CANCUN AND THE JOURNEY TO ISLA HOLBOX
Stepping off the airplane in Cancun in the early morning sun made me feel like the tourists that arrive at the beginning of every episode of Fantasy Island I ever watched as a kid. There were no leis or little people in suits, but the smiles on everyone's faces and the seductive heat that envelops your skin the moment you step out of the cold, recycled air tube was intoxicating. There are no arrival gates at Cancun airport, you step down on a portable staircase and walk across the tarmac to the airport.
The first thing I saw when I walked through the sliding doors leading into the terminal was a life-sized Spiderman, zooming towards me across the ceiling against a chorus of bemused "ahs" and "ohs". For a moment I thought maybe I boarded the plane to Orlando? Anything was possible after the day of travel I'd just survived. Apparently, Cancun is very much the tourist destination for families as well as Spring Breakers. I had not thought of it that way before. To me it was the cheap and safe place college kids go to get black out drunk and puke in the ocean every Spring. The first impression I got coming into the airport was how dearly this destination caters to families, and the safe resort fun tourists with children would seek from a tropical destination. There were advertisements everywhere for this Vegas-Style show, or that Amusement Park (more on that later), and so on.
The terminal is small but efficient. It reminds me of Charleston Airport in South Carolina: clean, cute and easy to find whatever you need. As soon as you walk in from the arrivals area, which is basically just a hallway, you pour right into the main promenade where all the taxis and rental car services are waiting to get you to your Spiderman-loving hotel. Good thing I had a reservation for a kick-ass off-roading 4WD vehicle waiting for me!
I walk over to the counter and the attendant joyfully guides me over to the shuttle that drove me to the lot with all the rental cars. Here I took a moment to breathe in the air a bit and listen to the local fauna. The birds were an impromptu symphony of tropical madness. I was filled with anxious curiosity.
Getting a car...
Dollar Rental Car, no go. They required a credit card to honor my reservation, which, if you read my previous day, you'd recall I decided not to bring any. It totally made sense at the time, you guys. Moving on, there must be a car rental company here that will rent me a car...and I found it. Thanks, Fox Car Rental! Not only was your customer service rep delightful, but you were willing to rent me a decent car without any proof of credit, or existence for that matter! You guys are true gangsters, in a good way.
Car: acquired. My intergalactic mothership was a Kia Sportage. Perhaps it was not the off-road beast I had imagined, but it was comfortable and safe and available to me without much trouble. I've got a car and over 3/4 tank of Mexican gas. Let's go!
At this point I have had about 30 minutes of sleep in 48 hours and only wine, vodka and some shitty Mexico City room service to charge my blood. I asked one of the several attendants at Fox where a native would go for breakfast and what said native would order. This handsome and friendly attendant whose name I never learned sent me into town to an area near a birthing hospital where locals get their mundane human rituals on (eating, birthing, what-have-yous). The area was not particularly poor or developed. It was exactly as I would have expected the outlying area of a Mexican tourist destination to look like: nowhere to park, street vendors, mothers walking with children, and really not much else. Oh, and there is a Wal-Mart in Cancun. I parked by an Oxxo (very much like the local 7-11) and went for a brief exploration of the area searching for food.
In Mexico, if you ask for a "torta", you are going to get something that for me, as a Cuban-American, is unexpected. For me, a "torta" or "tortilla" would naturally be something like a frittata or an omelette. In Mexico, you are basically getting a balls-out, kick-ass pork chop sandwich...the kind of pork lined fluffy bread orgy that will give you sweet dreams for days. You can get anything you want in a "torta", be it chicken or pork or flattened steak. I asked for the breaded pork chop, because, you know...I'm Cuban. This tenderized, breaded and fried pork chop was seasoned with some sort of chili spice and garnished with pickled peppers and onions, queso fresco (melted) and shredded lettuce and tomatoes. This is served with an array of sauces that vary in scorchosity of the tongue. I think I ate my torta in about 5 seconds. It was delicious! To compliment my torta, I had a cup of coffee. While I was unaware when I ordered it, and would eventually find that this was the fashion at most basic eateries, my coffee was INSTANT. They brought me a cup of piping hot water and a little jar with powdered coffee. Once again, being of the Cuban diaspora, I found this troubling. I asked her for milk and she looked confused. She brought me some packets of coffee mate, and I was doubly horrified. She told me during polite banter that she had lived in Florida for some time, so she was able to translate my face into a request, "Prefieres leche, mejor?". "Si, por favor, si tienes leche fresca lo priefiero". She came back with a piping hot cup of milk. Still troubling, but a major advancement in my situation.
