It's been two weeks since we posted anything new on our blog. This is the third week of our 6-week trip, so the halfway point seems like a very good time to update our adventures so far.
We last wrote from Mérida, in the Yucatán. But after that entry, we stayed several more days because there's much more there to do and see than we realized at first. It's a large cosmopolitan city – a 'mescla' of mostly European and Mayan influences due to its historic isolation from much of the rest of Mexico – with fine art exhibits, a vibrant and growing arts community, excellent restaurants, historic homes and buildings, and reasonable prices for those blessed with dollars or euros. We even got caught up in a small crowd of fans (fanáticos, in spanish) waiting in a fancy shopping center for a beautiful young Venezuelan star named Gaby to come down the escalator. "Gaby, Gaby!" they shouted to get her attention for a cellphone picture, and she seemed happy to oblige. Mérida is also a good center point for visiting nearby attractions, such as Chichén Itzá, Uxmál and other ruins, outlying historic haciendas, the beaches at Progresso, and the pink flamingo sanctuary at Celestún.
With so much of local interest, Mérida has become something of a sanctuary for US retirees looking for an affordable piece of the tropics, at least in the winter. We hear the summers are, uh, warm. A young pair of travelers mentioned meeting a retired guy in a bar who invited them to drop by his home sometime while they were in town. When they knocked on the door of the very unimpressive-looking place, they were some surprised when he opened the door to reveal a considerable and elegant spread (they estimated about 5000 sf) with guest quarters and a large pool. Their host didn't actually remember their conversation in the bar, but he and his wife gave them an extensive tour anyway. Most ex-pats are friendly that way. He'd paid about US$86,000 for the place three years ago. He'd put some money into renovation, of course, but the retirement gig still looks do-able in Mérida – if you're comfortable living that far south of the border.
On our third day in Mérida, we stopped at the Nómadas Hostel to book seats on a trip to Celestún – a very worthwhile experience. The small tour bus arrived earlier the next morning than we had expected, so we downed our coffee and headed for the door. We shared the bus with two tall young Dutch women, a Spanish couple, three Germans, and a businessman from the Mexico City area. Interestingly, the Germans and Dutch had difficulty communicating with each other in their native tongues, and mostly spoke in English. Our guide, Jesús, was of Mayan descent, very well-spoken and well-educated in the anthropology of his people. The multi-national mix made for an even more interesting afternoon.
Our route took us through the Mayan village of Uman, where the taxis are a kind of rickshaw – usually pedal-powered, although some use a small motorcycle engine. When mamá wants to go to the mercado, she whistles up one of the numerous taxistas for a ride. It looks like a lot cheaper and healthier alternative than everybody owning a car. And they take up much less parking space around the mercado. Along the way to Celestún, Jesus related many of the elements of the history of the Yucatán, from pre-hispanic days to the Caste Wars of 1847-1900, when the Mayan people regained control of their lands for a while. As part of the grand tapestry of Mexican history, the re-establishment of government control over the Yucatán in 1900 would be followed in only ten years by the beginning battles of the Revolution, farther north. Jesús says the Maya were conquered, but never subjugated. They're still a proud people today.
At Celestún, we jump into a broad-bottomed panga with a roof shade structure, and blast off upstream into a broad ría, or estuary, toward the flamingos. Our boatman, José, tells us the river here is very wide but shallow, averaging around 30cm (about a foot) deep. We cannot see much beyond the murky surface of the water, so we take his word for it. It also smells of sulfur because of all the rotting vegetation on the bottom. He assures us it's a natural smell, and not sewage. We take his word for it.
In the distance we see a faint line of pink on the water. The line grows stronger and redder as we approach, and a young German woman remarks about the strong color contrasts between the azure sky with a few white puffy clouds, the line of green fringing mangrove forest, the red line of flamingos, and the light-greenish color of the water. We draw nearer, and a few of the outlying birds take flight, flashing bright red and black wings over our heads as they wheel away to a safer distance to resume feeding in the shallowest areas of the wide river. José dips his hand into the water and scoops up a small, worm-like shrimp larvae. It's maybe a quarter inch long, with a deep red color. That's where the birds get their brilliant color, from eating shrimp larvae by the thousands. You are, indeed, what you eat. The younger birds tend to be pinkish, and the older birds take on a deeper, richer red that's especially spectacular when they fly.
