The urgency to flee rests on a desire to be far away from myself on the anniversary of a day that started as a celebration of promises but dissolved into a compulsory yearly reminder of the trouble and the irrational.
As escapism goes Cancún is not free of impertinent associations. The resort town falls under the heading of Caribbean destinations even as it is firmly on the Mexican mainland. I have spent time on a few Caribbean islands: on St. Barthélemy I forged a compromise that never looks more calcified than in the middle of June.
After one failed attempt at landing the AeroMexico plane roared back to life, swung around and returned to touch down on the single runway open at this ungodly hour. The before dawn arrival granted the airline a license to forgo breakfast, an omission that I corrected with a Starbucks pit stop once I cleared the customary immigration (but not customs) and turned a brief medical formulary to the doctors who greeted the plane.The H1N1 influenza pandemic crisis (still inappropriately called swine flu) grabbed the headlines when it struck Mexico last month. Worried and weary officials promptly volunteered the precautions to be taken. Everything being equal, it would be wise to reconsider nonessential travel south of the border. After a couple of weeks of intense coverage the news cycle moved on to other impending doom. In spite of a few isolated cases we, in the United States, needed not worry. Preventive measures had been activated and our dedicated health professionals were on top of it. Cancelled reservations sent the Mexican tourism sector into a tailspin. Time to hit the road.
As of this morning (14 June 2009) there are 36,821 cases of H1N1 influenza in the world. One country dwarfs all others with 17,855 cases - nearly half of the planet’s total. Don’t jump too fast to conclude that a visit to Mexico under these circumstances is reckless. A case may be made that a visit here constitutes a wise move because Mexico counts “only” about a third as many cases as in the world’s leader.
No news segment that I have watched or article that I have read mentions that the U.S. tops all other nations in the number of reported flu cases. When Mexico sat in that unenviable position, the reminder was broadcast every night and printed the following morning. The country reports more deaths but the sheer probability that I will be exposed to the H1N1 virus is certainly no greater here than at home.
I timed my connecting flight to Cancún to be inconvenient in order to allow me a few hours to check out Mexico City, at least the Zócalo in the historical center.
Stories abound about unscrupulous taxi drivers who extort exorbitant fares, not to mention the downright criminal cabbies that kidnap passengers until they cough up their bank card’s access code. Only two taxi companies have received permission by Mexico City airport authorities to provide ground transportation. Fares are set by zones and paid at a booth inside the terminal. The airport lists the fares but fails to provide a map to locate the zones. Neither does Sitio 300, one of the authorized companies.
D.F.
A trip to the Zócalo, in Zone 3, calls for a fare of 127 pesos. The Sitio 300 agent inexplicably bumped me up to Zone 8 and expected 225 pesos for the journey. The “misunderstanding” did not last long. I was soon inside a four-door cab heading for the Sheraton Centro Histórico at breakneck speed, reaching the hotel in 15 minutes instead of the typical 40. The driver zoomed past every single vehicle, sometimes uncomfortably close. He stopped for a fleeting moment at red traffic lights and took off much before they had a chance to change color.
I did not look at the speedometer or suggest a tamer speed. I did not want to call undue attention to my state of mind even if to prevent death. Relieved that I was not inside one of these ubiquitous (two-door) VW Beetles where the driver controls ingress and egress, I elaborated emergency evacuation scenarios. Privately.
I met Francisco, press relation officer for INAH, the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, for an improvised early morning tour of the city center and breakfast. We drove past the stately Palacio de Bellas Artes twice in a search for a parking space along the cobblestone streets.
Near the Templo Mayor a group of indigenous Indians from Chiapas rang in the Sunday with mournful mañanitas. An encampment bore signs protesting mistreatment of native peoples.
By happenstance we arrived at the Zócalo as a contingent of 200 soldiers in pressed uniforms, shiny black boots with white laces and assault rifles readied for the 08h00 flag raising ceremony. Much shorter and much tanner than me, they deployed across the world’s second largest public square (after Red Square) to the sound of drums, trumpets and military shouts. An enormous flag unfurled slowly while the crowd listened to the national anthem.
