The movie set leaped into fantasy with the early arrival of Elizabeth Taylor, who was not in the movie. She and Burton had begun their great love affair on the set of Cleopatra the year before, and when she showed up, presumably to protect Burton from his female costars, a media riot broke out. Taylor was a gigantic star in the Hollywood galaxy, and her presence was a monument to the old style. She brought with her dozens of trunks and suitcases, an ex-fighter to serve as bodyguard, her own secretary and one for Burton, a British cook, a chauffeur, and three children by two ex-husbands. One of these ex-husbands, Michael Wilding, was also on hand, reduced to working as an assistant to Burton’s agent. And back in the States her current husband, the singer Eddie Fisher, was pouting and working on a divorce. The film’s producer, Ray Stark, loved it (a few years ago he told me, “It was the greatest single movie location in the history of movies”). And Huston had grand fun. At one point he gave each of the players — Burton, Taylor, Gardner, Kerr, Lyon, plus Stark — a gold-plated derringer, laid in a velvet-lined box. Each box contained five golden bullets, engraved with the names of each of the others. He left his own name off the bullets.
Within weeks reporters and photographers from all over the world were making their way to the obscure little town of Puerto Vallarta. This was not easy; only one small plane a day flew in. Until then, few people had ever heard of the place. “They’re giving us ten million dollars’ worth of free publicity,” the exultant Stark said. “We’ve got more reporters up here than iguanas.” The Mexican tourist board was equally excited.
Although Williams had set his play in Acapulco, Huston thought that the port city had become too modernized, too sleek; he chose Vallarta. Huston knew the country; he’d been coming to Mexico since the 1920s and set one of his greatest films there, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. The set for Iguana — a run-down hotel — was built by a team of almost 300 Mexican workers in the jungle above Mismaloya Beach, seven miles south of town, and some of the ruins can be seen today. But much of the action was around the bar of the Oceano Hotel, still at the corner of Paseo Diaz Ordaz and Calle Galeana. The bar is gone now, but the ghosts of Burton and Taylor remain.
“Burton was the greatest single drinker I ever saw,” said a man named Jeffrey Smith, who claimed to have been here during the shooting. “He could drink anything and never get drunk.”
Among the potions that Burton downed was raicilla, a Mexican form of moonshine, made from cactus, as mind-bending as absinthe and still available at the older bars outside of town. Burton told one interviewer, “If you drink it straight down, you can feel it going into each individual intestine.” Taylor was tolerant. She told one reporter, “Richard lives each of his roles. In this film he’s an alcoholic and an unshaven bum, which goes a long way toward explaining his appearance and liquid intake.”
Burton and Taylor took a house called the Casa Kimberley, up the side of the hill beside the Rio Cuale, and by all accounts they fell in love with Puerto Vallarta with only slightly less passion than they felt for each other. The movie company eventually finished its work and moved on, with no casualties from Huston’s derringers. But Taylor and Burton bought the Casa Kimberley and added a house across the narrow street and built a bridge to connect them. It would be nice to say that they lived happily ever after. Almost nobody does, least of all movie stars.
Still, they had good years in Puerto Vallarta. They came down with great crowds of children and staff, spent holidays there, too often recuperated there from the bruising life of celebrity. The Mexicans loved them. The Burtons created scholarships for local children. They were an attraction that validated the town, and its population exploded (it is now about 250,000). By 1970, even Richard Nixon had come to Puerto Vallarta, for a state visit with the Mexican president. The Burtons had various celebrities as guests, but often they were alone. From the testimony of Burton’s diaries (quoted by his biographer Melvyn Bragg), Puerto Vallarta also helped him heal. Sometimes Burton hid out in the top floor of one of the houses, reading and writing. He read eclectically, Octavio Paz, W. H. Auden, Ian Fleming, Philip Roth; he came back again and again to the work of his Welsh compatriot Dylan Thomas. Burton was an excellent writer, a self-punishing diarist, and a good, sly, open-eyed observer.
“Elizabeth is now looking ravishingly sun-tanned,” he wrote in 1969, “though the lazy little bugger ought to lose a few pounds or so to look her absolute best.”