The place I stopped at was just a corner shop: a kitchen in the back and some plastic patio furniture in the open air across the street from the birthing hospital. I watched a young mother in the parking lot nurse her infant on her moped then bundle up the baby and ride away. The hostess was curious and sweet, "Eres tourista?", "Si! yo soy tourista, y hoy es mi primera dia en Mexico", I spared her the drama of the day before, but I can't deny the excitement I felt to be identified and welcomed as such.
After a brief conversation in which I had a perfect opportunity to attune my Spanish speaking abilities, I realized that I was sweating. Mexico! I'm in Mexico! And it's hot...
This beautiful brunch of instant coffee, purified water and a massive pork chop sandwich (on a Portugese roll) cost me less than $2 USD (33MXN). And I got to sit and take in the hood for a while. The sun was high, past noon, and I felt antsy after my instant coffee with fresh dairy. Time for "la cuenta" and figuring out where I parked my car.
THE ROAD TO CHIQUILA
Up until this point I had not taken any photos. It took me some time to get acclimated against the backdrop of emotional stress and travel issues. Once I had become comfortable in the mothership for my intergalactic journey, I started to loosen up.
I started my 3+ hour journey to the tiny port village of Chiquila on highway 180. A paved but isolated 2 lane road, there was not much to photograph while I was on it. It took me about 30 minutes to get to the first turn North towards Chiquila. In those 30 minutes I passed several signs for "villas" that looked more like abandoned construction sites, and signs for cenotes off the beaten path. I had swimsuits (and a towel) in my suitcase, but again, I was still finding that comfort zone. I wish I had stopped and checked out at least one of those cenotes...
There were several tiny villages along the way that blew my mind. Here is when I wish I had been more proactive about taking photos on my ride...but it wasn't easy - I was driving and trying my best to remain observant of local traffic (what traffic??) and not trying to crash into anything in front of me (even though there was nothing in front of me but road). Every 30-40 minutes or so I would pass a tiny village (Kantulnilkin, San Angél, Sofferiao) with storefronts and a small population. All of these villages had at least 2 things: a church and coco frio. Another of my few regrets was not stopping for coco frio on that first day. I should have had one in every village. Coco frio is an ice cold coconut that the vendor will chop a hole into and stick a straw in before handing it over to you. That is all. And really, there isn't much else you will need or want in that heat. They will charge anywhere between 10 and 20 MXN ($.50 - $1 USD). I did the whole ride with all the windows down and blasting music. Yes, I often screeched along to the song blasting out of my car, and the natives were on occasion impressed, on other occasions, not so impressed. Thank you, David Bowie, Beastie boys, Mars Volta, Muse, Weezer, and St Vincent for helping reach my destination in the highest of spirits.
*image pulled from internet
The first couple of villages seemed very small and unperturbed by traffic or commerce whatsoever. The storefront signs were mostly written in Mayan and homes appeared to be cinder block or wooden lean-tos with hammocks stretched across the interior. Perhaps there was a small fire in the back, and I could smell the burning meat of dinner. No one was starving. No one appeared cold or sick.
As I got closer to Chiquila, the villages started looking more like towns, and there were more than cold coconuts and churches lining the sides of the road. I drove past 2 towns during after-school hours and there were children everywhere. This would seem chaotic, but it was not. In these towns local militia were stationed on every other corner, standing on the back of flatbed trucks with automatic firearms slung across their shoulders. It should have scared me, because armed militia is pretty much the universal sign for "holy shit, we are going to die!", but it didn't. I drove past them all, very slowly, and I screeched my songs into the hot, dusty air, and they just smiled and waved at me, and I smiled and waved at them. They were there for the children, not to scare me, or anyone else. I felt so much safer knowing how much the locals care for their community.
Remember, the lovely State Department lady told me there were no kidnapping drug lords in the Yucatàn, so maybe I was just trusting those words.
I reached Chiquila in time for the 4pm ferry to Isla Holbox. Just as I pulled into town, and it was certainly the largest and most populated of all the towns I had passed, it began to drizzle for the first time all day. Not to worry, it passed in a few minutes. Every day I spent in Mexico was either completely dry, or teased with a tinkle of drops in the afternoon before returning to its regular perfection of hot, dry weather.
