Evening was descending on the little fishing village of Puerto Vallarta, on the west coast of Mexico. The fading crimson sun threw its dying rays along the Sierra Madre mountainsides, its orange glow seeming to ignite the white baroque balconies and the hillside the hillside casitas on the other side of the port. I wandered slowly along the cobblestone streets of the malecon, listening to the continual honking of an old flatbed truck laden down with campesinos, which tried  to clear a path round a donkey cart blocking its way. The labourers were tired, returning after a long day in the fields and stood huddled together on the gaily-painted vehicle, apparently disinterested in the altercation.

I turned off the zacalo and made my way along the Avendia Juarez towards the Cuale River, as the evening bell struck from the Church of Guadalupe. A rising breeze carried the loud chimes down to the washerwomen working by the river and told them it was time to gather their clothes from the bougainvillea plants that flowered along its banks and make their way homeward for the night. The sound of the bells lingered in the air for a while, blending with the rhythm of a nearby mariachi band, then it dipped into a taco stand to calm the sound of some sizzling corn bread and left to carry the last bell to the laughing children who searched for crabs along the beach. Things moved slowly here, with the pace of life mostly dictated by the rising of tequila glasses and the turning of the tides. At least, that what it was like before Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor arrived in 1963 to film The Night of the Iguana. On that day, the little fishing village lost its solitude and inherited a tourist industry that encouraged the local people to sell their souls in the shape of home-made tablecloths and posies of flowers plucked from the blue jacaranda that lined the stucco walls along the streets. For a while I stood outside the cantina and listened to the music of the mariachi band. They were playing ‘La Cucaracha’, a song, which was as old as Mexico itself. They sang, and as the evening crowds gathered around them, their tune seemed to gain strength, as if this was a song of the revolution, something spiritual, traditional, an experience not to be missed.

For a moment a vague memory stirred and I remembered Heidi, a friend from California and another evening that we had spent in Mazatlan, a fishing port further up the coast. It was there, on a similar evening that we had met a mariachi player called Jose, who had stood proudly in his silver studded charro suit and told us in broken English.

"Dee only ting more Mexican than tequila ees mariachi, and amigo, it ees a poor hombre that has one without de other".

"Mariachi ees more than the music, amigo, it ees the sound of the revolution, it ees the culture and spirit of the people of Mexico", he continued,

The word mariachi refers to the troubadour musicians, commonly seen in restaurants or strolling the streets of Mexican towns, who dress in wide brimmed hats, often playing a variety of instruments which include violins, guitars, basses, vihuelas (a 5 string guitar) and trumpets. Their songs tell stories about machismo, love, betrayal, politics, revolutionary heroes and possibly even animals. The Mariachi originated in the southern part of the state of Jalisco sometime in the 19th century and the music was brought to Mexico City around the time of the revolution. No one is sure where the name maraichi actually comes from although a variety of theories have been postulated. The original theory held that the word was derived from the French word for wedding ‘marriage’ because of the type of music, which is played at these events. The only problem with this idea is that the music originates in a part of Mexico, which the French never visited and it had already began before their arrival in 1864. Another theory states that the word comes from the indigenous name of the Pilla or Cirimo tree, whose wood is used to make guitars. If this were true then the word mariachi would be applied to the instrument itself and not to those who play it. It has also been suggested that the name comes from a festival in honor of a virgin known as Maria H. (mah-ree-ah AH-chay) at which musicians played and that over time they were given this name.

The truth is that no one knows for sure where the name actually originated, but it is one that is associated with a great deal of prestige not only in Mexico, but presently all over the world. The instruments originally used by the mariachi consisted of vihuelas, small five string guitars, introduced by the Spaniards to be used at masses and religious ceremonies but the criollos (Mexicans of Spanish descent) began using them to make popular revolutionary music as well.

The criollos of the 19th century were intent in wiping out every last trace of the Spanish presence in Mexico and when the colonial priests protested about the use of these instruments, they freely supported the fledgling mariachi music. The musicians of this period found employment at the haciendas and grand ranchos where they usually earned more than the average farm labourer. But after the Mexican revolution, many of the haciendas were forced to let them go, so they began wandering from town to town singing songs of revolutionary heroes and carrying news from one village to another. At this time, their orchestra consisted mostly of vihuelas and harps. By the early part of the last century the mariachi began to realise their popularity and started playing in concert halls around Guadalajara for a fee. Wide based violins, falsetto singing, button accordions and even saxophones were added as the musicians expanded their repertoire to include waltzes and polkas. The most prized of the mariachis came from the state of Jalisco, particularly the areas around Cocula and Tecaltitlan. With the advent of radio and television their popularity continued to grow and soon recording contracts were signed and they were paired with famous singers like Jorge Negrete and Pedro Infante. Due to the rising popularity of Jazz and Cuban music, the trumpet and saxophone were adopted, pushing the violins into second place and, in many cases, replacing the harp. Movies were made, representing Mexico as a place populated with macho men whose live revolved around the charro, tequila and, of course, the mariachi. Today, mariachi music is an integral part of Mexico's culture, providing a background for charreadas and bullfights and the strolling troubadours celebrate its history each September in its birthplace, Jalisco.

As the song ended, the bells struck for last time. For a few moments, I felt really close to Mexico and in memory of Heidi, I paused for a little longer to ask the mariachi band to play our favourite song 'Granada'. They smiled as if they knew I was reminiscing about her and they started singing spontaneously in unison,

'Granada, manola, cantada en coplas preciosas,
no tengo otra cosa que darte que un ramo de rosas,
de rosas de suave fragrancia que le dieran marco a la Virgen morena'