The job done, the soldiers returned to the Palacio Nacional, the official presidential residence of Felipe Calderón, which occupies the entire east side of the Zócalo on a site that once housed Moctezuma II’s New Palace when the town was an island in the middle of lake and went by the name of Tenochtitlán. 
Hernán Cortés and his band of conquistadores - aided by outlier populations unhappy with the central authority - crushed the Aztec Empire during a two-year conquest that began in 1519. On the site of Aztec sacred grounds he erected a small church that would evolve over two centuries into the Catedral Metropolitana, the largest Catholic edifice in the Americas. 
Francisco dissuaded me from taking the metro back to the airport as was my original plan. We asked a concierge at the Majestic - more somber than grandiose - to call a taxi (never hail a cab on the street, ¡por favor!) for the ride back to the airport, a journey with an “official” price of 150 pesos according to him. I could phone Sitio 300, he said, but they would charge me twice the morning’s 127 pesos, once for each direction. (Later, correspondence with this company indicated that the price is the same for either trip, from or to the airport. The concierge of the Sheraton Centro Histórico e-mailed me a quote of 240 pesos, which he defended because taxis from the hotel are “mas lujosos, mas grandes, aire acondicionado.” If you don't understand the descriptives, chauffeurs might be in a position to translate because, for the price, they are also bilingual.)
Further, 150 pesos would take me only as far as Terminal 1. T2 cost an extra 30 pesos, a surcharge eliminated after a quick round of negotiations.
Francisco agreed that taxis in Mexico City were “complicated” as I nodded to the elderly driver who kindly kept the speeding to a minimum. This time I chanced a peek at the speedometer and noted it registered 115 kph on the viaduct expressways. As we neared the terminal the driver nervously asked me to pay the fare before dropping me off, avoiding the potential inquisitive glare of the other, more “official” taxis.
The admirable policy of set fares for trips from the airport into town meets with spontaneous competition for the return trip. Resourceful taxi drivers collude with hotel staff to capitalize (prey?) on uninformed customers whose bargaining skills will determine the cost of getting back to the airport.
In my town, the epicenter all of things civil and tasteful, City Hall authorizes the more than 20 cab companies to operate a dissimilar multi-tier fare structure. With the power of law, the municipal government enforces a variance of the Mexico City chaos except that is not open to negotiation. With a little bit more time and 2 pesos - possibly the cheapest subway fares in the world – I could have taken the metro. In Santa Barbara where a profusion of cabs pursues a bar hopping crowd in fear of a D.U.I. arrest, late evening options are few. City Hall does not think it is necessary to advocate for direct bus service.
As I waited for the flight to Cancún (it would leave 45 minutes late after the captain piloted it back to the gate to pick up an additional 30 passengers) I fired off a couple of e-mails compliments, again, of Starbucks and its Prodigy (is that where Prodigy went?) Movíl’s WiFi connection that works all over the country.
Dawn’s muted darkness obscured the pollution layer that hovers over the vast high-altitude (2100 meters) central valley ringed by mountains and volcanoes where 18 millions live and work when I flew in. By midday the brownish muck is plainly visible. I was not unhappy to be heading to Mexico’s Caribbean coast even if the stereophonic coughing of passengers in 13A and 15A brought my mind back to the topic of swine flu.
Kin and Ha
The plane blazed a path in an ocean of puffy clouds that left enough openings to catch a glimpse of the impossibly blue sea off of Mexico’s Caribbean coast, a designation that I reserve for islands not the continental mainland. The humidity, feared this time of year, did not overwhelm me. Rather, I took an immediate liking to it, equating it with the tropical climate of Singapore, Bali, Hawai’i and the Caribbean more than the oppressive Florida and Louisiana heat.
Blessed with some change in my pocket I was able to phone Cancun Shuttle with which I had arranged prepaid transportation but whose driver was not to be seen. Attendants at another shuttle company suggested I hire them and ask for reimbursement later. Yeah, right.
The “official airport shuttle” does not have a desk at Cancun, at least not in the terminal where my AeroMexico flight dropped me. I managed a phone conversation in Spanish - always a big first step - and an employee showed up fast but it took 15 minutes to shop me around to another shuttle service.