After we've spent our allotted time with the flamingos, José wheels the boat around and heads for a natural tunnel through the tangle of mangroves. Inside, the light is filtered through the multiple layers overhead, and the water is clearer and tannin-colored. We ghost our way quietly along and José points out a 'martin pescador' (small kingfisher) sitting on a branch just above the water about 3 feet away. I reach slowly for the camera in my hip-pouch, trying not to spook him. I aim and take several shots before he flings himself off the branch and dives straight for the water beside the boat. In one smooth motion, he's back on the branch swallowing a small fish. Instead of our spooking him, he seems to have used us to stir up a few fish!
Our next stop is a large spring hidden deep in the mangroves where we all drop our backpacks and 'playeras' (T-shirts) and dive in. The scene is like something out of a Tarzan movie: crystalline waters overhung with deep jungle, and tropical fish swimming below. We're getting our money's worth on this entire trip!
But alas, all good things must come to an end. We have many fond memories of Mérida – especially our very first night in town, dancing with dozens of 'older couples' on the Plaza as the municipal orchestra played classic samba and rhumba tunes, with an occasional interlude for a bit of poetry. As we danced, the eyes of most of the older women followed us and we did our best to live up to their expectations. It was a memorable experience and I felt that all I needed was a brilliant white 'guayabera' shirt of fine needlepoint to really pull it off. But it seemed like an extravagance and now it's time to head onward. So we enjoy a last fine dinner at Ristorante Pane e Vino, and in the morning, we trundle our rolling luggage about 6 blocks to the ADO station to catch another fast and comfortable Mercedes bus for Campeche.
Somehow the very name, Campeche, stirs up caribbean images. After we arrive, we catch a taxi for the short ride from the ADO station to the old walled-city part of town and our first night in a hostel we'd read about. Because of the crazy bridge-like affair that leads to the cramped and ugly little room we're jammed into, it will be our last night in the hostel. In the morning we find a large, quiet room in the Hotel Regis, an older, 'faded glory' kind of place, for 385 pesos/night (about $26/night). It could use some paint, and a good overall TSP washdown to remove decades of grime, but it has its charms. And it's a block closer to the Plaza.
Following years of neglect after the founding of the city, the Spanish Crown finally built massive walls around Campeche after the place was devastated by repeated pirate attacks and the poor campechanos begged for help. Parts of the wall were removed over the intervening centuries, but there are still long stretches of it left standing. Certainly there's enough left to get a real sense of what it must have looked like in its day. The pirate thing is big here, and there's enough ancient history here to make for lots of interesting camera shots.
In Campeche, as in almost any sizable Mexican city, life centers around the Plaza. After dinner in one of the several good places that face the Plaza, we head across the street to find a spot on one of the many benches to watch the evening unfold. There's a group of young musicians, mostly drummers, filling the air with a caribbean beat, and there are kids running across the unused portions of the stage. Mothers are following their toddlers around as they learn the essence of mobility. A few vendors try to sell us handicrafts. There's music blasting from someone's apartment overlooking the square. It's the kind of colorful running chaos that Mexico is so well known for. At one point we were surrounded by a bunch of giggling high school students who were assigned to interview tourists in the Plaza. I think they were supposed to practice their english, but we wanted to practice our spanish and they seemed somewhat relieved at that.
We sit and watch a stout young Mayan toddler stare at the drummers before breaking into a sort of dance motion. He's lost in a primal world of his own, unmindful of his surroundings. His family, mamá, papá and two sisters seated on a park bench behind him, break into laughter. He continues dancing, unaware of his audience. There's just something viral in the DNA that brings out the jungle in all of us.
After several numbers, the toddler ambles back over to his family for a hug. Our last image of them is of the stout little toddler walking across the Plaza hand in hand with his equally stout father. His mouth hangs open as he looks back at the group on the stage that produced that magical music.
A vendor has some beautiful hand-made Panama hats, but they look impractical since we're traveling by bus. 'No problema.' He shows me how they easily fold up for travel, and then pop right back into shape. At 200 pesos it really seems like something I need to fully enjoy our time in this Plaza so near to the Gulf of Mexico. And I look so 'Ricky Ricardo' wearing the thing – even without a guayabera. I fork over the 200 pesos and stuff my cloth expedition hat into the backpack. Now we're ready for some caribbean struttin.'
On our first night in Campeche, I felt a bit of sore throat coming on. It really wasn't a surprise since Carolyn had caught a 'cold' just a few days before we began our trip. We usually just shrug these things off as part of the yearly inoculation we all go through as the latest virus sweeps around the planet, and we weren't about to let it cause a problem with this long-planned trip. But after Carolyn felt it go into her sinuses, she went over to Farmia 'Aquaria' to talk to Ricarda about it and bought some Tetraciclina to deal with it. That worked well for her, but by the time we got to Campeche it was my turn. Así es la vida. I can usually shake these things off, so I don't worry much about it. It should be over in a couple of days.
