We were out of Orange Walk and on a bus headed south. Although this town had been a shaky introduction to Belize, we were feeling a bit better about things in the morning. For one, the town was alive and friendly in the morning. Secondly, the weather was actually pretty nice, with scattered clouds and even sunshine. Finally, we were moving on and as a backpacker that’s always an exciting thing. You never know what the next place will hold. First we headed south to Belize City, a city of notorious crime and danger. But we needed to go there to get to Caye Caulker, a small island off the coast of Belize that hasn’t really developed into a resort haven and thus is the perfect place to enjoy the island life without paying the costs for it. Belize City, at least by day, was vibrant and interesting, and I had a feeling I could spend a day or two exploring. Even after a man rather randomly came up proclaiming angrily that he was not our enemy, I still thought that the city was nowhere near so bad as we’d expected. We strolled through, picking up some fruit to snack on for the 1 k walk to the ferry terminal, and very soon we were on a boat for Caye Caulker. The weather hadn’t held out, but it wasn’t raining anymore. And as the boat docked at the Caye, I realized we were about to experience a totally different side of Belize.
Caye Caulker was about the closest thing to Asia I’ve seen in this hemisphere. Little wooden huts, restaurants and budget snack shacks, barbecues, fresh seafood, and there we were at the end of the dock, me, Phil, and Amy, a Californian girl we’d met on the ferry over. The three of us walked down the pier and soon enough someone was offering to help us find a guesthouse. “Nah, we’ll be fine, thanks” I told him and then it was time for the one-local-per-locale to get angry with me. “The service is free” he repeated, and I likewise said again, “I know and thank you but we’d rather find a place on our own” and then I got told that I “need to relax man, it’s an island here, you have to chill.” So he walked us to the far south end of the island for a pretty sketchy place that was definitely overpriced for what it was. And then back some more, which for me is a very frustrating process. I don’t like being led by the nose to the places he picks out, and I’m quite capable of reading signs and communicating on my own besides. Eventually we were getting nowhere and I decided to just fade to the back of our walking group and check out this one place, “The Tropics Hotel”. He spotted me and ran in, interrupting, saying, “You don’t have a room with three beds do you?” as she was explaining to me what they did have (which did include a room with three beds). He probably got his commission and we managed to get a nice room right on the beach with private bathroom and two fans for three nights. Cost? $20 US each or $6.33/night.
So the three of us, now that Amy was officially stuck with us for at least four days settled into our very nice new room and agreed... we liked it here already. We wandered down the beach to the Split, the north end of the island which was physically split from the other more northern half by the last hurricane to hit Belize. At the Split now is a small beach bar with music pumping (yup, reggae) and we sat, had a few drinks and ate some fish for lunch. While wandering around we’d bumped into some people Amy knew and agreed to meet up with them for dinner with them and their friends. We were originally going to go see Jolly Roger (AKA The Fat Man) and share a $20 Belize lobster meal but then we happened on his sister, Fran, who was eager to cut us a deal. I wound up negotiating on behalf of the group and we ended up with a free lobster meal for bringing in a large group as well as three rum punch drinks instead of the two. So the total meal, for $8 USD was two lobster tails, potato, rice, veggies, and three glasses of rum and punch. And we all had a great time with Fran, who was quite a character and seemed to have taken a liking to me.
It had been a long day for us all, and more importantly I had an important appointment at 5:30 AM the next morning, so we said goodbye to our dinner company and went to sleep. My appointment? I had to be at Frenchie’s Dive Shop by 5:30 AM to get on the dive boat heading to Belize’s famed Blue Hole. This was another deal I’d managed to finagle, though more through good timing than excellent haggling, getting the dive for $175 instead of the standard $190. These aren’t the cheapest diving prices in the world, but it did give us three dives and the Blue Hole is 2 hours away so I wasn’t complaining. Plus, after Australia, Belize has the second largest reef in the world so it was a must on the dive list. Now what is this Blue Hole? Well, back in the ice age when there was a lot less water in the oceans, it had been an underground cave chamber. Over millions of years, water dripping into this chamber formed stalactites and cave formations while the earth warmed. Eventually the land on top of the cave was submerged and filled with reef when the top of the cave collapsed under the water’s weight, plummeting some 150 metres to the ocean floor. The result is a circular opening into deep ocean, entirely surrounded by reef. You can dive in and see the cave formations, to a depth of 120 ft (40m) below the surface and, because you are at that depth, often sharks are in the area too.
I had lately been having troubles equalizing my sinuses, causing serious pressure on the eyeballs and sometimes even my teeth as I get deeper, so I was worried about this dive. You immediately descend to 40m to see the cave and after no more than 8 minutes at that depth begin making your way back to the surface. So there’s not a lot of time to get down. But it went fine and I pretty much freefell to about 90 ft at which point I had to slow down to let my sinuses adjust. The dive itself is not for amazing reef, sea life, or much of anything else. Because it’s so deep, you may see some sharks (we did) but they weren’t the highlight. What was the highlight was how entirely surreal the place feels. First of all, at that depth, you can no longer see the surface. You know which way is up because the bubbles float that way and buoyancy acts like reverse gravity in pulling you upwards, so you get a bit of sensation out of that as well. Above, blue. Below dark blue fading to black. Only a section of wall and stalagmites to orient yourself. The blue hole below looked very tempting, as though it was an unventured path that could be explored. I mean, we were already this deep, what was a few more feet (well, say a hundred) down to at least see the bottom. I felt the vague excitement of the unexplored there and that feeling, though it may have been nitrogen narcosis, was what made this a special dive.
We did two more dives on the reefs and they were both great. Belize really does have some incredible coral in great condition and it rivalled anything I’d seen in Australia. I don’t have the name of the second dive, but the third was called The Aquarium and that was very fitting. We saw turtles, rays, a couple sharks, and any number of other fish. We also stopped for lunch at a little island off the reef where I finally found one of ‘those’ palms that jut out horizontally over the water. You know them, you’ve definitely seen them on postcards. And now I’ve finally seen one in real life. I set my camera on a coconut and put it into a timer mode, getting any number of ridiculous shots before retiring. By 3:30 we were back on solid ground. Meanwhile, Phil and Amy had taken a snorkelling trip with Ragamuffin that they loved. They had met a nice and very fun German couple on the boat so the five of us got together for dinner that night at the fat man. We got the same deal (minus the free meal because we didn’t have enough people) but not quite the same meal. The sides were different, and better, but the lobster was not as good as Fran’s. Nor was the dessert and nor was the service. As a matter of fact, I had to get up to serve drinks to our group (we were later joined by the Norwegian girls). Still a nice dinner, just not quite as nice. It had been a long day, and we went to bed early.
The next morning was, at last, an absolutely gorgeous day. We had been waiting basically since Phil arrived, over a week, and here was a clear sky and a beaming sun. And the best part was, we had no plans. We got up, had a snack for breakfast, and headed to “The Split” where a small section of sand awaited (and a round of rum and pineapple). We laid on the ‘beach’ which I should clarify is not a really great reason to come here, but it was enjoyable nonetheless. The Germans joined us again, we went for a swim, and we read, chatted, and had another round of drinks until we’d had enough sun and really loud reggae. It’s hard to put a day like this into words and it’s harder to make it into an interesting story, but we had a great time doing little and, well, life was good. We weren’t going to go for lobster again that night, but walking around looking for a restaurant, the fat man propositioned us with a deal we couldn’t refuse. For $6, the same deal we had last time. Needless to say, we had lobster for the third night in a row and this time may well have been the best lobster we had yet. A day on the beach in the sun, lobster tails for dinner, all that was needed to cap it? Karaoke. And it was a great time. Amy did an amazing rendition of Bobby McGee (seriously, incredible), than I tried my hand at “Coward of the County”, and finally Phil cracked us up with “Baby Got Back”. Great day. Great time. Caye Caulker was definitely the highlight so far. Tomorrow morning we’re headed east, with Amy in tow, to San Ignacio, our last stop in Belize.
South of the border, down Mexico way. South of the border again, to Belize today. Phil never sung these lines, but he should have. I’m not saying he’s a great singer, but it would’ve made a great Sinatra-esque intro to this blog post. For you see, we were heading to Belize, taking a bus from Tulum to Chetumal (164 pesos) and then another bus from Chetumal across the border to Orange Walk, Belize ($US 7). Aside from having to pay $20 to leave the country – I guess if you can’t afford it, you’re forced to immigrate. Luckily, neither Phil nor I are taking up residence. Crossing the border, otherwise, was pretty straightforward. What’s in the bag? Any guns? Alcohol? Etc etc? For some reason, in the distance there was a NASA hangar-type building that I thought might prove handy if I needed to get away from Belize very quickly. And then we were driving again. We weren’t far from the border but there were definite differences. It felt immediately more overgrown, more jungle and less civilization. We occasionally passed or were passed by pickup trucks with up to 9 or 10 people in the box. And soon, after a few local pickups in Corazol, we heard that very unique mix or English, Spanish, and then that bizarre mix of English, French and maybe some Spanish known as Creole.
As the bus pulled into the town of Orange Walk, I was starting to question our judgement. Speciflcally my judgement, since I kind of dragged Phil along for the ride to see Lamanai. We got off the bus and declined the taxi rides, walking up Victoria St to where Akihito, the cheapest place in town, was located. It was under full lock down, the gate padlocked and no signs of life. In fact, the first five or six places we came across were all in similar array, barred, gated, and closed. A random guy asked if we were looking for a hotel to which we said sure, and he pointed the direction of the James. We thanked him and he started walking and talking with us. As we walked along he switched from telling us stories about how he used to be a boxer but he doesn’t fight outside the ring, he respects people. Then he was mentioning something to Phil about being in jail for “guns”. And that’s when he flipped into ‘guide’ mode, starting to explain the church we were walking by.
Neither of us were especially worried by him particularly, it was clearly bluster, but as we walked down the road towards a run down shack with friends of his on the porch, both Phil and I wondered if we’d be better off turning and finding another place. Still, we were there and got the tour but the rooms were sketchy like crazy and about as secure as a house of cards on a sailboat in a hurricane. Which, I don’t know if I mentioned, was part of the reason we were in Orange Walk... not for a house of cards, but because Hurricane Ida had been making the weather along the coast terrible and we wanted to be inland for an escape and hopefully a bit of safety, too. This place didn’t feel all that safe, now that we were there. Eventually we saw a hotel that looked nice and were willing to pay a bit more for our security. The price was actually pretty great for what, in backpacker terms, was a luxury suite. We paid $10/night for two nights. So we kind of blew the “really expensive” Belize thing out of the water.
Sort of. The reason we were in Orange Walk was to visit the ruins of ancient Lamanai, which you reach with a boat ride up the New River, approximately two hours upstream. The cost of this is a not insignificant $40, which, when backpacking is quite a bit to see ruins. But it’s more than that. The boat trip, 4 hours total on the river, is guided as well as a walk through the ruins. And, it turned out, we would have about as knowledgeable a guide as could be hoped for. After getting settled in, Phil and I walked around town just as the sun was setting and found what was probably the only place still open on a Sunday night. A little Chinese grill which did a pretty reasonable $3 2-pattie burger. Phil and I were both surprised at the large number of Chinese here... our guide would later tell us that many had been brought in as cooks for mahogany logging camps in the early 1900s but at the time it seemed the town might be more Chinese than Belize. After our burger, we walked to the only other place we’d found open, a sort of sad homage to Chinese bars with a bunch of derelict slot machines (complete with one poor soul playing two at once) and our first taste of Belikin beer. Not bad... smooth like Pacifico, flavoured like (according to Phil) Innis ‘n’ Gunn.
That was our night. The next morning we were on the pier for our Jungle Tours trip up to Laminai at 9 AM. Along for the ride were a Polish father and daughter, two Belgian guys, a German girl, Phil, myself, and our guide, Wilfredo. He was definitely university educated and could talk at length about Belize, Mayans, and any plant of animal (or ruin) found therein. We travelled up the river, stopping to watch birds here and there, feeding some inquisitive spider monkeys (one of which boarded our boat), talking about the sugar mill and its new co-gen appendage, or the Old Master rum distillery further up. We talked about the history of Belize and of the Mayans and two hours later, arrived at Lamanai (Mayan for “Submerged crocodile”).
Lamanai had once been a city, archaeologists estimate, of 220,000 people. There are enormous mounds of dirt that have covered more pyramids and buildings than are visible today – enough to support today’s population of Regina. And yet, aside from one other group of five that we only saw when we ate lunch, we had it entirely to ourselves. And I would occasionally run back to spots I’d noted when Wilfredo was done talking at which point I DID have it to myself. A very cool and surreal feeling, let me tell you. Wilfredo did a great job explaining the building, from the Jaguar temple to the Temple of the Mask. That’s no surprise given the man’s experience working with archaeologists in various Mayan ruins all over the place. He was telling us how much taller the building had been before time wore them away, some growing beyond the heights of Egyptian pyramids. I shrugged this off as pride speaking but then he showed us evidence, and how the buildings were actually built atop older buildings in layers like an onion, as rulers changed and new symbols of greater power had to be established. This gives a whole new perspective on some of the buildings we saw which were already impressively high as he peeled back the layers and showed remains of larger outer ones.
The boat ride back to Orange Walk left us alone once again as the others were all chancing a late-evening arrival into Belize City... something we’d been strongly advised against. So we again went to visit the Chinese burger shop and this time skipped the beer to check out a club that was pumping music out. Walking through a fluorescent tunnel the smell of urine grew until we turned the corner and found two women and a man having drinks, one of which was probably the waitress. We continued turning and walked right out the door, picking up (in addition to some cheap sandals to replace my mismatched ones) a bottle of local coconut rum and some orange juice. We were almost home when four people were walking down the street towards us, one of them with eyes locked on me like he was trying to scare me. I didn’t avert my gaze, either, but thought that I would offer a friendly greeting to ease the tension. “Hola!” I said as he got closer. And then, in that very muddled Creole-English that you learn to decipher over here, he replied, “Hola, assahole”. Traditional Belize greeting, I guess. Which is why we were saying goodbye to Orange Walk the next morning.
The morning of departure was upon me. Yet another cloudy day with a very high probability of rain. I grabbed some of the free breakfast, which is to say bread and jam, from the hostel and noted with considerable concern that my foot was very itchy. And the bites, which looked like mosquito bites, were in a triangle. I noticed my arm also had two trios of bites and sincerely hoped that these were not bedbugs. Bedbugs, or so I’ve heard in my travels, tend to bite at extremities, to bite in threes, and in lines or triangles, clustered close together. Myth or fiction I don’t know, but I suppose I’ll find out as the days pass. It was now time to pay for the hostel and that meant – for the first time in a long time – cashing travellers’ cheques. The first bank wouldn’t touch them and I can’t remember the name. The second, BanMex, told me I had to bring a photocopy of my passport. I guess they either don’t have a copier or can’t be bothered. Finally, Scotiabank cashed it with no hassle whatsoever. Phil was just getting up (he’s still tired from the adjustment to travelling life) and we walked to the bus station. I grabbed an expensive chai latte (a person has to give in to such comforts from time to time) and then we discovered a food cart doing cuchina, which was basically a roast pork taco. I had three of them, we made our way to the minibuses and, 35 pesos later, were en route to Tulum.
The rain started as soon as we were underway and didn’t abate. So we arrived in the centre of town, at the Weary Traveller Hostel, in a steady, droning rain. We didn’t stay at the Weary Traveller, however. First of all, Phil had heard it was bedbug ridden, and I had enough to worry about on that front. Secondly, when we did go in to have a look, we were roundly ignored not only by the staff (who were nowhere to be found, it appears) but also by the nine or so backpackers sitting at the table. Not a greeting, hello, hola, bienvenidos. We had walked in on their private get together and how dare we? Phil and I exchanged a glance and went back out under the canopy where we used their wireless to find a hostel another friend had recommended. It was more than 3 km away so we bit the bullet and grabbed a taxi. I should’ve known then it was going to be an expensive day. The hostel was full, we were told, until I mentioned that we were looking forward to it as a friend had highly recommended it to us. Then the gate to Pesados Machapas (I think) opened and there was room, but not for two in the same dorm. That wasn’t a problem, and the rooms were clean, the beds comfortable-looking, and were it not for the price – 180 pesos – we would have stayed. But it was a bit too much and we wandered down the highway (for we were now out of town and close to the ruins) to the nearby Lobo Hostel where we settled for 120 pesos. The vibe was not great, the staff not friendly (and downright offended when we checked the mattresses for bedbugs), but darn it, it was affordable and clean enough.
However, this location, out of town 3 km, away from the beach 2 km, and maybe 1 km from the ruins left us feeling very isolated. Not only was the hostel empty, save for a lone Mexican in our room named Paco and a girl who appeared to be a mute. So we left our bags in the lockers and wandered off, hoping to find something better near the beach. But we were at the very outskirts of the beach and there was nothing but expensive huts. A long walk later, we settled for Los Lobos and rested a bit. One thing I will say is that, besides free internet, they lend out bikes for free. We took two into town where we ambled around the side streets into areas where the kids looked at us (well, Phil) really funny and I regretted not having my camera for fear of the rain. We found some great street food, got a couple of police officers to take a photo of us pretending to be playing in a baseball stadium, and then sat at a proper restaurant. Just then, the rain suddenly poured, as though it had been waiting for us to find shelter and now had to release all that built-up rain. It was wicked. An expensive dinner and no cheap looking bars in sight we biked back, now in the dark, along the highway to our hostel – Phil’s flashlight saved the day here.
The next morning we’d planned to go to Coba in the morning (about a 40 minute drive) and then do the ruins at Tulum on our return. However, the sound of howling wind and pouring rain made it look like we were going to experience our first hurricane instead. That was at 8 AM or so. By 9:30, however, there were patches of sun and the wind had died completely, catching us a little by surprise. The altogether unpleasant fellow who runs our hostel told us the bus left at 10:15 so we jumped on our bikes and sped fast as we could to the bus station in town, skipping the included breakfast and everything. It was there we found out that the bus left at 10:57 and we’d be fine until then. We went next store and got some cheap cochinita from Tony (8 pesos for a roast pork taco) then went back to the bus station. It started pouring again while we were eating and Tony gave me a couple small plastic bags to keep my stuff dry, then we got on the bus and headed for the mildly better weather in Coba. It wasn’t raining at least, but I doubt any of my photos are worth looking at from that day. It was overcast and spit from time to time. Still, to see it in person was pretty cool and both Phil and I felt it was worth the trip.
We got back to Tulum at 4:30, too late to see the ruins in town which was just as well. We were both starving. We wandered the side streets looking for a place to eat and came across a woman roasting chicken on the barbecue. Though they spoke no English we managed to order Pollo Asado, which was that same chicken with rice, beans, spaghetti, onions, and an excellent salsa plus side tortillas. We didn’t know what to do with the tortillas so we picked the chicken apart and made our own. It was a feast and for 50 pesos each we also got a large sliced chilli pepper stuffed with cheese and ham. We were hungry enough to have liked anything, so this was simply delicious. After that, there was nothing left but to bike back to our hostel. Darkness had fallen and it was a treacherous drive along the side of the highway, headlamp or no. We made a stop at a grocery store for some granola bars, yogurt drinks, and a six pack of beer before finally getting back home and calling it a day.
The evenings here are pretty uneventful. Perhaps there is some activity in the town (there are some touristy and pricey outdoor restaurant/bars, but they don’t qualify for the backpacker budget) or maybe on the beach (though with the incessant rain this is doubtful) but we generally stayed in the hostel after dinner and passed the time visiting, planning for tomorrow, occasionally studying Spanish (not enough!), and in my case, working on this blog (writing the posts for early-mid 2009) and my photos. It certainly made it easy to get to be earlier than usual, even if Paco (whose name we later discovered was Vincent but I’m not sure I believe that) tried to keep us up all hours with strange and exceedingly loud noises. What we thought would be our last day in Tulum was extended after a conversation about cenotes (cave pools) over breakfast with two Americans. They convinced us that this was something we should do and on top of that, by the time we finished breakfast and got to the ruins of Tulum, we probably wouldn’t make it to the Belize border before dark. If there’s one thing that I’ve come to insist on in my travels, it’s crossing the border by daylight only (with the possible though still not recommended exception of Europe). So the plan for the day? Visit the ruins of Tulum and then go see some cenotes.
The rain had stopped that morning and we very gratefully made our way to Tulum. In fact, I’d say the weather was almost perfect for photos – the clouds were ominously present and dark but the sun was shining too, giving the appearance of sanctuary to these ancient ruins. Or at least of an impending doom, which was as accurate for us today as it was several hundred years ago when the Mayans finally succumbed to European pressures. We wandered along, very happy in the brief glimpse of light bestowed upon us and I took some pictures of Tulum that I’m pretty excited about. And then, no sooner had the hole in the sky been filled with imperious blue cloud than it started pouring rain. We took shelter under a few trees along with several billion mosquitoes and passed the time swatting, slapping, and itching until our patience ran dry and our clothes were soaked. Several more photos in the rain, which did eventually slow to a sprinkle, the advantage now not light but that many of the big tourist groups had run for the buses. And then we left the ruins, returning to the hostel just in time to avoid the next downpour. Phil and I got ready for a cenote swim, grabbed a bit of cash (leaving our valuables in the locker rather than take them and leave them sitting unattended) and when the rain seemed to relent, hopped on our bikes and rode the 7 km to Grand Cenote. Supposedly an underground cavern with waterfalls, lots of pools and stalactites galore. Of course, we needed to stop for lunch first and maybe 100m from the highway crossing to Coba, we found a great little restaurant with excellent food. Spinach & egg tacos, mixed meat tacos, egg and sausage were my three choices and each was better than the last – complemented, of course, by an ice cold Coke in a glass bottle. Viva Mexico.
The total of this very filling taco trio with the Coke was 40 pesos. That left me with 80 in my pocket and Phil with 47. We set off and biked along the highway until finally reaching the Grand Cenote where we were shocked to discover a $10 entry fee. I thought maybe it would be 20 or 30 pesos, ($2-$3) but 100?! The ruins of Tulum cost HALF that. So, yes, we were unprepared, and no, we did not see this cenote after all. I’m not sure I would’ve paid even if I’d had the money. It’s on private land and the owner charges for admission, but you’d think when we showed him all the money we had collectively he’d be better to take it and get ~50 pesos each from us than to just wave us away. Still, all was not lost. We hopped on our bikes, muttering ‘banditos’ under our breaths, and rode back towards Tulum and a small cenote we’d passed on the way. The Calvera Cenote was 50 pesos and the owner did let Phil in with 47 pesos. We were the only ones in there, which is just as well as it wasn’t big enough for more than that. In fact, aside from being a diversion, it wasn’t really interesting. There were scant few cave formations and quite a few bats. Now, if you’re SCUBA diving, that’s a different story – there’s a hole that leads to other caverns and it looked like it would’ve been awesome to dive. In fact, if I’m this way again, I will insist on doing a cenote dive. Still, we swam around, did some jumping, some photography with Phil’s mostly-waterproof camera, and rode back to the hostel.
The lightning earlier had blown up the transformer next to the hostel (man, was that LOUD!) so we had no power. I used the remaining daylight to practice my Spanish, reviewing lesson 3 again (they’re BIG lessons) and going through lesson 4. How’s the Spanish coming? Pretty good, I’m actually surprised with how well I’m doing with my vocabulary. Of course, as soon as the conversation veers from those known topics into others, as soon as the context is not immediately obvious, and as soon as synonyms are called into action, I’m out of luck. But Barcelona wasn’t built in a day, and my comprehension is improving even if I need work on speaking and pronunciation. On other non-travel related notes, I’ve finished reading The Bourne Identity, which is a departure from the movie on a shocking scale. Aside from the base premise – an amnesiac with skills geared towards espionage or assassination – the plot is entirely different. This actually is great, as it means the book is full of surprises and is so different from the movie as to merit no comparison. A great pickup if you’re looking for a page-turner. I still have the book Barb gave me, my first Margaret Atwood novel. Oryx and Crake will come once I complete the Bourne trilogy, as my novel to savour and perhaps trade for other books as I make my way south. Which, in an elegant segue, is exactly what we will do tomorrow. South to Chetumal, where we have to pay our non-immigrant tax and get our card stamped at the bank before hopping another border-crossing bus into Belize. The plan is to reach Orange Walk mid-afternoon and take a river boat down to some obscure Mayan ruins at Lamanai the next day. Hopefully by then, Hurricane Ida will have diminished enough to make a trip back to the Caribbean coast more pleasant in Belize than it has been south of Cancun. Take it Belizey and we’ll see you, Caye (Caulker)? Also, I promise not to do that again so stay tuned.
I stood on the main hotel road of Cancun, sun (the hottest it had been since my arrival) and backpack on my back, waiting for public bus R1 to take me to the city centre and specifically the ADO bus station. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long and soon I was whisking past resort after resort thinking that I wouldn’t be staying in luxury like this for some time. And then I pulled out my Lonely Planet. Phil, a friend from back home, was soon arriving in Mexico and Playa del Carmen was his first destination whereas I had dismissed it out of hand as a package holiday town. Oddly it wasn’t the reading of the town's description that caught my attention, it was the map. Here was a town with hostels rather than hotels that seemed to straddle the vacation/experience divide. I changed my mind then and there and decided that yes, I was going to stop in Playa, at least for a night. Then I looked up and realized that the hotel strip was winding down, for we had just passed the Aquamarina Hotel, where John and I stayed last time. I honestly thought about jumping off to check if any of the same staff were there but decided against it. Then it was a question of figuring out which traffic circle had the bus station and jumping off there, which was easier than expected. And finally, buying my ticket and plunking myself down on the first long-distance North American bus trip I have done since our car broke down in whimsical Winlock, Washington.