In the late 1970s John Huston was to come back to Puerto Vallarta too, hauling his aging bones from the drizzly disappointments of a long sojourn in Ireland. He built a house in the jungle near Las Caletas, 30 miles from the town’s center. It could be reached only from the sea. He didn’t see much of Burton and Taylor. When the Burtons divorced, Taylor got the houses. For a while Burton lived in another Vallarta house with a new wife. Her name was Susan. The house was called, after half of each, Casa Bursus. Today nobody can tell you its location.
But the old Burton-Taylor houses, with their connecting bridge, are still there. They’ve been sold and converted into a bed-and-break-fast. One afternoon my wife and I went to visit. A long flight of stone steps begins at a now dry fountain, where we saw a Domino’s Pizza carton darkening in the sun. At the top of the steps you can see in the distance the fabled bridge, painted the color of strawberry ice cream. We rang the bell of a wooden door at 445 Calle Zaragoza, and a lean, tanned man named Jacques gave us a tour. He said he had worked in many places, from St. Bart’s to Polynesia, but was entranced with Puerto Vallarta.
“The people are very pure,” he said, “and the town is very romantic. It has everything you don’t find in the United States now. Puerto Vallarta is 1938. You can regenerate yourself here. It’s very charming and not damaged.”
Stairs led us to an open, white-tiled floor with a bar and couches and a cool breeze off the ocean. There were photographs of Taylor and Burton, posters for Butterfield 8 and Becket, other reminders of lives once lived here. Off to the side (and in the house across the little bridge, beside the small swimming pool) we saw rooms named for various Burton-Taylor movies: the VIPS Room and the Comedians Room, the Sandpiper Room and the Night of the Iguana Room, the Taming of the Shrew Room and the Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Room. Some were excellent movies; others were among the worst ever made. I found a bookcase against a wall, and among the weathered books was a copy of Sanctuary V, by my friend Budd Schulberg, dedicated to Burton and Taylor and dated December 17, 1969 — a remnant of some lost Christmas. The place is clean and bright and pleasant. It also made me melancholy.
A vagrant feeling of waste and loss followed me to the top floor, where a bedroom is now called the Cleopatra Room. According to the Bragg biography, this is where Burton came to do his writing, where he tried to make sense of his life, to find some center among the swirling currents of celebrity and alcohol. He never found it. He knew that once he had been a serious actor but had been transformed into a cartoon figure, part of a team called Dick ’n’ Liz. Here, where there are now tasteful wicker chairs and fresh-cut flowers, he could walk onto the balcony and look out over the town to the sea. Too often he saw only the waste of his own talent and his life. We looked around, feeling oddly like intruders at the scene of some private tragedy, and then we fled.
The town that Huston, Burton, and Taylor saw in 1963 has been enveloped by the much larger Puerto Vallarta that is here now. It has the usual transcultural clutter that you see in places designed to give pleasure to strangers from El Norte: Denny’s and McDonald’s and a lot of boutiques. But it’s still a good town for walking. In the mornings we strolled along the beaches, often pausing on the one called Los Muertos (The Dead), named for a group of silver miners who were murdered here by pirates long ago. The sea is clear and translucent; the city fathers have worked hard to avoid the calamity that ruined Acapulco. On most days the leaves of the palm trees drooped in the heat. We saw a lean brown horse tethered to a lone palm tree on a spit of shore, waiting for riders. Mexican men contentedly sold
blankets and hats.
“I have the best job in the world,” said a brown-skinned man named Marcos Villasenor, who was 44. “I come on my horse in the morning from there, up by Nayarit. I give people rides. They pay me. Then I go home.” He smiled broadly. “And all day while I am working I am in a beautiful place.”
His feelings were clearly shared by others. On each day of our stay the beach was crowded with a mixture of tourists and Mexican families. The Americans looked pink and awkward and lonely. The Mexicans were friendly, even sweet, but they were more concerned with children than with visitors. Here, as everywhere in Puerto Vallarta, a visitor sensed a relaxed manner among the Mexicans. Among workers and visitors, no one felt the seething hostility that poisons so many resorts, particularly in the Caribbean.