After Campeche, the guide books (we carried both Lonely Planet and the Rough Guide) tell us there's not much along the coast until we get to Veracruz. But we don't want to spend maybe 14 hours on the bus just to skip this section. Instead, we'll break it up into several shorter legs and just enjoy what comes our way. The guides don't give Villahermosa, our next stop, a good rating except for the Parque/Museo La Venta - which we agree is well worth the stop. The Sculpture Trail, laid out through a wonderfully overgrown jungle, features many of the important artifacts salvaged from the La Venta site by a local poet and visionary before Pemex laid claim to it. It's almost magical to come upon one of the ancient heads in a clearing in the jungle trail. One of the highlights is when we come across a coatimundi in a tree right beside the trail tearing into a termite nest for some tasty morsels. He's (she's?) completely unperturbed by us standing maybe three feet away, taking pictures. Using his long tail, he swings to the ground and almost walks across my feet on his way to another nearby termite nest!
And next door is the beautiful Laguna de las Illusiones, a large placid lake with fine homes along the opposite shore and couples strolling the broad walkway along our side. They say that the state of Tabasco has more water than land. We certainly saw that from the bus windows on our way here, and the Laguna is one of several lakes that dot Villahermosa. We have been enjoying our stay here, but by now the cold I felt coming on in Campeche is in full bloom and it sure would be nice to get out of the city into some fresher air.
We hadn't planned to stop at Palenque because we thought we'd probably have had enough of ruins by then. But after reading back through our guidebooks, and after conversations with other travelers along the way, we change our plans. And Palenque rewards us for it. From the ADO bus station in Palenque town we catch a taxi to El Panchán, the funky, hippy-traveler area by the entry to the park, and check into the first place we come to, Chato's Cabañas. He leads us down a long jungle trail to one of the shacks in the woods, with large screened openings looking into the intense green of the jungle. There is no glass in the 'windows.' The phrase 'this is the jungle primeval' (lifted liberally from Evangeline) keeps going through my mind. There's still time to 'do' the ruins, but I really need some rest to deal with the cold. So I crash, as gentle zephers wash over me and exotic bird calls lull me to sleep. At 200 pesos (around $13!) a night, and with delicious and modestly-priced meals at Don Mucho's restaurant nearby,
we figure we can make this work just fine for a few days and settle in for some 'jungle time.' The cold has settled in by now and I'm doing a fair bit of coughing and snorting – especially at night, when I should be getting rest. We buy a pack of Tabcin Noche and it works well at keeping me quiet all night. But the cold seems to be getting stronger.
Palenque is truly the image of a lost city hidden in the jungle for a millennia. In fact, they've left parts of it 'unexplored' so you can have something like the same mystical experience of the original explorers. There's a sense of deep mystery as you stand there in the towering 'cathedral-like' jungle gazing at ancient vine-covered ruins left behind hundreds of years ago. Of the sites we've seen so far (Tulum and Chichén) this is the most 'Eden-like' of all. With its small streams, tinkling falls, and swimming holes next to a broad and fertile plain it must have been the closest thing to paradise the original builders had ever found. You're only left to wonder why they abandoned it.
After our fabulous, quiet (and did I mention cheap?) sojourn in Palenque, we head onward to Coatzacoalcos – another place given short shrift by the guidebooks. But how can you not stop at a place called Coatzacoalcos? The name just drips off the lips. And it breaks up the long stretch to Veracruz.
This once-sleepy fishing village is now a major Pemex town with a new malecón along the shore and a few hotels overlooking the sea. It's becoming a popular beach destination for nearby Mexican families. After dropping our stuff at the hotel, we head off for a walk in search of the usual small and interesting things any curious soul might find. There's a nice cultural center featuring musical events. There are restaurants listing things we'd never heard of. We find an 'Optica' so Carolyn can get a new nose piece attached to her glasses (cost: 20 pesos). Slowly, we make our way to the Plaza. That's where the evening action is in any Mexican town or city; and, sure enough, there will be a musical presentation this evening. It's to start at 6:30, but we know that's usually just a rough guess, so we settle in to watch parents talking while their kids play in the safety of the Plaza. On each side of the Plaza, there's a 'brinca-brinca,' one of those inflatable structures the kids love so much. The kids are having a great time.
Around 7 o'clock, a good local group starts to play. We're glad we waited. A little girl held by her mother in the seat ahead of us can't stop staring at the two strange gringos seated behind her – especially the bearded one. I smile and wink at her and she stares back. I wiggle my mustache at her and she stares some more. I always enjoy the double-takes and stares brought on by the unexpected arrival of aliens like us in a small Mexican town far off the 'tourist trail.' After hearing a few numbers, we slip away to find a place to eat.