Another crazy fast drive later and I settled in my room at Ambiance Villas Kin Ha with the pool and beach lined up below my window. A dip in the ocean sounded very refreshing after an overnight (and then some) in the air. Without sunglasses the sun’s intensity bothered me less than I expected. My blue wide rim hat shaded my eyes from the rays but did nothing to lessen the reflection off the sand. Somewhere during the last 24 hours I misplaced a good pair of sunglasses. I was going to be miserable without them.
The water was so pleasant that I did not hesitate to submerge myself. The irony of living in Southern California is that reasonable people do not venture into the Pacific without a wetsuit for very long. At the height of summer, the temperature of the ocean does not exceed 20 degrees, a frigid level. As a matter of principle I refuse to get dressed to go into the water. A bathing suit is the extent to which I agree to cover up. Which translates into never swimming at all.
But not here: absolutely gorgeous!I bobbed in the water with my snorkel gear (sans fins) for a good half hour then retreated to a chaise lounge set up on the chalky white sand under a palapa. The curve of the bay, the fleecy clouds, the sway of the coconut trees lulled me to the edge of sleep. I fought it back by ordering a bountiful shrimp ceviche and an order of guacamole for an equitable 159 pesos.
I scanned the horizon for Cape San Antonio on the Guanahacabibes Peninsula. Beyond Isla Mujeres I could only see water, the turbulent channel where the Gulf of Mexico flushes into the Caribbean Sea. The waves added notes of son and guajira to their own rhythm that pulled me deeper into a Cuban reverie, a tantalizing (and illegal for U.S. citizens) escapade 200 km away.
The Ambiance Villas Kin Ha is a small property, perfectly adequate for my needs. It offers one-, two- and even three-bedroom suites but not true villas. TripAdvisor travelers rate it best specialty lodging and guidebooks also extend positive reviews. At the last minute I reserved two nights in a standard room for 168 USD including breakfast.It occupies a choice location protected from the open ocean by Isla Mujeres at km. 8½ on Blvd. Kukulcán, the artery that travels the length of the barrier island that makes up Cancún’s zona hotelera. Vacationers do not jet to Cancún to be in Cancún proper. Nor do they choose to border murky Laguna Nichupté. They prefer to set up shop in one of the 68 hotels on the thin strip of land that faces the Caribbean Sea, if not always with beach access (guests at the Hyatt sunbathe at a nearby one). The Mexican government gave birth to the zona hotelera 35 years old when the first hotel (with generator and trucked-in water) opened after studies picked the desolate island as the ideal destination sandbox for the international set. Today international hotel chain high rises – but no residential housing - dot Kukulcán’s 25 kilometers.
My initial choice was to stay at the Intercontinental Presidente but relented after it took the hotel and the chain’s customer service division a full week to address (and barely, at that) very basic questions. Ineffectual service hides behind pretty pictures and lofty promises. I did not have far to go to find alternative lodging: Ambiance sits next door to the sycophant Presidente. The InterContinental representative’s lax understanding of what customer service entails completely turned me off to the chain.
Striking architecture, opulent design and, with optimism, service attract guests who will not resist the seduction of indolence under a tropical sun. Many resorts are all-inclusive, pricing room rates to include food, beverages and sometimes activities and tours. Too often these attractive (if pricey) options seal their guests in a fantasy world that aspires to represent the locality but instead excludes it. Without the need to seek sustenance off the property, the experience limits itself to interaction with other vacationers who likely flew in from the same country. For those with but a timid desire to explore the “other,” the isolation hijacks the essential purpose of travel. As a rule, the richness of the moment seldom parallels the expense of the location.
I topped breakfast with another plunge into the shallow waters, itself followed by a semi nap before I rustled the energy (not accompanied by a burning desire) to catch the red R1 bus (7½ pesos; buses being, with supermarkets, the rare business to deal in fractions of pesos) into Cancún’s centro. The city resembles other Mexican towns I have seen. With charity in mind I will agree that its charms may be more extensive than what I experienced after an hour and a half spent walking noisy or fractured streets. Or both. The orderly bus stops on Kukulcán are replaced in el centro by a far more casual approach. When the expected bus arrives on the scene, flag it. Likely, it’ll stop wherever you happen to stand.