I parked my mothership in a dirt and wooden lot across from the ferry, which only cost me the equivalent of $2.50 USD (50MXN) a day. The ferry was about $7 USD (150MXN).
The ride across to Holbox (pronounced "hull - BOSCH") was about 30 minutes. The surrounding water seemed fairly shallow, and YES there were DOLPHINS! I spotted them beside the boat, and bursting with excitement to share this sighting with my fellow travelers I had forgotten the Spanish word for "dolphin". What??? I turned around to the crowd, then back at the dolphins, then back at the crowd and spat out, "MIRA, MIRA!" They got the picture. And by the way, the word is "delfín".
So far, everything about this trip has been a journey. I lost my night of reflection by the lagoon in Cancun due to my own shenanigans at Houston airport, so I have been in transit for about 36-40 hours. Really, we are talking about a 3.5 hour plane ride from Newark that became day-plus debacle...
ISLA HOLBOX
My arrival at Isla Holbox was the first real feeling of "letting go" since I had packed my socks, towel and tampon. For weeks, I had read about this tiny, unknown island and looked at pictures that HAD to be doctored, they were so stunning. No photos were doctored. If Mexico City Airport was the porthole to hell, then Isla Holbox was paradise on earth. There was no tourist fanfare at the dock, no drunken resortists spraying themselves with 80 SPF sunblock. There were NO CARS. Not one. Only golf carts and mopeds and bicycles. The sounds of distant laughter hung in the breeze and beyond that all you could hear was waves. It was so peaceful I was even able to shut my brain up for a while. I just stopped worrying. The thoughts about my life, what was going on at home, what I would be working on when I returned, what bills I had forgotten to pay before I left, if I had enough socks in my suitcase, if my kidnappers would let me ride shotgun...all that noise just STOPPED. And the sound of the waves hypnotized me until I was capable of nothing other than drinking beer and floating in the crystalline green sea.
I stayed at Hacienda La Catrina, which is just a small, privately owned home that the proprietor opens to travelers. My room, a cabaña separate from the main house, was modest and simple but very clean. I even had an air conditioner...but the evening breezes are SO delicious. Most importantly, Roberto (the owner) knows his island intimately. He sent me to all the right spots and all the right people. That, and he had a secret stash of local microbrews that he shares with his guests (for 50MXN a beer). He offered to set me up with a kayak tour the next morning, which I was pleased to accept.
As soon as humanly possible, I ran into my room, tore my suitcase apart (socks everywhere!) and pulled out the first swimsuit I could find, along with my trusted towel. After a cursory rub down with some natural sunscreen, I was off the follow the sound of the waves.
Hacienda La Catrina was only a 10 minute walk from the beach. It was a right turn into the heart of town, then just straight until your ankles got wet. I was so desperate to feel the water on my sweaty skin that I hardly noticed the art that was literally everywhere the eye could see. Murals on the side of every building, as if it was a municipal zoning code, "all walls must express some abstract memory of Mayan culture".
The beach was soft and calm and the tide was consistently low. You could walk out for half a mile and still only submerge up to part of your torso. I stayed in that zone, that soft, cool, bright green zone, for as long as my anxious nature would allow. I crouched and let the baby waves tumble over my shoulders like kittens, and I squinted at the later afternoon sun as it sparkled all around me. Little fish nipped at my thighs and each time I squealed like a child. It was heaven. Eventually, the Cancun torta got digested, and the microbrew Roberto offered me wore off, and the anxious bug at the helm of my brain forced me out of the water and into town for some local flavor.
I found a pizza place near the main square that served "gluten free" pasta. I never ordered it, and I totally do gluten, but I found it funny that even here in the middle of nowhere you could eat like a nerd. I took a chance and found my beer for the week - Bohemia Oscura. A nice, dark Mexican brew. A little nutty but very smooth, 35MXN at this place ($2 USD). A little loneliness kicked in so I called my sister. It helped tremendously. I drank another beer.
Roberto had said I should not leave the island until I can see a proper sunset on the beach. The clouds rolled in again during my second beer and a slight drizzle happened by. It did not rain but the clouds did not break.
As I sat, I saw a man walk past with a bottle of wine in his hands and two cups. I smiled at him and he smiled back. I hollered, "Lo tienes bien cheverre, amigo!" and he laughed. Of course, after my second beer when I got up to wander, I found this gentleman again with his wife, drinking that very bottle.
Fred and Isabel, French and Belgian (respectively), invited me for a glass of wine. That glass became 3 and we chatted until the light began to fade. Like many of the people I met on Holbox, they live in Playa Del Carmen, which I am told is the Astoria of the Mayan Riviera. Whatever that means. Fred has a catamaran and conducts tours. Mental note: when in Playa Del Carmen, find Fred and his catamaran, because that dude and his lady are FUN.
I asked where I might find the freshest seafood and the waiter of the cafe where we sat and drank wine told me to visit Viva Zapata, because they have their own fishing boat and all the day's meals are fresh catch of the day. Never doubt the natives. I repeat: NEVER DOUBT THE NATIVES.
I had the octopus in garlic and wine. Bacon of the sea, fresh as can be. In the top 3 octopus dishes of all time, for sure. The staff was very friendly and they had a waiter perform some experimental guitar every 30 minutes or so. It was a place to love and be loved.
After my dinner (and more wine) I decided to wander a little. It was night but I wanted to feel the waves at my ankles again. At the shore, I heard a raucous good time carried on the breeze. It was loud and electric and I had to follow it. This is where things get a little fuzzy...
The Hot Corner is a bar just one block up from the beach, near the center square. It is as it is named, "The Hot Corner". I stopped for "one" drink, and sat beside tourists from LA, a young couple. Friends! Time to speak English! After a short time a live band came to set up and they played for most of the night, into the wee hours. It was Salsa, Bachata, Rhumba, Tejano...a broad mix. One of the bartenders, who had decided early on in the night that I would have to stay as long as I could stand, proceeded to pour me shots of the best tequila on their shelf. There is something to be said about good, clean tequila. There is no drink quite like it, or drunk quite like it.
Over the hours I spent at that Hot Corner, I met several people from Playa Del Carmen, I met people from Montreal, Mexico City and New York. I also met many natives who have never left and will never leave Holbox. I envied them. The music grew more and more frenzied and by midnight we were all dancing in the streets, all of us from everywhere. It was an island rave! A police cart drove by as we were all dancing and started chatting up some people. I didn't believe they were cops. "Ustedes son policia de verdad, o estan disimulando?". They cackled at me. "Señorita, yo soy policia, si necesitas policia." Ok, then. Let's dance!
Back to the bartender, at a certain point in the night I realized I had been pegged as the mark: he was flirting. He had asked me to walk to the beach with him on his break. I said, "sure!" then high-tailed it back to Hacienda before he could return from the bathroom. I never paid for my drinks. Why did I do that? It seemed a bit extreme, even to me.
In my state I had taken a wrong turn, and not having taken the time to familiarize myself earlier in the day (ah! that is what I should have done earlier!) with the layout of the town, I got lost. It was late and I was intoxicated, and the fear began to creep back into me. I was alone, and I would become prey to some nefarious plot. I was an outsider and I could trust nothing or no one. I asked several people for directions, and they lead me all in the same way, but I didn't believe them. I would start in the given direction then tell myself, "no, this is a plot", and I would turn and get lost again. I asked another native, this time a woman who walked me almost to the corner of the Hacienda, but the corner didn't look familiar so I would not turn it. Why did I become so afraid? Why was everyone all of a sudden so distrustful? Finally I made a call back home, thinking that at least if I am on the phone with someone speaking English they won't kidnap me and sell me to the drug lords on the mainland. A man on a moped stopped and asked if I needed help. I said yes, and asked if he knew where Hacienda La Catrina could be found. He said of course. I hopped on and he took me down the same streets the last 2 natives sent me. There it was - Hacienda La Catrina. There was no plot. The fear lived in ME, and there it was that all the negativity and brutality and evil breathed its life and changed my experience. It changed me and my relationship with helpful strangers, with the island itself. There is something very wrong about that, and I never wanted to be filled with fear. I never was.
I thanked the man on the moped, and he just smiled and rode off like it was nothing. And I stood there at the gates of Hacienda La Catrina, holding my keys, and feeling quite petty. What was it around the corner that I could not face? Who am I if I can not be prepared to turn a corner on any given day? What good can I bring into the lives of others, if the good in others is lost upon me?
Sad and still a bit drunk, I made my way to the cabaña and crawled into bed, hoping to remember my lesson the next day. NEVER DOUBT THE NATIVES. And never fear what is around the corner. If you can not face it, then where will you go?
The breeze was liberating, but I am American. I turned on the air conditioner.
