Glitz and snafus.

Tianguis' tropical cocktail inspires bureaucratic hiccups 

Loaded with leaflets, cumbersome posters, stickers and as many free pens as I have fingers, I rush out of the Tianguis, chased by a buzzing army of desperate hotel reps--and this is just the first full day of the Sunday to Wednesday affair.

Mexico's tourism trade fair in Acapulco is the biggest in Latin America, and sweeps its delightfully decadent host city even further off its feet with ubiquitous promotional balloons and tall drinks the colors of the rainbow. Every year the customary mayhem of this tropical town is magnified, flights are jam-packed, hotels overbooked, and frenetic backslapping and party hopping are the order of the day, and night.

From breakfast to coffee to lunch to cocktail to dinner, flawlessly decorative edecanes ("promotional models," or hostesses) disentangle strands of bleached hair from their lacquered lashes and deliver cool, non-committal smiles to businessmen receiving gifts, acclaim and thanks from other businessmen.

Being a hospitality service industry, tourism sports a few businesswomen too. But most of the women around were edecanes, whose talent lie chiefly in their physiques, helped by deep decolletage. They also possess a remarkable skill at maintaining a low-body temperature--a top-end hostess has clearly learned how not to sweat. The only male I spied in a comparable state of undress was a poolside "Aztec dancer," who looked even less enthusiastic than the blonde babes, stamping listlessly (symbolically, one supposes) on his little pot of flame--in a surge of sea-breeze so dramatic his elaborate feather headdress looked set to blow away into the bar.

Yes, this is Tianguis, folks, and everyone who's anyone in the tourism industry attends.

Raising Cain with well over a thousand stands, the fair swells the city's Convention Center with a heavily air-conditioned din, braying laughter and New Age muzak. It is advertised on videos shown on first-class buses, gossiped about on the radio, and local Acapulquenos welcome it (taxi drivers stretch their prices a little too)-- many under the wrong impression that it is a free-for-all and anyone can wander in.

Far from it: You might get past the grandiose fountains, but the doors to the Center are guarded jealously by uniformed identification-tag checkers. Only on the last day may the public flood in to frazzle the remaining stumps of the exhibitors' nerves.

And, after a quarter of a century's experience (this was Tianguis XXVI) do you think it went smoothly?

Well ... why put an extra burden on the future by raising expectations? A fiasco with gafetes (ID tags) meant media representatives who had requested admittance a month previously were left remonstrating with resentful staff in the national press room (they didn't have very good computers) and officious employees (who did) in the international press room.

The opening address by renowned American author, Alvin Toffler, proclaimed that the industry was moving toward smaller accommodations and more personal service, and who am I (as an aggrieved journalist) to say that Mexico's tourism officials are lagging just a tad behind?

When I discovered my own nametag was mysteriously missing, my answer was to wear someone else's misprinted nametag. So, as Helene, I walked surreptitiously among the stalls, feeling somewhat sheepish when I handed out my card and blew my disguise.

"You can always beat up an edecon and steal her outfit if you need to get in," a friend suggested. Maybe that is what Helene was forced to do since, when I tried to return her tag so some other poor writer could use it, a smug-faced staffer informed me with a malicious gleam in his eye that the press office where the nametags are stored--still lighted and far from empty--was closed.

I wasn't going to insist. By then, I was worn out. Sectur made registration about as smooth and pleasant as paying your phone bill (as it happens, one of the most visible sponsors was Telmex), renewing your visa or dealing, God forbid, with Mexico's police. Perhaps I should have tried to bribe my way in.

With the Pentagon-like security clearance and the self-importance of the door people, once inside I hoped for something overwhelming and flamboyant, with a touch of Disneyland excess. But, despite a few colorful touches--a balsa-wood church spire, a cardboard reproduction of a San Miguel hacienda, two hot air balloons at the Pachuca stand and bright Huichol and Cora indigenous textiles from Nayarit--most stands failed to echo even the joyful kitsch of the cheap nightclubs on the Costera, just a few blocks away.

At least the event was lively. In addition to gringo hard-sell efficiency and the softer, feminine wiles of finger-clicking Miss Acapulcos in slippery pale satin, there was an impressive array of sales techniques.

The unsuspecting visitor is drawn in with tequila shots in a stylish Mariachi ambience (for Guadalajara's Chamber of Commerce), tiny CD Roms in parrot-hued wrappings (for Xcaret park's newest developments in Quintana Roo) and is not spared old-fashioned sales pitches. I was met at one stand with the nasal whine: "You'll be coming to my hotel won't you, guerita? When are you coming?" As he polished off the pitch with a creepy leer, I made a mental note to avoid that passageway. Too bad, as the booth belonged to Veracruz state, and the hotel in question had an airy, primary-colored Lego look that would have made it an appealing family destination.

The hucksters here are representing states touristic efforts, hotel chains, train rides, convention centers, swims-with-dolphins, website travel services, eco-adventure, car-rental systems, national parks, spas, "Treasures of Colonial Mexico," golf-courses, direct communications offers, bio-spheres, image promotion companies, new resorts, old resorts and--the icing on any cake--hostess rental services.

But all the smooth-talking sales people in the world couldn't gloss over the snafus, which went beyond the missing nametags. I wonder if Mr. Toffler noticed that the title of his major tome "Future Shock" had been comically warped (evidently in translation back from Spanish to English) as "The Shock of the Future" in the official Guide to Tianguis. If not, he couldn't have helped but hear its further distortion on the podium where he was presented as the author of "Shocking World."

Far from shocking, Tianguis was colorful, busy and despite the problems at the door, there was something reassuring about witnessing the gaudy parade of dream sellers. "We don't sell shoes, we sell memories:' one hotel CEO told me, jostling for attention. At Tianguis, each rep is more than eager to show you that their holiday paradise is at least one small notch above the sleaze and sun (or" beach, beer and burn." as one spa promoter told me) that the fair's host, Acapulco, still offers without shame.

Barbara Kastelein is a Mexico City-based freelance writer.