Mouth of the well
A pro at riding public buses I got off at La Isla, the upscale shopping center where I was to pick up my car rental, instead of asking for a lift from my hotel. I found a place to purchase a pair of sunglasses but balked when I realized prices were expressed in USD. The symbol for pesos is the same as for the dollar ($) and $140 (pesos) seemed a fair price but what the store had in mind was more along the lines of $140 (dollars). At a kiosk minutes later I selected a pair of Oakleys marked 180 pesos for which I offered 150. I wasn’t that far off.
The dining scene at La Isla leans heavily on American chains (Chilis, Johnny Rockets, Planet Hollywood, Hooters and even two Starbucks). I was looking for something more adventurous and tried a chocolate maya at Ah Cacao, a “xoco chic” café according to Travel + Leisure. I have no idea what that means but I enjoyed my understated hot coco. Did they mean coco chic and misspelled it?
My credit card extends insurance coverage when I rent a car, a benefit that saves me up to $15 per day in the U.S. The provision applies in Mexico as well - in fact to all but six countries in the world: Australia, Ireland, Israel, Italy Jamaica and New Zealand - but legal matters intervene in favor of purchasing insurance locally. In case of accident, police arrest the drivers of both cars until the matter of financial responsibility has been settled. A detail best avoided.
I had made peace with the fact I would need to purchase car rental insurance and with the dubious pricing strategy that advertises an automobile for 9 USD a day (half that with local agencies) but whose real cost catapults to 25 USD. Even with a written confirmation in hand, the National representative in Cancún insisted that additional mandatory third party liability insurance needed to be factored in. Mandatory insurance that was not disclosed in the original quote that the phone reservation agent in the U.S. assured me covered all I needed. If an item is mandatory, why is it not included in the price? What is the purpose other than to mislead?
No receipt would be tended upon return of the car three days later but the charge on my credit card statement would come to $127.07. Fraudulent.
The makeshift Yucatán map printed inside a tourist brochure lacked precision to be used for navigation. The airport cutoff road to the cuota, the toll highway between Cancún and Mérida, came to a dead end. I proceeded towards the city and spent a good half hour navigating its glum outskirts until after many a roundabout and speed bump the sign for the cuota materialized above the road. The unexpected interlude rankled me, nearly prompting me to cancel the trip to Chichén Itzá. I decided to press ahead, with my right foot weighing down a bit more than legally permissible on the accelerator but not enough to catch the eye of marauding police officers on the prowl for a little morbida.
The INAH contact in the D.F. arranged an after-hour guided visit of the Mayan ruins, a treat I could not pass up. But it is a long schlep to Chichén, interminable on the free road specked with hundreds of speed bumps in every village but a little less than two hours on the toll highway.I do not exaggerate when I claim that I saw only half a dozen vehicles on the cuota’s 180-some kilometers between the Cancún outskirts and Pisté, the exit for Chichén. The first toll booth (214 pesos) marks the border between the states of Quintana Roo and Yucatán, site of an unusual customs checkpoint. Officials eye traffic with suspicion, on the lookout for drug shipments and Yucatán residents laden with cheap retail merchandise acquired in Cancún’s big box stores, cheaper than at home.
The second toll taker extracts a much smaller donation (53 pesos), an aggregate sum that nevertheless far exceeds what local residents can afford. The state’s average daily wage at the end of 2007 was 175.40 pesos according to INEGI, the national institute of statistics, which notes that the daily minimum wage stood at 49 pesos. A Cancún-Pisté roundtrip represents three days’ wages for the average earner, nearly 11 for those at the minimum wage level.
Figures like these explain the absence of traffic on the cuota. Another access barrier exists for residents of the myriad villages along the path of the toll road, a physical rather than financial obstacle: the highway counts a single onramp/offramp along its entire course at Valladolid/Tizimín.
In the end I knocked on the door of the unadorned INAH office 15 minutes late. Abel, my guide, walked me past El Castillo without acknowledgment until we paused in the shade of a tree where I listened to his stories.
When British explorers came upon Chichén Itzá, the mouth of the well of the Itzá people, in the middle of the 19th century they found its long abandoned buildings reclaimed by the jungle. El Castillo, the iconic pyramid, laid under dense vegetation.Chichén Itzá became a regional capital around the end of the first millennium, a time when the Maya civilization reached its highest state of development. Mayans had developed a writing and counting system. They excelled at mathematics and astronomy, two disciplines that come in alignment at Chichén in a number of ways.
Each staircase of the Castillo pyramid counts 91 steps to reach the temple on top. Counting the single final step this amounts to 365, the number of days in the solar year. On each face the staircase divides 9 terraces into 18, the number of months in the Maya calendar. There are 52 stone panels on each face, a symbolic representation of the number of years required for the two Maya calendars (the solar year and the 260-day year) to align and repeat. Near sunset on the days of the spring and autumn equinoxes, the sun’s rays hit the terraces and project a light and shadow interplay that connects with the carved head of Kukulcán, the plumed serpent, at the base of the pyramid to form an undulating snake. The Maya deity denotes power (strong bite), humility (lives on the ground) and fertility (live births unlike other snakes). The Aztec called him Quetzalcoatl.
On 23 December 2012 the last of the 13 “great cycles,” periods of 144,000 days since the mythical date of creation, will come to an end. This conjecture has, of course, given rise to a host of cataclysmic prophecies. 
El Castillo is in fact two pyramids, one built atop the other to the same proportions 52 years later. Abel did not receive permission for to climb the internal staircase. Nor is climbing the steep (45-degree) external steps allowed now that Chichén has been crowned one of the new seven wonders of the world. We ducked under the rope around the Group of Thousand Columns (Grupo de las Mil Columnas) and ascended to the top of the equally precipitous Temple of the Warriors (Templo de los Guerreros), both examples of Toltec influence. The best approach is to climb on a sideways traverse until the edge and then turn in the opposite direction. The zigzag path takes the edge off gravity’s pull on the way down. 
The Temple is richly decorated with stone carvings and sculptures, some still exhibiting traces of the original color paint. A pair of statues of chac mool, the reclining messenger of the gods resting on its back, crowned the top on a level summit platform not fully visible from the grassy plaza below. It felt supremely peaceful even as I knew priests performed sacrifices on this spot and that offerings were placed on chac mool’s stomach.
A parrot streaked the early evening sky accompanied by a cacophony of bird calls to which Abel added his own rendition. From a point between El Castillo and the Platform of Venus his hand clapping reverberated as the quetzal’s call.In the Ball Court (Juego de Pelota) Abel refuted the meanings attributed to the infamous game where the winner – or is it the loser? - would lose his head. Players, wearing heavy padding to protect against the solid rubber ball, relied on elbows, knees, and hips but not hands or feet to maneuver the 3 to 4½-kilo ball into a stone loop high above the sides of the court. Carvings and archeological evidence are inconclusive, he said. Interpretation can go either way but pok-ta-pok not a simple game about amongst friends.
Abel brought me to the top of the Temple of the Jaguars (Templo de los Jaguares) overlooking the ball court and a carved tzompantli, a stone rendition of the wooden rack where sacrificial skulls were displayed.We followed the straight-as-an-arrow sacbé on a guard’s borrowed Intrepida motocicleta toward the Sacred Cenote (Cenote Sagrado) but the valiant machine died halfway. We continued on foot to the opening in the forest where underground rivers surface, a common peculiarity on the pancake flat Yucatán peninsula that is without traditional waterways.
We concluded the tour with a stop at the Ossuary (El Osario), externally similar to El Castillo but holding a series of tombs, and at the Observatory (El Caracol, because of the curving, snail-like, staircase) kissed by the evening sun. I skipped the nightly sound-and-light show and parted ways with Abel in Pisté where I wished him well on his first-ever upcoming trips to the Arizona and Colorado. A man who speaks with an American accent borrowed from visitors had never been granted a tourist visa until now. A visit to Chichén Itzá (08h – 17h) costs 111 pesos (plus 10 pesos for parking), a sum that does not include a guide. While there are a few interpretive signs in front of the ruins, a knowledgeable guide will make the old stones come alive. 
With a deep hunger from having skipped lunch I ordered the cochinita pibil at the outdoor Lonchería Fabiola without bothering to check out the rest of the menu (“cocina económica yucateca”) that featured a mysterious poc-chuc. I savored the marinated and slow roasted pig while watching the nighttime goings-on in the small village. 
A sign at the Pisté booth advised complimentary coffee was available during the overnight hours and the toll taker confirmed it. She abandoned her post to fetch it and returned a couple of minutes later - thankfully no motorist waited behind me - with a cup, sugar and cream. I sped off into the night, window rolled down, the humid tropical air rushing inside the car. Nighttime traffic doubled: there must have been a dozen cars and trucks that perhaps opted against the uncertainties of darkness on the regular road. I located the cutoff that had eluded me earlier. By the time I turned onto Kukulcán I was wise to the roadways of Mexico.No paper in the cup
After another dip in the Caribbean Sea I left my hotel and headed south on the Riviera Maya, the oceanfront strip of land that counts many gated resort properties interspersed by a few actual towns. I missed the turnoff to Puerto Morales but veered off the main road into Playa del Carmen where I circled many city blocks in hopes of finding a place to park. Maybe I am not so wise to the local rules of the road after all. “No Estacionamento” signs abounded and I could not find a car park in the congested city. However skeptical I wanted to grab a bite on tony Avenida Quinta, Playa’s answer to New York’s Fifth Avenue, but ended up high tailing out of town adjusting my haste to the endless topes, speed bumps that sometime rise to the height of the curb, sometime surge unexpectedly, sometime line up in close sequence. Capricious changes in the speed limit on the four-lane divided highway (that no one respects but me) repeatedly brought me from 110 to 40 and back in the bat of an eye.
Nor did I manage to catch a glimpse of Cozumel, just offshore.
In Tulum I replenished at La Nave where I chatted it up with four travelers from Estonia. I could not identify what language they were speaking until I spotted the word eesti on their dictionary. I had to ask whether any of them sings in a choir, true to national identity. One of them does!
My pied-à-terre in Tulum, like in Cancún, is really not in the town itself but a short distance away along the coast. It is not so much a pied-à-terre than a pied-à-mer, if that term exist, for my cabaña (number 1) stands just 50 meters from a sea that is quite agitated this mid afternoon day of drizzle and wind. “It’s not a storm, it always gets like this when it rains,” said an employee.
My pied-à-terre in Tulum, like in Cancún, is really not in the town itself but a short distance away along the coast. It is not so much a pied-à-terre than a pied-à-mer, if that term exist, for my cabaña (number 1) stands just 50 meters from a sea that is quite agitated this mid afternoon day of drizzle and wind. “It’s not a storm, it always gets like this when it rains,” said an employee.
Like most of the small hotels that perch on the sand Zamas adopts a low key lifestyle with bohemian touches that recall the days when Tulum was backpacker heaven. A bit of a Big Sur feel but with far more budget options than on the California coast where conspicuous non-consumption imposes extravagant rates. Hammocks (and two trees) can still be rented for a most frugal night among the coconut trees on the beach. My cabaña came with two hammocks but also a bed (cum mosquito net), toilet (with a sign asking not to flush toilet paper in the "cup") and walk-up shower, all under a chalapa roof. Zamas generates its own electricity and has enough of it to keep the power running 24 hours a day. Good for the overhead fan that circulates the 25-degree moisture-laden nighttime air. Not enough for an air conditioning unit, however. Toilet paper
“Eco chic” is the catch phrase of the moment on Tulum Beach. Watch for the blurring of the line between primitive digs and a dump.
Whatever the season I cannot imagine any lodging this close to the water’s edge in the U.S. that would charge 75 USD for an overnight (tax included). A charming rustic place to escape, although the low voltage on the lights injected the cabaña with an air of sorrow.
Whatever the season I cannot imagine any lodging this close to the water’s edge in the U.S. that would charge 75 USD for an overnight (tax included). A charming rustic place to escape, although the low voltage on the lights injected the cabaña with an air of sorrow.I nibbled on chips and a companion habañero salsa (“muy caliente” warned my waiter and he was spot on) that I chased with a pai-ai, a cocktail of dark and white rums blended with bananas, pineapple and grenadine, before digging into a couple of crepes filled with chaya (a leafy green similar to spinach), shrimps and mushrooms. The alfresco Que Fresco dining room sits in the sand except for a raised platform under a palapa roof of palm fronds – a Mayan architectural mainstay - with three open sides. A plastic windbreak allows views of the water’s edge steps away and blocks the gusts of wind that roll off the surf.
Of the choices on the Buenos Dias menu I selected the citrus and coconut French toast and reveled in its puffy slices. Before I could finish it, powerful gusts slammed against the wind break. A torrent of rain followed moments later. The combination engulfed the beach under a hazy cloak with the flavor of the end of time. Birds showed up to ride the strong air currents but I guess they were unable to locate tasty fishes in the rough seas below.
Not a perfect day to swim in the churn but the rain does add mystery to a trip to the jungle. I drove the 40 kilometers to Cobà without much interference from the few topes in the two villages along the way. It poured when I pulled in to the parking lot. I waited it out and readied my purple poncho, redolent of stale parmesan cheese after too many years spent folded in its pouch.The ruins of Cobà stretch out over several kilometers, a distance best reached by one of the bicycles available for 30 pesos. Another option is to rely on someone else to chauffeur you around in a two-person bike taxi fitted with an oversize umbrella as shelter. I zipped along the slightly muddy forest roads ensconced in my fragrant poncho under an unreliable drizzle. At each stop, the brakes would screech to a slippery stop.
After a few stops at the Iglesia, Xaibé pyramid and ball court, I parked my mount at Nohoch Chul, the tallest Mayan pyramid on the Yucatan peninsula. At 42 meters, it gains seven meters over Chichén Itzá. The 45-degree angle steps did not give me trouble. I zigzagged my way up, in true Mayan fashion instead of following the rope of the middle path. A thick jungle envelops the Cobà complex unlike Chichén where it has been cleared out. A thick mangle of trees grow on two sides of Nohoch Chul. From the top, a lush carpet of green vegetation spreads out, broken up by an occasional lake. The turnout on an off-season, rainy day at an out of the way archeological site surprised me.
¡Muy chido!Very cool ….
In the foliage alongside the sacbé to Grupo Macanxoc I startled a parrot while filming but a steamy viewfinder made me focus on a wet leaf, not on the bird that perched on a underneath branch.
From a lakeside table at the Café Piramide I spied a crocodile, immobile at the water’s edge. I interrupted the munching of my second cochinata pibil, ordered not so much for the flavors but because of how the item sounds.
These matters of wildlife made me slightly late for another round of ruins back in Tulum, which I entered through the back door. The ticket seller did not warn that I had but 30 minutes for my visit. He did try to overcharge me but when I called him out on it he ended up refunding me more than necessary. I followed the circuit with relaxed interest in order to make it to El Castillo (again …) in time. I was toting a beach towel to dry after a swim in the surf below the cliffside temple. All I could negotiate with an INAH employee who was rounding people out was 10 seconds for a picture. From this encounter and other overheard conversations it is clear the 17h00 closing time is taken very seriously. Too bad because the ruins are laid out in a lovely landscaped garden setting on a bluff near the sea. The sun sets around 19h30 and I submit that a later closing and more time for strolls would not harm too many people.
The turquoise waters excite visitors and iguana alike...
If I could not swim below the temple, there was always my hotel’s beach about 5 km south. A brief stop for a picture of a stately flamboyant tree and I was in turbulent waters that did not match the clarity of my dips in Cancun. The fast rolling surf tossed me around for a while. When I grew weary of the spin cycle, I adjourned to a chaise lounge under a palapa.
