a couple of close calls before I realized stop signs in Mazatlán are far more suggestive than compulsory.

The pulmonia pilots can be amenable and helpful with a wealth of local knowledge or simply out to extract as many pesos as possible from a hapless gringo; be selective who you ride with. Remember, the fare is always negotiable in a pulmonia; do not accept the first price offered. Drivers will size up the potential passengers prior to announcing the cost of the ride: Expect to pay a little more if you’re wearing lots of jewelry or your face is the color of cooked shrimp. These drivers have a unique way of working the streets of Mazatlán, nonchalantly sliding through traffic, while executing maneuvers that induce white knuckles. The open-air ambiance, lack of seat belts and blaring ‘80s music, combined with the cavalier attitude of the driver concerning traffic laws and basic principals of safety, always make the ride worth the $30-50 pesos.

Driving in Mazatlán requires nerves of steel, a strong sense of survival and good insurance. After observing some of the drivers here, I realized the acquisition of a driver’s license is not always dependent on a critical evaluation of one’s driving skills; it can also be purchased. Inquiring of my Mexican friends, I discovered the going rate for the openly fraudulent act of purchasing a license was around $1,000 pesos. North of the Border this would be considered blatant corruption - here it’s just an expedient way to get a license. What the hell, it beats several hours of bureaucratic frustration, plus you don’t have to take that pesky test.

When I first came to Mazatlán, I lived in Cerritos, so my bicycle time was spent on wide streets with little traffic. When I moved to Centro, I was profoundly intimidated by the narrow streets, large belching buses and heavy traffic laced with fools on scooters. However, since I chose to live within the belly of the beast, I knew I’d have to ply the streets on my bicycle, especially since driving and parking is a bit of an ordeal. After two years of peddling around town, my fear has melded into a heightened sense of awareness tempered with a strong dose of caution. So far, I’ve been able to traverse Centro countless times without sustaining bodily injury or damage to my bike, only twice facing the stark terror of imminent demise.

A trip through town on the back of my good friend and neighbor Juan’s motorcycle is, without a doubt, an adrenalin-producing experience. The ride from his house starts along a narrow concrete path with a drop-off on one side and then goes across an even narrower rock-strewn dirt path that leads to the street. But when we hit the street the real fun begins. Juan zips along with practiced grace, utilizing the impossibly tiny space between and beside the crush of vehicles, making a motorcycle unquestionably the quickest way to get across town. And, since he’s never bothered to get a license plate for his two-wheeled death rocket, a chance sighting of a local traffic cop can turn into an even wilder ride to evade potential detection.

After another one of these hair-raising episodes through the streets of Centro, I’ve decided that walking the streets of Mazatlán is my preferred method of travel. But no matter how you traverse the city, always strive to enjoy this cultural collage without allowing the inherent risks to dampen your spirits.

Bodie Kellogg is a recovering American and an active member of the Mazatlán chapter of Americans Anonymous. He can sometimes be found plying other Americans with copious quantities of Pacifico to assist with their cultural acclimation. Otherwise, reach him at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .