Chichen Itza, Cozumel 2002

Merida, Chichen Itza, Cozumel. Archive, 2002.

Merida, celebrating Independence Day.

Ashamed to say we were mildly ripped off by someone leading us to the 'official' artisan's shop. I can't believe we fell for that. A couple of days later we found the real artisan's shop and made up for our earlier foolishness. [Have since freecycled all the initial shopping, which while quite satisfactory, was just loaded with shame and misery. :) ] Good news is, it's easy to avoid the rip-off, if only you pay a tiny bit of attention.

Best breakfast in Merida: Cafe de Habana, espresso beans roasted onsite. Revueltos con frijoles y lechero para mi. Lots of food and time to enjoy it.

In the evenings: Lively local bands playing in the central plaza, which unfortunately are followed by questionable dance music trumped by even more questionable English lyrics. Anything that starts with "I am a fantastic lover" and ends with "just call me Mr. Plastic" can't be good.

Hacienda Chichen, before it got fancy.

Took the bus to Chichen Itza, stowed bags at Hacienda Chichen and then took the 5-10 minute walk to the site. Worn yet dramatic carvings speak volumes of lives and beliefs from so many years ago. It's hard to imagine much of these forests cleared, paved streets in their stead. I listen for the sounds of a multitude of people going about their days some 1200 years ago. Did the air smell this way? Was it this humid? Did the earth, so rich then, have this same color of discarded coffee grounds? Were the inhabitants of this city bitten by the ancestors of the insects now intent on nibbling me into oblivion?

Across the walking path, leaf-cutter ants trundle along with their outsized cargo.

We hike along, structure after structure looming out of the forest, so much yet to be discovered. A brief, refreshing rain pelts us - it feels great. Afterward, everything is cast in high relief. A large iguana ambles away, then races up a tree upon our approach.

We continue wandering, mapless, hoping for some cosmic sensibility to dawn on us and interpret what we see. I understand why we are restricted mostly to the outside of these structures but still wish someone would quietly wave us inside.

Within hours, we grow accustomed to runnels of perspiration that we fuel with litre after litre of water. Having never come within a quarter of the "8 glasses daily" regimen, it's odd how natural this new intake seems. The output, such as it is, seems natural too.

We return to the hacienda to wash up, take a swim, and then return for Luz y Sonido. "Estaban, estaban, estaban...." They WERE. It's true.

Dinner at the hacienda is good, sleep is even better.

Our second day at the site brings the sudden and unwelcome realization that I have a fear of heights. I find this out sitting atop El Castillo. Very easy up. Down? Not so much. Since when is this a phobia of mine? Eeeeeeee. Eventually I gather my nerve (my wits had fled and my bladder was debating it) and with a firm grasp of the guideline fastened down the middle of the steps, ease myself ever so gently down, one tiny, impossibly narrow step at a time.

eeeee.

Later, wish granted, we do get to go inside El Castillo, which brings a whole new perspective on the talents of the Maya.

Back outside, lots of lizards, from tiny to huge. Birds I've never seen before. A very nice dog. Lots of good exploring and climbing and seeing and even a little experiencing. Lots and lots of curiosity. Learning to breathe and relax. At day's end, a big thunderstorm. Very nice to sit on terrace during dinner and feel the mist. Big spider from yesterday is gone, which should be a relief, but instead I find I'd much rather just see where he is than imagine all the possibilities.

The next day opens with a hearty breakfast, limonada and spicy Mayan hot chocolate. Our reluctance to return to the present century is eventually overcome by the promise of a glorious week of diving, and we begin the trek to our next adventure.

Our elevated view from the autobus provides a view of jungle interpersed with the most basic living. Mud walls, rudimentary fences, chickens, roosters, dogs, the occasional pig or two, and rarely, a horse. Skinny trunks of palm or bamboo-like grass serve as walls, well-spaced to allow airflow. Hammocks hung for beds. The odd cement floor, more that are simple earth. All small spaces (or really, no larger than they need to be).

Subsistence living is harsh, and my own family has done their farming version and probably wouldn't think fondly of returning to it, but I admit I feel drawn. It seems incredibly dense to say, but I keep thinking "when I have enough savings this is how I'll live." Even denser to add: I mean it. But I really think and hope I will, while helping boost others toward this easier life we live today. {More on my secret humanitarian mission in other posts on other blogs.}

And then in a flash we are in a different sort of jungle, of concrete and tile, and only too anxious to board the ferry at Playa del Carmen and get away from the crowds. Our destination: Cozumel. We reach our big commercial hotel with its cheesy 80s music piped poolside, and thank goodness you can't hear the music when you submerge. Dinner is sincronizadas para mi, y carne something for Gary.

Breakfasts of waffles and honey, fruit and granola, huevos revueltos y tocino, jugo de muchas cosas deliciosas. We enjoy a few day of diving with Eddie, Francisco and Pirate in warm, calm waters (85-86F) with what passes for poor vis here (a mere 50-70 feet - puh!) and abundant marine life. Turtles, lobsters, crabs, sea cucumber, conchs, sea fans, big drum, beautiful coral, anemones, feather dusters, more fish than you can shake a stick at, the fantastic "usual." A few small black tip and then the biggest nurse shark I have ever, ever seen in my life. Its head was simply massive. Lucky for us they're shy. While snorkeling a day or so later, we see yellow stingray, peacock flounder, lots of juvenile fish, several starfish and way too many urchins.

Tiny but plentiful.

Then it hits. Isadore shows up uninvited and altogether pushy, cancelling dives and whipping the ocean with wind. Crests of waves lash the seawall and toss planks of the pier like pick-up sticks. The ferry and the airport close, but we escape the hotel via taxi.

Hello, Tropical Storm Isadore. So long, diving.

Despite the threat of rain - so far it's mostly just wind - downtown is semi-populated, if mainly by street vendors. A friendly dog approaches us in the square and lies docile at Gary's feet. He's initially convinced it's a trick, but eventually relents and they become fast friends.

We return to the hotel at 4pm, just as the clouds burst and rain begins in earnest. On the news we hear Cuba has taken a beating. We seem to be on the lower edge of the storm, which lingers at Category 3.

By the next day, there are rumors of upgrading to Category 4 (if winds exceed 131mph). Dives are again - of course - cancelled. We again make our way downtown, and enjoy dinner at La Choza, our home away from home. Pollo con mole, sopa azteca, arrachera asada.

On day three of the storm, waves are bigger than ever and now qualify as 'scary' in my book. The storm plucks thatched roofs to tatters. At night, the wind howls and rattles through the sliding glass doors of our seventh floor room, and I am more than a little nervous.

Day four brings intermittent sunshine and some level of comfort in playing on the beach despite the big waves crashing all around.

Day five dawns sunny and peaceful. Four frigate birds soar along the water with some little guys swooping in their midst. We see cruise ships well off the coast, deciding whether it's safe to dock. Green army trucks pass, packed with rather scarily-clad soldiers in the back. But the air is warm and lovely, the wind soft and salty. We head for breakfast at Jeannie's Waffle House and sit on the patio, where what's left of Isadore continues its tantrum a few yards away at the shore. Cruise ships make up their minds to leave. Taxi drivers are disappointed. Some are protesting in the center of town; not sure why but we think it is fare-related. It's only 60 pesos from town to our hotel, so the complaint seems reasonable to us.

At the town center, I step down to the water and collect sea glass. The rain comes and goes, and a dog comes to make friends and bark madly. Today's sales pitch: "Want to buy a Cuban cigar?" "No, gracias." "Sombrero maybe?"

Cosumeleno side yard. Blocks away from town center, homes reflect a necessitarian outlook.

Back at the hotel, the pool water is cold and there's still no getting into the ocean. All along the sand are the remnants and wreckage of sea life. Sponges, sea stars, seaweed. Despite attempts at rescue for the stars, they're sadly finished. "Nutrients," someone says. I guess so. For our own, dinner at La Choza one last time (this trip anyway).

Our last day is gorgeous and we see dive boat after dive boat head for the reefs. Waaaaah. Dozens of them. Trying to make the best of it, I take notes on which ones are least loaded with divers, for future explorations. The seas are pretty calm, no white foam today, no big sploosh. Days later than planned, we finally take a speedy ride to the airport, where I find rum cake for Alison, but no jumping beans for Jason. Ah well. We'll be back.

Calm days ahead.