Since I never did make it to Sian Ka’an I figured I’d at least go watch the sun set over the biosphere reserve’s lagoons. I proceeded with prudence on the carretera blanca, the unpaved road that bisects the eastern edge. Ejidos line up either side for the first kilometers. I pondered the logic of having collective farms inside a park where I was hoping for an untamed tropical jungle. The last three words also imply that the potential for trail exploration will be kept to a minimum if it even exists. The thick woodland of Costa Rica and Indonesia had disappointed me in that respect. Sian Ka’an reveals itself (and there are 650,000 hectares of it) on watercraft tours, not overland. I can’t vouch for the presence or absence of scenic vistas on the way to Punta Allen because a downpour fell on me seconds after I took this picture of my rented automobile.
I settled on the Posada Margherita for a last supper in Quintana Roo based on the glowing reviews I read and the recommendation from staff at Zamas. The property aims for upscale casual charm with a dining room that reminded me of the terrace at Nepenthe except it is adjacent to the water, not high on a cliff.A low table on a raised deck steps away from the surf caught my eye and I sat on its companion wooden bench. Owner Alessandro came over to recite a menu that does not come in printed form. I picked the huachinango, a red snapper relative, steamed in salt water. A complimentary bountiful antipasto tray of olives, cauliflower florets, pistachios, pico de gallo, guacamole, corn chips, onion focaccia and bruschetta soon arrived. I did not have time to finish the goodies when a waiter whisked it away while distracted by a conversation with Alessandro who asked where I hailed from in Italy. The same waiter substituted the departed antipasto with the fish and I delected in its flavors under the warm evening sky. To pay for my final meal, which ended with a mezzo-mezzo dolce of tiramisu and chocolate mousse, I left 400 pesos on the table, an expensive but enjoyable experience.
A violent wind storm shook my little cabaña during the night. I investigated the potential damage outside and noticed the lodge had lost its electricity. Under pitch dark skies I made out the furious shadows of the coconut trees that slapped the night. I wondered whether the water could rise enough that my cabaña would float away and that I would be found in Cuba weeks from now. Forty minutes after the first wind lash the switch was turned off and calm prevailed. The eye of the storm, I feared. By morning staff was barely acknowledging the fleeting tempest. Hurricane season starts in August and monstrous gales may hit until November. I have trouble imagining their scope and intensity.To pay off my debts to the Mexican economy, past and future, I withdrew more cash from the HSBC automated teller machine. Hotels and restaurants in the Tulum’s zona hotelera operate strictly in a cash economy, save perhaps for the initial reservation where credit cards and PayPal are called upon as a guarantee. Room charges, food and sundries will be settled in pesos or dollars but as a less favorable exchange rate. Attendants at Pemex, the country’s gas monopoly, only accept cash for the magna sin (unleaded) gasoline uniformly priced at 7.72 pesos per liter (2.25USD per gallon). Ditto for tolls.
The immediate benefit for innkeepers and restaurateurs is the invisibility of hard currency. The temptation not to share all with the taxman must be great.
And with a ruffled 500-peso note it was impossible to get change for the 31-pesos admission at Yumil, my fourth and final ruin visit. Nor could I tend 40 pesos to venture on the park’s boardwalks into the rain forest that borders Sian Ka’an. The morning was bright and I cursed my monetary misfortune. I offered the ground attendant 19 pesos, which he accepted and pocketed, literally.
After a second morning visit to La Flor de Michoacan for another licuado - I loved the Cobà made with milk, coconut ice cream, strawberries and mango - I headed north on route 307 hitting all manners of topes and barely obeying the speed limit nonsense.
In Puerto Morales I chatted it up with the owner of Mama’s Bakery, a transplanted Kansas woman who showed me pictures of Wilma’s aftermath. Trees were bereft of leaves, palapas had collapsed, utility poles laid atop cars, some houses looked in a precarious position. Fish died in the middle of streets several blocks from the ocean. The hurricane made landfall on Cozumel with 240-kph winds in October 2005 and slammed on the Riviera Maya. The Kansas woman said sheThe hurricane lasted 48 hours, she said. The woman who left her native land because of winter snow and ice also added she prefers the predictability of hurricanes over irrational tornadoes. She praised the response of the Mexican government, which, she said, shames the U.S. and the Katrina debacle two months earlier.
I am content with wildfires, floods, mudslides and earthquakes. (Chido.)