But there were irritations. In our hotel the prices of newspapers, aspirin, and candies were extortionate. At night the bands sometimes played at poolside; the acoustical setup was arranged as if our room were part of the walls of Jericho. The music in the hotel bars was the usual international soft-rock pap: watered-down Beatles, creaky Barry Manilow. Instead of the glorious, vibrant music of Mexico, we were greeted each evening by the dead products of Area Code 800.
“That is what the Americans want,” a waiter said to me one night. “It’s terrible, no? But they want this. They want to feel at home”
Far and away the worst irritation in Puerto Vallarta was the insistent, driven, obsessive selling of time shares. In the lobby of our hotel, on the beaches, in the streets, the time-share sellers came upon us like piranhas. Many of them were displaced Americans or Canadians, trying to look respectable; others were young Mexicans; in either language, their song was an infuriating hustle.
In the hotel, the Buganvilias Sheraton, staff members steered us to restaurants. We suspected that this was probably a racket, with the restaurant owners kicking back money to the steerers (you were supposed to hand over a printed “discount” card when you arrived). But on our first, innocent day in town, we tried one of the recommended places anyway, a seafood joint called the Andariego. The sound system insisted that we listen to banal versions of “My Way” and the theme from A Man and a Woman and, God help us, “Feelings.” The combination was so deadly that all additional appetite completely disappeared.
Among the ordinary Mexicans life was sweeter. We saw flowers growing everywhere: on the streets, on balconies, in small private gardens; a fragrant profusion of blue jacaranda, bougainvillea, jasmine, roses. There were wild orchids here, too, and in December, we were told, you can see African tulips. Scattered through the town we saw banana trees, mangos, papayas. The stalls of markets displayed a Tamayo-like profusion of all these and more: watermelon, guava, cantaloupe, avocado. Street vendors sold shaved ice, sugarcane, and coconut milk.
Not much of the Mexican past remained here. The cathedral dates only from the turn of the century, and in a land where brilliant artisans once worked with brick or stone it is made of concrete. No pyramids rise here, no ruins of the cultures that existed in Mexico before the arrival of the Europeans. There’s a small, badly lit museum on the island in the center of the Rio Cuale. We visited one afternoon and saw some fine pre-Columbian pieces and a few folk paintings by a man named Gilberto Grimaldi. But the place had an empty, forlorn feeling to it; nails in the wall marked where paintings had been removed, and I wondered if somehow the museum’s collection had been sacked while nobody was looking.
But Puerto Vallarta does have a vibrant gallery scene. The sculptor Sergio Bustamente has his own gallery. There are a number of other galleries, several antiques shops, and stores selling Mexican folk art. We spent some time at the superb Galeria Uno, on Calle Morelos, run by an American woman named Jan Lavender, who has been in Vallarta for more than 20 years. She features many of the best new Mexican painters, but for many American residents her gallery also served as hangout and communications center, a place for hearing gossip, making business contacts, and buying gifts for friends in the States. While we were there Lavender was excited about a new discovery, a young Mexican artist named Rogelio Diaz, whose brilliantly colored paintings combined power and draftsmanship in a style that could be called Mexpressionist. “This is the finest artist I’ve seen in years,” she said. “He is something else.” She produced cold drinks, smoked a cigarette, and talked awhile about Puerto Vallarta.
“First of all, it’s a street town,” she said. “Everybody is out in the streets. You see your friends there. You meet new people in the streets. The town is not social; it’s certainly not formal. It doesn’t have all those obligations. You can wear whatever you want to wear here, go as you want to go. It’s not like Acapulco. My friends come down from New York or Los Angeles and say, ‘Where are the parties?’ And I say, ‘There aren’t any.’ And there aren’t. God knows, they have a good time, but it isn’t a scene.”