The bus ride was 38 pesos which isn’t bad at all, and aside from the fact that the bus wouldn’t start (and we had to switch busses) the ride was utterly uneventful. The road was pretty dull with more billboards than scenery, and I have to say that the Spanish and Asians have attended the same school of planning. The idea appears to be to let anyone build anything as close to a major road as possible. After getting off the bus, then the backpacking part really began. Somewhere near this main road, 5th Avenue, was a hostel and I had to find it. So I started walking. I had not gone far (though I had expected to cross one sooner) when an older man came up to me and asked if I was looking for a hotel or hostel. “Hostel,” I answered. Well, he knew of one. Thankful but on guard as always, I followed him as he told me he’d lived in town for 35 years, originally from Texas, and then went on to talk about the hostel and its namesake, Maria Sabina. She’d taken the Beatles around Mexico and had all sorts of celebrity connections from what he was telling me. I figured he was on their payroll but it didn’t hurt to look. It turned out he wasn’t – the people at this hostel are just well-loved in town and he was doing me a big favour. They were immediately friendly, the rooms were 130 pesos per night (I managed to get 110 for agreeing to stay 3 days), the rooms and bathrooms were clean, there was free breakfast and wifi and tequila at 8. Sold. My room had a balcony on the 5th floor with a view towards the ocean, air conditioning (!), lockers (great for peace of mind) and though I wouldn’t touch it, a TV. Downstairs one level was an open-air lounge with wicker chairs and hammocks, where we’d gather and socialize before heading out, the floor below that a kitchen, and so on. I feel like I’m a shill for this place now, but if you’re reading my blog, you deserve to stay somewhere this good, so here it is again. Maria Sabina, 6th St between 5th Ave and 10th Ave. Jonathan, one of the guys that works here up until Thursday – because he offered to quit and travel with a girl whose friend bailed on her and was faced with either traveling alone (she was not up for it) or going home early – wants me to tell you that they have great parties on the weekend, though my Monday-Thursday stay precludes me from confirming.
I guess I’m enthusiastic because I felt right at home here. After getting settled in my room I popped down to the kitchen and was told by another backpacker where to find good cheap food a couple blocks away. We chatted for a bit about his travels and the perils of getting in a fake taxi in Bolivia, and then I went to explore and grab some food before it got dark. It’s always easier to be in a new place during the day. I walked the length of 5th Avenue then came back on 10th and grabbed a 20 peso torta (sandwich) and a 15 peso coconut-mango-vanilla smoothie that were mmm-good and satisfying. Back at the hostel I missed the tequila but noted three of the guys were drinking massive 1.25 L bottles (they call them missiles here) of Sol, available next door for 25 pesos. Four minutes later, I was sitting with a group of them chatting and drinking an oversized Sol. Jonathan was taking two English girls out for salsa lessons and sure, I’d go along. Unfortunately, there wasn’t really a class going on that night but he tried his best to teach the girls who tried their best to teach me. Their effort was admirable but I’ve got some work to do. The four of us bought two 2-for-1 mojitos and then met up with the rest of the hostel gang at Coco Mayo, which is pretty much how every night here ended. I stayed for a while, danced a while with the group and left at around 2 AM. I walked by Coco Bongo on the way home and stopped to inquire about the price to go in so late. $20 US and I’d been wanting to check out the show anyway, so I ventured inside. It was worth every cent. Though the club was not really big enough to house it (tall but small) which I think partly resulted in people more apt to stand and watch than dance, I didn’t mind. If they were playing a Kiss song, or Rolling Stones, or Elvis, or Michael Jackson, or even La Bamba (you’ll notice that the music they played definitely helped me enjoy myself) there were professional dancers, people in makeup and suits performing professionally choreographed dances. The Michael Jackson one was phenomenal. For La Bamba, they had someone playing the saxophone live. And when they, I presume, wanted to play some other songs (otherwise, why else?) they had a skit with Freddy vs Jason and fake blood gushing everywhere.
I got home that night around 4 and slept until 9:00 or so when the light and noise or the dorm was too much. Guillermo, one of the guys in the room, was going for an interview at a nearby resort and recommended a section of beach where there is good music, lots of young people, but not too crowded, Momisa or something along those lines. I got directions and walked with two German girls there after the morning rain abated, or so we hoped. It hadn’t, but we didn’t get anything more than a drizzle before the sun really came out. And man, was it powerful. I kept looking at them and wondering how, with no sunscreen, they weren’t getting burnt. I had SPF 30 and I definitely was feeling warm. “But if they’re not burning (the one was quite fair), surely I can’t be?” I would tell myself before finally decided that somehow that was exactly how it was going to be. So I retreated to the hostel for some lunch at a nearby restaurant (empanadas I believe) and went into the hostel. To my surprise, Phil – the guy who had indirectly convinced me to make Playa a stop – suddenly appeared. When he got settled in, we went strolling around the town and found some muy excellente street food. Tacos con carne, 10 pesos each and just ridiculously tasty. Plus, from another cart, something else which is escaping me that was also very good. On a whim we booked a dive off Cozumel and agreed to wake up at 8 AM the next day to make the 10:00 ferry.
I woke up plenty of times before 8:00 thanks to a booming storm all around us. Thunder that shook the room and rattled the windows. I should’ve gone to watch, but if I’m asleep and I get out of bed, that’s probably the end of that particular night. Still, it never occurred to me the next morning that it might still be raining out there when I neglected to pack anything more than snorkel, towel, windbreaker, camera, and book. It wasn’t raining when we left the hostel but basically just as we got under cover waiting to board the ferry to Cozumel, the rain came angrily down, sideways enough that even far under the roof we were not staying completely dry. When it came time to board, the 100m sprint to the ferry was done hunched over with the windbreaker trying to shield my camera. No harm done and the ferry, aside from a rollicking ride on the verge of getting sick, was fine thanks to an enclosed first level. But the walk from the ferry to the dive boat wsa not and everything except my camera and book (which I’d wrapped in the towel and shielded with my body) got wet. But both survived the ordeal and are better for it. Now the dives. Our first was a wall, 80-90 ft deep, and it was really great. I love diving walls because of that feeling that the depth continues forever, fading from blue to empty black. We saw a turtle and a few other things before going to our second dive : a wreck. We went down to look at it and then, though we shouldn’t have, went inside and swam down a few rusted and eery hallways. Then along where we saw a bull shark, a toad fish, and yet more underwater awesomeness.
Finally, back on land Phil and I first hunted a washroom which was nearby the actual dive shop we’d gone from (had we only known). Then we hunted food and found a pretty great little restaurant that served us some great food, That was when we realized we’d missed the 4:00 ferry and had three hours to wait for the next ferry at 7 PM. So we waited, strolled around, and luckily ran across Javier Soler, a local artist/sculptor who builds fibreglass designs and has aspirations of taking them and placing them in a lake to give snorkelers something else to look at and hopefully make some money. He was a very jovial and genial guy that loves his work and Phil and I had a great time chatting with him. Our next stop was much less successful, and that was for a Sol with Lime in a can. Sounds like it would be okay, right. But then, after some grimaces, looking closer at the can verified what we already knew... it was with lime alright. And salt! What psychotic decided somebody would want to drink beer with salt (and not just in a rim but in every sip) I don’t know, but he owes both Phil and I a beer. Finally, the ferry home, some more street food, and so ended my last night in Playa del Carmen, a much more charming place that I’d ever expected. Tomorrow, for real this time, Tulum. I could stay at this hostel for a few more days but it’s still early in the trip and I have that drive to get moving and see the next place. Probably a mistake, but if I find anything like this in Tulum then it will probably not be a mistake I’ll make twice.
So I’m at it again, crossing my fifth continent off the list: South America. Long time readers will remember my last expedition took me to Australia and Asia (that’s two), the trip prior to Europe, and of course North America is a given. With South America under my belt (hopefully) in the next six months, that’s five continents down with only Africa and Antarctica to go. Who knows, maybe I’ll even find a cheap trip down to the South Pole for a few weeks of dog sleds, penguins, and unspoiled wilderness. One can hope. For now though, I’m starting my South American Sojourn (TM) in an unusual place: Mexico. Because I’m not just trying to complete a checklist, I want to see as much of the world as I can so Central America is on the chopping block too.
Over the next six months, I will take you from the unlikely starting point of Cancun (cheap, cheap $225 flights from Calgary) on the tip of the Yucatan Peninsula down into Belize. Over to Guatemala where I hope to spend a few weeks on the volcanoside town of Xela hiking and studying Spanish. From there into El Salvador. Because it’s on the way. Who knows what I might find there? You may be aware of the recent strife in Honduras: time will tell the safest path through (or over) that country into Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and finally Panama. That’s Central America, and I hope to be at this point by December. From there, it’s a question of whether I fly to Chile to meet a friend for New Years or sail across the Darien Gap into Colombia. The itinerary is open, of course, but highlights I expect to hit are Bolivia, the Inca Trail to Macchu Picchu, Carnival in Rio, hiking in Patagonia, Ecuador’s Galapagos islands (dad, if you can get away for this, you definitely should!), Argentina’s Andes mountains, and more.
The trip started where they all start: Saskatoon. A 6 AM flight to Calgary meant I didn’t bother getting any sleep the night before (well, I tried but failed). I had just enough time to board the 9:00 Mexicana flight from Calgary to Mexico City, which is basically the only way to get to Cancun same-day. I even managed to catch a few minutes of sleep here and there, though if I really drifted off, turbulence would very abruptly wake me back up like God’s hand shaking me awake. Flying over Mexico City is an experience all its own. We had a rare clear day (little smog) and the city was mostly low-rise but packed tightly, in fact right to the edge of the runway. The airport left a lot to be desired in terms of clarity and on top of that, there were no indications aside from a “B” on my boarding pass where to go to catch my plane. Still, coming in was very Total Recall: they had a thermal scanner measuring temperatures as we walked by looking for H1N1 and “Health Security” personnel on hand. Also interesting was that I didn’t have to go through customs even though I’d arrived internationally – just immigration. When I did land in Cancun and push the random selection button, it went red but the only thing the customs agent questioned me about was the sandwich my dad had made me
150 pesos later, I was finally at Oasis, where I would spend a few days decompressing and enjoying ‘the good life’ before settling into that backpacker routine of hunting: hunting for new and interesting places to visit, hunting for cheap and clean places to sleep, hunting for good restaurants, good activities and always good prices. With about 40 hours since I’d last slept, I didn’t do much aside from grab a bite at the cafe, walk the grounds of the resort, and check out the “Circus Show” which was hit and miss. And sleep... and sleep. No worrying about what else needed to get done before I left home, nothing on my mind at all, it was a nice sleep though I did wake up after about 6 hours and could’ve sworn I heard Buffalo Soldier coming from the pool (a backpacker classic).
What can you say about resort life? Wake up when you get around to it, sit by the pool or belly up to the pool bar, swim in the sizable waves off white sand beaches, grab a bite anytime – buffets are great in that they’re always ready. Do some reading, get some sun, and at night, hit the clubs. I did all of these things. The first full day, I wandered the grounds noting how quiet things were before finding a lounge chair and studying some Spanish. And I did sit at the pool bar and try to make a new friend or two, but though I chatted with a few people, nothing stuck. I grabbed a late lunch and an early dinner, noting an increasing headache which is not usual for me, so I forced down a Pepsi (I really need to be more careful about booking non-Coke resorts, eh Mariah?) in case it was caffeine-related and a couple litres of water to play the odds of dehydration. That evening was the foam party at Oasis’ Up and Down club, so I thought I should check that out but as you might guess I wasn’t feeling up for it. I sat in the lobby bar for a bit until a 21-year old largish girl sat beside me rather drunkenly and started telling me how this was the longest stretch she’d gone without getting pregnant – she had been getting knocked up every three months for the last couple years, apparently – and now she’s on month 9. Now, I’m not great at small talk so this is probably natural conversation to have with a stranger and I politely listened as she then continued to expound on this and other aspects of her life, including her very high intelligence especially compared to me because I didn’t get vaccinated for the swine flu.
I had asked her early on if she was doing the foam party thing and she adamantly said no, so this was all the motivation I needed. I wandered over to the Grand Oasis and somehow got locked out of the hotel after taking a wrong turn (they were mopping the floors so I could go around to the next building). I decided to try and find my own way through the labyrinths to the front of the building where the entrance must surely be and stumbled on a guy from Virginia doing the same thing. The next thing we knew, we were at the back door and walked right by the DJ booth into the club without paying any cover whatsoever. !todo inclusivo! The numbers here were better than prior nights though still not crazy. The foam, on the other hand was everywhere. I met up with Virginia guy’s (nicknamed Cougar, I don’t think he knows what that means in Canada) cousin from Hamilton and after a few drinks and being discovered (at which point I paid and got my bracelet) we were meeting all sorts of people.
Foam parties, where suds fall from a bubble cannon, have the obvious ‘interesting’ appeal of making everybody slippery as well as the means to flirt rather easily by tossing suds or styling them into hair. They had one advantage I never considered: as a result of the fact that the foam was at times chest high and always above the waist, I was (as far as people could tell) as good a dancer as anybody else. Couple that with the fact that I can at least keep a beat, and I wasn’t doing too badly at all. I hung out with a couple from Utah, some folks from Vancouver, a couple Phillipino girls, and we all had a good time right until 4.
Now for the disadvantages: The bubbles burn. Breathe it in, get it in your eyes, or in a cut, and you will feel it. Although again, as a result of the fact that I was wearing a shirt unlike my more experienced colleagues (including a couple girls I should add), I could turn the collar inside out and wipe a girl’s eyes clear of soap for her. Chivalry lives on! Now the burning in the eyes is especially a problem with contacts, which I was wearing, and my eyes were still red and sore the whole next day. Secondly, the bubbles and dancing in wet and soapy duds, well, it chafes. Enough said there. Thirdly, the slipperiness makes sandals a bad idea and the wetness makes shoes even worse. I was kicking some suds and lost one of my sandals, though I did find it eventually. I then put them off in a corner. When I got home and took them off, I realized that my sandals no longer matched. They are eerily similar in shape and style, but concealed by all the foam I didn’t notice that one was black and the other brown. So I’m walking around with mismatched sandals as a permanent treatise against foam parties.
The next day was much the same, except I unfortunately got down just as water polo was wrapping up. I spent some time on the beach swimming in the waves, I won a competition for running to the middle of the pool on boogie boards and going feet first into an inner tube. The prize? A t-shirt (XL) for The City, “The biggest night club in Latin America”. I should mention that my first attempt resulted in a head-first dive through the tube where I basically hit the tube with my head and bent my neck good. So now I’ve got a massively sore neck to add to my chafing, mismatched sandals walk wearing a shirt three sizes too large for me. We played some pool volleyball afterwards and I did yet more reading before jumping on a bus to sandal shop and grab a little free internet. The flimsiest sandals were over $20, a stable pair much more so, and I decided I could continue to not match for a little while.
That second evening, Friday, I sat myself in the ‘steakhouse’ which was a definite meat-lovers treat. They came to the tables with skewered meats and sliced off whatever you wanted. Turkey wrapped in bacon, filet mignon, sliced beef, I loved it all. But the best part, which I discovered too late, was the lamb, medium-rare to rare on the spit and just simply delicious. The third day’s lunch brought another culinary discovery, and that was a sushi restaurant. I filled up on sashimi, sushi, and cones (which I would probably pass on next time) while the rain slowly abated then took my Spanish lesson book (the so far excellent Living Languages book) outside along the pool. It was cloudy and cool but that was okay since I was bordering on red (rro-ho) anyway. The Spanish is coming along pretty good, at least as far as the lessons go. I’m putting in about an hour or two a day trying to make sure the lessons really sink in and hopefully by the time I get to Guatemala I will be able to make much better use of a proper teacher.
Now I may be getting older, or perhaps the Foam Party Debacle of ’09 made me gun shy, but I didn’t end up clubbing again in Cancun. I’d just get too tired at night and without somebody else to go with, paying big money to go to an all-you-can-drink club can be rather daunting. Especially if you’re not a big dancer. So, quite simply, I found excuses everynight... fatigue, expense, whatever. I just about went out on my last night to Coco Bongo because I was intrigued by this idea of a club with a show – that way if I didn’t end up meeting up with anyone or dancing I could at least be entertained. But I wanted to get up early and enjoy the poolside life a bit more before leaving the next morning so that’s just what I did. Got up, packed, went down to the pool for a few hours, had breakfast, and checked out. I grabbed a few last drinks while waiting for my burger overlooking the beach, then donned my trusty backpack and set off on the next adventure.
