Buying a Telcel prepaid SIM in Mexico

Telcel is apparently the best local SIM option for visitors to Mexico.  There's some confusion about how best to acquire one, when reading through the various posts. Here's my experience in acquiring a SIM with the 26-day MX$150 prepaid plan (comes with unlimited calling and texting to/from Mexico/USA/Canada as well as 3GB of data that is usable in those same countries):

First I walked into a Telcel company store (not a store that displays a Telcel sign but is just a reseller).  Asked about buying a SIM along with the 26-day plan.  Was quoted $150 for the plan and another $150 for the SIM. Thanked and left.

Walked into an OXXO store (there's one pretty much at every other street corner). Was quoted $29 for the SIM, but the lady didn't know anything about the 26-day plan. She insisted that I must load a minimum of $50 to be able to activate the SIM, so a total of $79 with a useless plan.  Thanked and left.

Walked into another Telcel company store. The cashier told me that I could buy the 26-day plan. But first I would need to go to another window to buy a SIM, for which I would pay $116. So I asked "can I buy the SIM at OXXO and bring it to you to load the 26-day plan?"  --  "Yes".

Walked out to a different OXXO next door. Was quoted $30 for a SIM.  Here too I was told I should load the minimum of $50 but I said no, paid the $30 and left with the SIM.

Went back to the Telcel company store, handed the cashier the SIM packet (the phone number is printed on the cover) and she loaded on the 26-day plan for $150.

So a total of MX $180.

I had a lot of spare time so I did this for fun and to satisfy my curiosity as to the cheapest way to achieve this. Of course it would be far easier to just pay whatever asked at the first opportunity - it's really just a few dollars of difference.

Even at the maximum of MX$300, it's still just a third of what people pay for cell service in USA. So it makes sense what I read in posts, that people who travel to visit USA/Canada from Mexico or via Mexico, buy a Telcel SIM and a plan in Mexico before proceeding north, and then use it there.

Bus from La Paz (Mexico) to Balandra beach

Here’s the beach bus schedule at this time, November 2020. Per the sign posted at the La Paz Malecon Tourist Bus Terminal.

Outbound (to the beaches): 08:00, 11:00, 13:00, 15:00

There is heavy road construction going on, with a section of the road cut down to just one lane, and the workers control alternating traffic flows. In both directions we stood still for over 10 minutes waiting for our side’s turn to go. So the trip all the way to the end of the road (Playa El Tecolote) took just under an hour, where normally it takes 40 minutes.

There is no schedule for the inbound trip back to town. Simply, once the bus reaches the last beach, it turns around and begins the way back. So essentially you should be at the stop at 08:40, 11:40, 13:40, 15:40.

Maximum fare (all the way up to Balandra and El Tecolote) is currently MX$53 out and MX$50 in. Not sure why the difference.

As expected, since we took the 11:00 bus, Balandra beach was already at capacity due to the lower visitor limits imposed during COVID. So we went on to El Tecolote which is huge but unremarkable and not worth the trip.

Julia Elena Dávalos

I was 8 years old, in 1969. We were living in Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic. One day my dad came home with a new LP record – “Sangre Salteña” by Julia Elena Dávalos, an Argentinean artist with a powerful voice and high-pitched yee-huh’s all over the place. We immediately fell in love with her. We took the record with us when we moved back to Israel, and it was one of our most-played records for years, until one day it vanished. All that remained was a poor-quality cassette tape onto which I had recorded some of the songs.

I had met a few Argentineans around the world over the years, and always asked them if they knew of Julia Elena Dávalos. Some did, and some were even familiar with a number of her songs, but no one could tell me how I could go about getting a new record to replace the missing one.

When the Internet got going, I posted a question on an Argentinean forum, but no one there could help me either. Later on, when ecommerce had become commonplace, I found some Argentinean online stores selling CDs, everything from A to Z – everything except “Sangre Salteña”, that is.

Finally earlier this year, I made it to Argentina for the first time. Only spent two days there; it was the end of a 12-night cruise from Rio de Janeiro and I had to get back to work in the USA. I must have visited every record store in Buenos Aires in my quest to find the album. A couple of places had CDs of Julia Elena Dávalos' more-recent albums, which I immediately bought. But no one had “Sangre Salteña” or even heard of it. At the last store I visited, the lady did know the album but did not have it. She lamented with me that Argentineans were not doing enough to preserve their old treasures. She then suggested that I try my luck at a flea market at the other side of town. Short of that, she said, I would have to fly to Salta and beg for a copy from señora Dávalos herself.

A 10-minute cab ride later (taxis are so cheap in South America!) I was at that flea market. It was filled with antiques and dust, I usually don’t set foot in such places. I found a tiny record store that had thousands of old vinyl records in boxes stacked up five high all around. I browsed through several boxes and was about to give it up when the owner came over and asked what I was looking for. Good thing I still speak some Spanish. I said “Sangre Salteña de Julia Elena Dávalos”, and in about 30 seconds he pulled out the record from one of the boxes. It looked to be in quite bad shape, a few scratches on the surface and a crumbling envelope, but I didn’t care. I paid the 15 pesos that he commanded, and left with a smile from ear to ear.

A few weeks later I was back home in Israel. The old recordless envelope that we had was in better shape than the one I found in Buenos Aires, so I was going to transfer the record into that one. I opened the cabinet and pulled out the envelope. It was strangely heavy and stiff. I looked inside and pulled out a record… it was our old record. Somehow after going missing for many years it had reappeared, probably snuck back in by an embarrassed someone who had borrowed it and forgot to return!

Silly thing is, we now have two records but can’t play either: our turntable no longer works. So for now we’re still just humming “una noche de junio por la frontera…” while playing the bad cassette tape.

Last night I found señora Dávalos on Facebook. I’m not sure how I got there. I sent her a friend request, and let her know that she has devoted fans in Israel. She accepted it this morning already, with a fantastic thank-you note. Her Spanish was quite over my head, I'll need my dad to translate, but I think I gathered that she may have even read my stories on here!

“Sangre Salteña” is a treasure. If the recording company or anyone still has a good-quality master, I wish they would put it on a CD. And my other wish is that someone would post the lyrics of all the songs on the record, I can’t make them all out just by listening.

Sr. Miguel González

Thereafter (see Calle Cantera), I've been visiting the Dominican Republic every few years. When you've lived at a place as a child, had friends and went to school there, it feels like a second home. My dad, who lives in Israel, has been jealous of me every time I fly to Santo Domingo. He used to always ask me to look up a Señor Miguel González, a gentleman he worked with closely during our two-year stay in the Dominican Republic. Alas, Miguel González is as common a name in the Dominican Republic as David Cohen is in Israel. There are hundreds if not thousands of them. Several whole pages in the Dominican phonebook.

My Dominican childhood friends said they had no recollection or knowledge of the man, so while preparing for my 1995 visit, I posted a message on usenet, asking if anyone knew of this Señor Miguel González, who was an engineer with the Dominican ministry of agriculture back in the 60's. I wasn't expecting any serious response. A few days went by and suddenly an amazing email popped into my mailbox from a James Bazan of North Carolina: "We were neighbors in the Dominican Republic, although I'm sure you don't remember me. I was in 7th or 8th grade when you arrived in Santo Domingo. My father, Joaquin, worked at the US embassy, and my mother and yours were friends. I would be very interested in any of our former neighbors with whom you are in contact. They probably remember me as Jimmy."

I immediately phoned my parents and read the email to them. They certainly remembered Jimmy, his parents and sister. It was very exciting to have run into an old acquaintance like that on the Internet back in 1995, at its infancy. Regretfully, 13 years later, I've yet to actually meet with James for the first time since we left the Dominican Republic back in 1970.

So still no information about Señor González. Once in santo Domingo, I paid a visit to the Israeli embassy, thinking that they might have a record or contact information, because when my dad was working with Señor González it was on a mission sponsored by the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs. No luck there either.

Five years later, in June 2000, my parents came to the USA for the birth of their grandson (my sister lives in California). I thought to myself, my dad has never been back to the Dominican Republic since we had left it 30 years prior, and he turns green with envy every time I go there. He is now just a 7-hour flight away from there, and I have all these TWA frequent-flyer miles sitting in my account.

A week later we landed in Santo Domingo. We picked up a rental car and drove to the Hotel Hispañola - the same hotel that we had lived in for a few weeks when we first arrived in the country back in 1968. My dad was beside himself.

The next morning we got in the car and headed out to Azua - the province where my dad used to work. At the time, this trip took him the better part of the day. 30 years later, it took us 2 hours. The roads are much better but the drivers are even crazier. We drove around some villages and stopped by some people to ask if they knew where "Proyecto El Sisal" was. That was the name of the project that my dad had worked on at the time. No one knew anything about it, but they were nonetheless happy to chat with people from the holy land who spoke Spanish with a funny accent. They don't get too many tourists around there.

We drove around some more, when my dad noticed some houses built in Israeli style. That was it, his project. We stopped by a house where people were sitting in the yard. We were invited in for coffee. The tenants did not know of the project but were very excited to hear a foreigner tell them about how their neighborhood was built and their local agriculture developed many years ago.

Dad was happy and satisfied so we figured we would head back to Santo Domingo. We tried to find the way back to the highway, but didn't quite know how to get there. When we saw a group of men sitting near another group of Israeli-looking houses, I pulled over. Dad got out of the car and approached them. He asked them for directions to the road. One of the men got up and came up very close, looking at dad in a really funny way. He then pointed his finger at dad and said to him: "¡Usted es Arie!" ("you are Arie!"). My dad's name is Arie, and he turned red having heard that. These men had all worked on the old project and had recognized dad after 30 years. It was stunning. Someone shouted something to the boys in the yard and soon people came out to greet the person who had built their village and showed them the way out of poverty more than a generation ago. We were seated at a table and treated to delicacies, a celebration to honor my father. This must have been one of his most amazing and memorable days.

I don't remember nearly as much Spanish as my dad does, but I could gather that he was asking the men about Señor González. No, they didn't know his whereabouts, but someone had an old telephone number for him. It was a 5-digit number, whereas these days all numbers were 7-digits. Still, we thought we'd give it a try. We thanked everybody for the wonderful hospitality and set off on our way back to Santo Domingo. Back at the hotel, we tried the telephone number, but as anticipated - it was old and out of service. Oh well, we didn't really have much hope to ever find Señor González, and dad was completely in heaven already due to what had happened.

The next evening we were invited over to Leticia's, a sister of my childhood friend Guaroa. We were sitting in the living room with Leticia, Guaroa and their mom, Doña Amanda, telling them the story of our amazing day in Azua. We told them about the old telephone number and that we had given up any hope of finding Señor González. They agreed with us that it was a lost cause. Leticia asked what at all we knew about him, but all we really had was 30-year-old information about his employment at the time. What about his wife, Doña Amanda asked? Yes, he was married, dad answered, but his wife, Carmen, had passed away many years ago. Then, sounding excitedly surprised yet doubtful, Leticia said "could you be talking about the father of my friend Caridad...?"

Sí! -- dad and I jumped off the couch when we heard the name Caridad.

I seldom get excited or emotional about anything, but that must have been one of the most enchanted and exhilarating moments of my life. For years I had been asking Guaroa how to go about finding Señor González, only to eventually discover that he is no other than the father of Guaroa’s sister’s friend.

The surprises did not end there. Leticia then went on to inform us that it so happens that later in the evening they are invited to a party at Caridad’s house: Señor González’ birthday! She phoned Caridad and recanted the amazing saga. Of course dad and I were immediately invited to the party.

No one said anything to Señor González or the guests. We walked in with the Noboa family. Everybody stared at dad and me, wondering to themselves what these two tourists could be doing there. Caridad called her father over to see who had come to congratulate him. He stared at dad for a moment before recognizing who was standing in front of him. They fell into each other's arms, astonished.


Señor González and dad spent the next day touring the city together and catching up on the events of the three decades that had passed. I was happy to spend the day solo baking in the Dominican sun by the hotel's pool.

Amazing coincidences, eh? I wish I could find Yoram too.

Yoram Cnaan (Solomon) יורם כנען

After a week in Israel in steamy July 2007, I flew to Copenhagen where a cruise I was going on was departing from. My friend Lee from San Jose (California) flew separately and met me in Copenhagen. We stayed there for two days before boarding the Celebrity Constellation.

As we were walking around town, I suddenly thought of Yoram. Yoram served in the Israeli army in the same unit where I served, but not until after I had finished my three year service. I met him at a unit reunion party, and we clicked. We became very good friends for a long time. And then Yoram moved to France to study fashion, and after a while I moved to the USA. This was back in the late 80s, well before email, the Internet and Facebook, so we lost touch. Every once in a while I remembered Yoram and wondered how I might locate and see him again. Many times I searched on the Internet but found no mention of him. And then, for no reason at all, Yoram popped into my head, there in Copenhagen. I had a strange feeling. I thought that for sure I was going to run into him around the next corner or on the ship. I didn't, and it kept bothering me the whole week of the cruise. I was filled with the urge to find him.