We enjoy our short stay in Coatzacoalcos (say that three times real fast) but decide to press on to Veracruz. I was in Tampico several decades ago, but have never been farther down the east coast, and I've been looking forward to this moment. A ticket on the ADO Lujo (luxury) bus for the 5 hour trip to Veracruz costs 270 pesos, or about US$18.
As the bus nears Veracruz, we pass broad fields of blue agave – tequila agave. It's good to see there will be ample tequila in our future. But my cough is getting stronger, and there's now a troubling gurgle in the lungs. I imagine that, if I were one of the other passengers sharing a closed bus with someone who sounded like me – like some kind of tuberculosis patient, a 'lunger' – I'd be worried. I really don't like taking drugs, any drugs, when I get a cold. But this stuff has started to sound serious. All that gurgling sounds like, I don't know, pneumonia or something. We'll get a pack of Tetraciclina (30 pesos, or about $2) for me when we get to Veracruz.
Veracruz is a substantial and booming city; it's Mexico's greatest east coast seaport and the traditional gateway to Mexico City. This is where Cortez landed, where the US Marines invaded, where foreign dignitaries disembarked in the old days. There are rows of imposing classical buildings constructed under the reign of Porfirio Diaz. There are broad paseos and monuments to important events. This place is dripping with history and tradition.
The nightlife in Veracruz has ancient roots in the city's 'jarocho' mix of spanish, indigenous, and black slave cultures. And the Plaza is the place where it all comes out in the evenings. It's difficult to really capture the wonderful cacophony that engulfs the Plaza by night. It actually begins in the afternoon when the Marimba bands set up to entertain customers at the restaurant tables on the Plaza. Then, around 7pm, the municipal orchestra begins to play dance favorites from the center bandstand and the Plaza fills with 'older couples' in their finery – the women in beautiful 'blusas' and long dresses, and the men in their finest hand-stitched 'guayaberas,' with maybe a white Panama hat. They are grace personified as they glide smoothly around the floor. The band pauses now and then for a poetical interlude, and then the dancing continues.
Carolyn and I feel a bit intimidated, and only watch from the sidelines. Then we wander toward another nearby plazuela where another excellent group is playing salsa and more people are dancing. We join in. After a bit, we stroll off to yet another plazuela tucked into a niche between an alley and several colonial buildings where another group is playing. And we dance some more.
We return to the Plaza Principal where the municipal orchestra has finished for the evening, and we sit down to dinner. But before we're really seated, there's someone shaking a container in my face asking for money to pay the marimba band that just finished – the one we didn't even hear yet. I tell him maybe later. We pull up our chairs and look to find the waiter, and there are three ladies selling necklaces. Not now, maybe later. We're ordering our drinks and a guy asks if we want watches. No! A roving salsa band starts to play for a table in front of us, and a mariachi band starts up somewhere behind us. Three other bands are roving through the tables looking for paying customers. One of them scores and starts to play. More vendors are hawking more things. A guy on crutches, missing half a leg, holds out his hand. I think how that has to be a real life-changer, how many of us have probably been within one tragic accident of spending a lifetime being disabled, and maybe poverty-stricken. I give him 10 pesos. All through this, if you're sitting in the right place (or maybe the wrong place) the din becomes ridiculous. But we smile at the shear wonderful folly of it all and enjoy our time here, and our piñas coladas, anyway, seeing it in its entirety as just part of the 'Great Mexican Carnavál.'
Later, as we retire to our room, we know the whole ridiculous thing will repeat itself tomorrow night, and the night after that. All the bands will still be there, and the vendors, and the same guy on crutches missing the same leg.
The next afternoon, well before the municipal orchestra plays, we go out in serious search of a beautiful hand-embroidered blusa for Carolyn, and a fine guayabera for me. This is Veracruz. We may not be back here for a while and we intend to enjoy it fully. Back in our room, I unpack that Panama hat I bought in Campeche, intending to wear it for this special occasion. I unroll the thing and put it on, but by now it looks a lot more like Gomer Pyle or Chico Marx than Ricky Ricardo. I stuff it back in the pack, hoping to revive it when we get back to Kino. So I don my new white guayabera and turn to look into the mirror. The transformation is complete as Carolyn and I head down the broad marble stairway, through the ancient lobby of the Hotel Imperial – in all its faded glory – and out into the Plaza for one last night of revelry under the caribbean stars.