Mexico is a great place to vacation if you’re aware of the hazards: Not the dodgy sanitation or drug cartels, but the timeshare salesmen.
My resort in Cabo
A timeshare is a vacation home, sort of. You purchase time at a resort, pay an annual maintenance fee and can exchange time at one resort for another. It’s a lousy investment, but my late wife and I found that owning a timeshare counterbalanced our customary frugality: We felt compelled to take vacations at nice resorts and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I often vacation at my home resort in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and have used timeshare exchanges in a variety of places in the U.S., Mexico and the Caribbean.
Timeshare selling is practically a national sport in Mexico because the country has more tourists and fewer consumer protection laws than most places. Arriving at the airport in a resort town like Puerto Vallarta or Los Cabos entails walking through what some locals call the “shark tank.” It’s a room full of official-looking airport counters where friendly people accost you with offers of transportation or tours. Their job is to sign you up for a 90-minute resort tour and timeshare presentation. I’ve learned to avoid eye contact.
You get the same commercial bonhomie from tourist information booths around town and random strangers who approach you on the street. The practice is so widespread that some legitimate tourist information booths have “no timeshare” signs. On one vacation we were walking on the beach and stopped at a quaint, thatched-roof restaurant… where the waiter tried to sell us a timeshare.
The timeshare sales presentation starts with an attractive young person who gives you a tour of the resort. Then you’re ushered to a sales room, perhaps with a dramatic ocean view (all this can be yours!), where a succession of more experienced salesmen give you a high-pressure sales pitch. The object is to get you to sign a purchase contract before you leave the room because Mexican law does not give consumers the right to cancel a contract once it’s signed.
My timeshare company, Universal Vacation Club’s Villa Group, does an excellent job of building and operating resorts. But their sales force inhabits the same ethical swamp as the rest of the industry and timeshare owners are not immune. Over the years my wife and I upgraded our timeshare a couple of times as our needs changed. During a recent vacation in Cabo San Lucas, I signed up for what they euphemistically called a member update in exchange for a discount on my restaurant tab.
I knew what I was getting into. After the pretty lady gave me the obligatory resort tour, I explained to a tag team of sales guys that I was interested in trading down to a smaller unit than my current two-bedroom condo in exchange for greater flexibility. Instead, they offered me an upgrade to a three-bedroom penthouse: a steal at slightly more than my annual income. When I reminded them that I’m not Donald Trump, they countered with several smaller offers.
Oh, the promises they made! Upgrading to a higher membership category would give me preferential treatment. A special toll-free number to a private concierge. Nicer beach towels, spa discounts, even complimentary bathrobes. All of which would cost a great deal more than I’m willing to pay. I got up and began moving toward the door.
But they weren’t through with me. Outside the sales room yet another guy asked me to take a survey on my sales experience, and then asked how much I would be willing to pay for an upgrade. I made up a figure that was about half the price of their lowest offer, and the guy went to check with his manager.
He came back a minute later, exclaiming: “Good news!” The offer had been reduced by 15 percent. I shook my head, picked up my discount card and got out of there. The rest of my vacation was considerably more pleasant.
Owning your dream vacation
Mexico is a great place to vacation if you’re aware of the hazards: Not the dodgy sanitation or drug cartels, but the timeshare salesmen.
My resort in Cabo
A timeshare is a vacation home, sort of. You purchase time at a resort, pay an annual maintenance fee and can exchange time at one resort for another. It’s a lousy investment, but my late wife and I found that owning a timeshare counterbalanced our customary frugality: We felt compelled to take vacations at nice resorts and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I often vacation at my home resort in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and have used timeshare exchanges in a variety of places in the U.S., Mexico and the Caribbean.
Timeshare selling is practically a national sport in Mexico because the country has more tourists and fewer consumer protection laws than most places. Arriving at the airport in a resort town like Puerto Vallarta or Los Cabos entails walking through what some locals call the “shark tank.” It’s a room full of official-looking airport counters where friendly people accost you with offers of transportation or tours. Their job is to sign you up for a 90-minute resort tour and timeshare presentation. I’ve learned to avoid eye contact.
You get the same commercial bonhomie from tourist information booths around town and random strangers who approach you on the street. The practice is so widespread that some legitimate tourist information booths have “no timeshare” signs. On one vacation we were walking on the beach and stopped at a quaint, thatched-roof restaurant… where the waiter tried to sell us a timeshare.
The timeshare sales presentation starts with an attractive young person who gives you a tour of the resort. Then you’re ushered to a sales room, perhaps with a dramatic ocean view (all this can be yours!), where a succession of more experienced salesmen give you a high-pressure sales pitch. The object is to get you to sign a purchase contract before you leave the room because Mexican law does not give consumers the right to cancel a contract once it’s signed.
My timeshare company, Universal Vacation Club’s Villa Group, does an excellent job of building and operating resorts. But their sales force inhabits the same ethical swamp as the rest of the industry and timeshare owners are not immune. Over the years my wife and I upgraded our timeshare a couple of times as our needs changed. During a recent vacation in Cabo San Lucas, I signed up for what they euphemistically called a member update in exchange for a discount on my restaurant tab.
I knew what I was getting into. After the pretty lady gave me the obligatory resort tour, I explained to a tag team of sales guys that I was interested in trading down to a smaller unit than my current two-bedroom condo in exchange for greater flexibility. Instead, they offered me an upgrade to a three-bedroom penthouse: a steal at slightly more than my annual income. When I reminded them that I’m not Donald Trump, they countered with several smaller offers.
Oh, the promises they made! Upgrading to a higher membership category would give me preferential treatment. A special toll-free number to a private concierge. Nicer beach towels, spa discounts, even complimentary bathrobes. All of which would cost a great deal more than I’m willing to pay. I got up and began moving toward the door.
But they weren’t through with me. Outside the sales room yet another guy asked me to take a survey on my sales experience, and then asked how much I would be willing to pay for an upgrade. I made up a figure that was about half the price of their lowest offer, and the guy went to check with his manager.
He came back a minute later, exclaiming: “Good news!” The offer had been reduced by 15 percent. I shook my head, picked up my discount card and got out of there. The rest of my vacation was considerably more pleasant.
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