After the cruise I returned to San Francisco. I asked a couple of old Israeli friends how we could track Yoram down. One guy remembered his dad's name who was living in Paris. Then I remembered his mom's name, who lived near Tel Aviv. I looked her up on the Internet in the Israeli phone book, and sure enough - there was her number. Why did it not occur to me all these years to contact her? Duh.

The phone rang, she answered. I said, hi my name is Zafrir, I'm an old friend of Yoram's from the army. I lost touch with him some 20 years ago when he moved to Paris. Any way I can reach him, please? She said no, he passed away 13 years ago.

It took me a good few seconds to regain the ability to speak. What happened, I whispered in a choking voice? She replied that after tiring of fashion, Yoram decided to change course, left Paris and was studying architecture, until he became ill. Did he return to Israel to study, I asked? No, she answered, he was living in Copenhagen...

I told her that I called her because I had just returned from Copenhagen where Yoram popped into my head and wouldn't leave. We were both stunned.

On my next trip to Israel last April, I met with her at Yoram's grave. She was so grateful to have someone come visit. She brought a photo album with her and I almost couldn't hold back the tears. I've had old relatives and even some young friends die before, but nothing ever hit me as hard as finding out about Yoram's death. The realization that I will never see my buddy again.

She visits the grave every Friday morning. Brings a watering can with her on the bus. Washes the tombstone, waters the plants, trims the stems of fresh flowers.

Edited to add:

Yoram's mom Batia Solomon passed away in September 2022 at the blessed age of 87. She was buried at Yoram's side. Yoram's grave appears to have been remodeled to match Batia's. They are beautiful together. Well done son/brother David.

Calle Cantera, Santo Domingo

I was standing in front of a one-story house at Calle Cantera in Santo Domingo, taking pictures of it, when a woman came out of the house behind me and approached me rapidly, shouting something as she neared. She was clearly very excited about something. It was some time in February of 1992.

I was 9 years old when we left the Dominican Republic. We had only been there two years, but to a kid that young, it seemed like a really long time. I spoke fluent Spanish then, but after just a few months back in Israel with no Spanish-speaking people around, I quickly forgot most of it. Nowadays I can just get by with the very little that's left in memory.

It had been 22 years since I had last been there, at La Cantera. Just a couple of hours earlier I landed at Santo Domingo airport for my first visit in the Dominican Republic since our departure in 1970. I was now 31 years old. I got into a rental car and took the road into the city. When I accepted that I had no idea where I was going, I stopped by a communications center and phoned my dad in Israel for directions. Did I really expect him to remember anything after 22 years...? Well, he didn't. From my description of the area he knew where I was, but couldn't remember how to go from there. So I got back in the car and drove around for a while. Finally, I parked the car and hailed a taxi. Asked the driver to take me to Calle de La Cantera, an obscure alley in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. To my great surprise, it was only a few blocks away. He dropped me off in front of the house where I had lived over two decades prior.

The front yard was now gated, there was a strange construct on the roof, and the garden was very well developed with abundant plants and flowers. But the house itself looked exactly the way we had left it. I took some pictures and was preparing to leave when I realized that the woman who was rushing towards me was shouting "Zafi" - my shortname!

I was dumbfounded. She grabbed and hugged me and finally explained that she was Amanda, Guaroa's mother. They were our former neighbors in the house at the other end of the street. Guaroa was my age and his younger sister was the age of my younger sister. We were childhood friends.

I asked Doña Amanda how on Earth she could have recognized me, considering that she last saw me when I was a little boy. She said, "an obvious foreigner, this age, standing in front of this particular house, taking photos. Who else could it be?"

She then took me by the hand to the front door of the house and rang the bell. She told her neighbors who I was, the boy of the Israeli family. They knew all about us. We were invited into the house to have a look. I saw our living room, the kitchen where Rosa the maid cooked tostones and diced mangos for us, the porch where we had our kids' pool, and my very own old room. What an amazing experience, who would've dreamed I'd get to see that?

After thanking the family profusely, we went over to Doña Amanda's. On the way, I asked about Guaroa - was he still living in Santo Domingo and was there a chance I could meet him? Well, not only was he in town, she said, but he's right here in the house fixing something for her...

This was ridiculous, I couldn't believe my luck. A couple of minutes later I was already shaking hands and hugging with my old pal. And then we went on to meet Carlos - another one of the former neighborhood kids. In the evening we all went out to the bars to celebrate our surprise reunion.

At one bar Guaroa met Lucy and they have been together ever since. And I have since been visiting the Dominican Republic, my second home, every few years.