Running an art gallery has made her even more aware of the uniqueness of Vallarta and of Mexico. “You can’t really capture Mexico in photographs or paintings, because they leave out two essentials, smell and sound. Here we’re used to air moving. We live open. In the States the windows are always closed and the air is imported and smells like cement.” She laughed. “Here the weather is always great. I go to New York, and it’s cold outside and sweltering inside. L go to Phoenix, and it’s blistering outside and freezing inside. But here the windows are always open.”
There were no real problems with crime. “Oh, you can get in trouble if you ask for it, like any place,” she said. “You know, going to the beach at four in the morning. But this is a street town. There are too many people around for there to be any danger.”
We never felt menaced while in Puerto Vallarta. There were no obvious hoodlums, no street gangs, no dope peddlers. We never saw the kind of homeless people who now collect on the streets of American cities like piles of human wreckage. Even after great expansion this remains a Mexican town built upon the hard foundation of the Mexican family. We did see poor people across the river in the area named after the Mexican revolutionary hero Emiliano Zapata. They live in dark, crudely built single-wall housing. You walk by and smell the rank odor of poverty. On the street called Francisco Madero we also passed a deep, wide, evil-looking high-ceilinged poolroom, the sort of place in which young men always find trouble in Mexican movies.
But the poor are not typical of the town. In the evenings you can walk along the seawall called the Malecón and see young men flirting with young women as they do in the evening in a thousand Mexican towns. The ritual is all eyes, glances, whispers; the private codes of the young. You can hear the growl of the sea. You can dine in the many restaurants, annoyed only by the garrulous flatulence of the public buses, throwing the fumes of burnt gasoline upon all who come near. One evening we sat at a window table in the second-floor Japanese restaurant called Tsunami. The food was good, but strolling Mexicans kept stopping on the Malecón and staring up at us: groups of men, fathers with children, old women with disapproving faces. Or so we thought. When dinner was over we crossed the street and finally saw the true objects of their scrutiny. On the floor above the restaurant was an aquarium, the tank filled with the gaily colored denizens of the deep; above that a disco; and in the window we could see dark-skinned girls in tight bright dresses, the gaily colored denizens of the Mexican night.
That is Puerto Vallarta to me. You can wander down to Le Bistro, on the island in the river, and hear good recorded jazz. You can pause in the restaurant’s garden beside the statue of Huston, which quotes from the director’s eulogy to his friend Humphrey Bogart: “We have no reason to feel any sorrow for him — only for ourselves for having lost him. He is irreplaceable.” Or you can have a good laugh at the restaurant called La Fuente de la Puente (The Fountain on the Bridge), where a statue of Burton, Taylor, and an iguana stands, carved from what seems to be Ivory soap but which turns out to be some kind of plastic. I wish Burton could have cast his caustic eye upon this masterpiece.
You can see these
things or just watch a carpenter laboring with an artist’s intensity in a small crowded shop or kids pedaling tricycles down the steep hills or country people in sandals and straw hats gazing at the wonders of the metropolis. I carried all of them home from Puerto Vallarta, along with the sound of the rooster at dawn and the healing benevolence of the sun and the salt of the sea.
TRAVEL HOLIDAY,
December 1992-January 1993
THE TORTILLA CURTAIN
You move through the hot, polluted Tijuana morning, past shops and gas stations and cantinas, past the tourist traps of the Avenida Revolution, past the egg-shaped Cultural Center and the new shopping malls and the government housing with bright patches of laundry hanging on balconies; then it’s through streets of painted adobe peeling in the sun, ball fields where kids play without gloves, and you see ahead and above you ten-thousand-odd shacks perched uneasily upon the Tijuana hills, and you glimpse the green road signs for the beaches as the immense luminous light of the Pacific brightens the sky. You turn, and alongside the road there’s a chain link fence. It’s ten feet high.
On the other side of the fence is the United States.
There are immense gashes in the fence, which was once called the Tortilla Curtain. You could drive three wide loads, side by side, through the tears in this pathetic curtain. On this morning, on both sides of the fence (more often called la linea by the locals), there are small groups of young Mexican men dressed in polyester shirts and worn shoes and faded jeans, and holding small bags. These are a few of the people who are changing the United States, members of a huge army of irregulars engaged in the largest, most successful invasion ever made of North America.