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Tango Tropicale

Author: James Y. Bartlett
I have this recurring dream, Doctor. I am sitting in Carnegie Hall, and Glenn Gould has just launched into the scherzo of one of the Goldberg Variations of Bach, when down the aisle comes this curvaceous beauty in tight short-shorts and a revealing bikini top, and she comes up to me, wearing a button which says, "Tequilla Shots - $1," and she leans over and blows this shrill whistle in my ear...

I have been, you see, to Cancun -- the Mexican Caribbean. And despite its many beauties -- the long, 14-mile/22-kilometer beach washed by perfect aqua combers; the warm, endless sun and gentle, cooling trades; and the ancient call of the lost tribe of Maya --- I cannot forget the shrill whistles of the tequila girls. The whistles are everywhere, the contrapuntal accompaniment to the Cancun Hustle, the nighttime dance of a modern paradise built on an old and wise land.

Don't misunderstand; the Cancun Hustle is not to be taken in the pejorative sense of the word: a bold and relentless attempt to separate the tourist from his dollars. No, this contract works two ways. The Cancun Hustle is a willing dance, a hip-hop ballet that goes on night after night, with everyone in town jiving and juking to the same endless song.

Cancun is Mexico, but not really Mexican. It is Caribbean, but not really of the region. Her soul sisters are places like Las Vegas and Orlando and Hollywood Boulevard, with perhaps a touch of Myrtle Beach: places where the Hustle also goes on night after night, endless finger-snapping, jive-talking, hip-hopping palaces of fun, American-style.

In a sense, the creation of Cancun is one of the modern wonders of the world: the transformation of a hot, humid and buggy stretch of sandy nothing into a hopping Gomorrah of sun and pleasure and loud music and shrill whistles. And creature comforts -- the line of marquee hotel names that marches up the beach is impressive: Westins and Marriotts and Omnis, Ritz-Carltons and Hyatts and Hiltons, Melia and Fiesta and Allegro and many more. Concrete pyramids puncture the sky, architectural wonders with trailing greenery dripping from the balconies, most containing all the home-sweet-home touches from mini-bars to all the right sports and movie channels.

Most eventually venture out to experience Cancun's night life, lured by the shrill bursts of whistle-fire from the tequila girls. The 14-mile/22-kilometer Kukulcan Boulevard runs the length of the Zona Hotelera, and for the modest fare of 3 pesos (about US40 cents), one can catch a bus any time of day or night.

After dinner, the Hustle gets serious. At Seqor Frog's, the whistle girls are leading a conga line around and around the tables. Drinks are served in yard-long beakers. Live reggae bands get the people moving, while the whistle girls try to get them revved up. There is a huge plastic tube overhead in which, I am told, patrons can swoosh out like in a water-park ride and land in the lagoon outside. But it is disconnected: I hear tales of 12-inch alligators who like to nibble on drunken tourists.

Down the street at Pat O'Brien's, thankfully there are no whistle girls. But while the band tries to get people to dance, the waiters bring tall glasses of margaritas balanced on top of their heads.

Around the corner at Dady Rocks, not to be confused with the Dady'O disco next door, the whistle girls are in full flower. Jell-o shots seem to be popular here. Young women in little black dresses dance on the bar top while the bartender tries to shoot blasts of air upward to create that Marilyn-Monroe-on-the-street-grate effect.

After the 15th tequila girl blasts off in my ear, I offer her $20 -- for her whistle. She just smiles at me and prances off to find her next victim.

If there is a downside to Cancun's nighttime Hustle, it is that it tends to be a one-note song. I search in vain for a quiet little jazz cafi or a place that plays the blues or a martini and cigar bar featuring soft music and conversation. The quietest places tend to be the lobby bars of the hotels, but they are too quiet.

But a cover charge will buy glamour. I drift into Christine's one night, a disco in the European tradition. There is a cover, and the slightly menacing fellow at the velvet-roped entrance makes a few of us wait before he deigns to admit us, a la Studio 54 in its heyday. That the place is half-empty does not matter: The Hustle is all about appearances.

There are tiers of tables, white-linened and candle-topped, just like in the nightclubs in the movies. A huge dance floor has inset twinkling lights. Balloons drop out of the sky. Later, there is a floor show with laser effects, and then a fog machine fills the place with smoke.

Sometime after midnight, the place fills with Cancun's finest. Yes, large groups of tourists flock here, but so do the locals, dressed in their Saturday-night finest. Little black dresses are everywhere, and the men are preening. I watch a young Latino man make an entrance, strutting down the aisle in perfect beat to the music, arms swinging just like Travolta. It is a bravura performance, and I want to applaud.

I go back out into the night, where the Hustle is swirling all around me. I tried to tell my new friend Moises who wants to move to the U.S. that the American dream is really here where he is; he needn't come to our side of the border to find it. And if he does make it, he might feel right at home, coming as he does from a place full of Hyatts and Outback Steakhouses and Dominos Pizzas. Squint your eyes and Kukulcan Boulevard is not much different from The Strip. Or from Main Street, minus the Hustle and the endless whistles of the tequila girls selling shots for a buck a throw.

Posted online 12/01/98.

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