From Jail to the Caribbean

I landed around 8 in the morning. The airport was small; a landing strip and a little building to walk through. I stepped off the plane into the steamy air of the Yucatan. I walked to the bathroom to piss, brush my teeth and take off my cold LA jacket and thermal before picking up my backpack from the revolving conveyor belt outside; mine the only backpack left and me the only arrival left in the building. As I walked out of the station I was approached by taxi drivers. I denied all of them and headed for the centro.

I began sweating immediately and hopped on a passing bus. I handed the driver a handful of pesos. He counted them, looking from the road into his palm and back again while steering with his left hand (the bus drivers in Mexico are intensely present — counting change, ripping receipts, shifting gears, navigating narrow streets and lawless traffic with sweaty brow–no time for daydreaming). The bus was mostly empty so I grabbed a window seat and stared out at the road.

It seemed like every street we passed was desolate, dusty and under construction. I had a great sudden urge to leave Campeche and when we passed by an ADO station I told the bus driver to stop and hopped off. I still had the whole day ahead of me and decided I’d skip Campeche and go to Merida instead. The bus to Merida was set to arrive thirty minutes from the time that I bought the ticket, but it never came. I had to wait two hours for the next Merida bound bus. There wasn’t anything to eat nearby, so I walked into a neighborhood. I found the house of a little old lady advertising Cochinita and bought myself a couple of Cochinita tacos for cheap. I ate the tacos in her garage while she watched television on her small tv, paid and left.

The bus ride (a collectivo) to Merida wasn’t scenic. It was flat and the jungle around wasn’t wild or attention grabbing. It was an hour-long trip before driving through the narrow cobble stone one way streets of old Colonial Merida.  I stepped off the bus, tired from the last 36 hours (to recap: freed from the cell (4 days of that) at 11 PM; Tobias and I transported to an empty cell near Villahermosa, 4 hours of sleep there; Up at 5 AM and on a plane from Villahermosa to Mexico City (2 hours); Detained at the airport in Mexico City (3 hours); Flew from Mexico City to Los Angeles (6 hours); Arrived in LA at 6 PM; Bought a ticket back to Mexico and drank beer half a mile from LAX on a dark street while waiting the few hours for my flight; Overnight flight from LAX (At midnight) to Campeche (7 hours of that); and finally, the 4 hours from Campeche to Merida).

As I said, I stepped off the bus tired from the last 36 hours. It was past noon and I walked without any sense of direction. I chose a street and kept at it, passing under the historic arch and past pastel colored buildings until things began to look busy (traffic, people). The centro — beautiful, colorful, colonial and pulsing with people was too much for me to handle in my tired state.

I was on Calle 62, looking for Calle 51 — the cross streets to the Nomadas Hostel. I was having a hard time finding my way so ducked into an internet cafe and paid for 15 minutes of computer time. I pulled up a map of the area and found directions to the hostel. It was a half a mile walk, and as I left the centro Calle 62 grew quiet and mostly empty. Many of the colorful houses or buildings that lined the street seemed closed and void of people. Maybe it was that the buildings didn’t have windows, only black screen doors; or if there were windows they were dark and covered with black bars. Merida never felt unsafe though.

I walked up to the sky blue building and through the black barred door.

It’s often the case that I feel anxious when I show up to a new hostel. I’m anxious by nature and showing up to a new hostel tired and alone does it for me. I try to make it a point to arrive after everyone is awake, fed and hopefully out (1 PM) and before people are starting to trickle back in (4 PM). It helps to arrive to a mostly empty hostel; shower, explore the place and rest up a bit.

And that’s the way it went. As late afternoon rolled by I went out and bought myself some food and returned with cigarettes and beer to drink on the patio. A lanky, curly brown-haired guy walked by. It was Martin (the traveler I met outside of Palenque at Misol Ha). His hair was unmistakable.

We made eye contact and broke into smiles. He had known we were traveling the same route when we parted at Aguas Azules, and thought we might run into each other at some point. We exchanged stories. While I was in jail he spent time in San Cristobal with Elyse. Martin and Elyse had been an item since they first met a week and half prior at the bus station in San Cristobal.  He told me she was on a bus bound for Merida, scheduled to arrive early the next day. I was glad to see to him and have a friend at the hostel.

As it grew dark travelers returned. They sat at different tables engaged in electronics or conversation, many with beer and cigarettes. The table I sat alone at (while Martin took salsa lessons) slowly filled with people. I got to chumming with two of them – a German named Michael

who I also chummed with in Tulum; always squinting into endless cigarettes; real neutral, subtle humored, good-natured guy; and a Mexican named Luis

ready to drink beer and talk to women and have a good time; smooth and confident in his native Mexico — friends to this day.

The table slowly emptied as people headed for bars or hit their bunks for the night. Michael, Luis and I finished our caguamas and set out for a bar called La Mezcalaria.

It was a young Mexican hipster bar, packed with people and loud with Spanish music. We cut straight through the crowd to the bar and bought a mezcal shot and beer each. The mezcal was house mezcal and therefore cheap and terrible. We cut across the room straight to the back looking for a gap in the crowd where we could stand and scope the scene. We found a spot next to three young Mexican girls sitting at a table – one very sexy and quite tipsy, one cute and one fat. They were ordering coca colas, and mixing liquor out of a flask beneath the table.

The cute one took an immediate liking to Michael, who is very innocent and sincere in talking to girls, almost childlike with no obvious intentions. Me and Luis spoke with the fat one. The sexy one was tipsy and swaying and slurring and slow eyed, but managed to keep it together somehow. She was only seventeen but it was in the eyes of every guy that she talked to that they wanted to get in her pants. She kept bouncing around, from guy to guy, and eventually to me (where I found out she was depressed because the cool Devendra Banhart looking hipster was no longer interested in her).

Nobody batted an eye at this young drunk girl flirting with older guys. Nobody batted an eye at the handful of couples full on making out against the walls. Nobody seemed to pay attention to anything outside their own circle of conversation.  It wasn’t the stiff restrained hyper self-aware type hipster bar you find in the eastside (LA) – this was much more bohemian. A young Mexican band took the stage later during the night, with trumpets, and everyone gathered to dance and yell and come alive.

The place was loud with music and chatter and sizzling with energy. Luis found a girl and hit the dance floor with confidence – next to Michael, who was dancing awkwardly with the cute chick from our corner. I stood on the outside of the scene watching and drinking (as usual).

Late into the night the energy began to wane and we left; walking tipsy through the late night empty streets, chatting (the thing I don’t like about Merida is the lack of food carts). We reached the hostel and fell into our beds with heads full of excitement and booze.

I woke up feeling fine the next morning. Luis was in the bunk next to mine and felt like shit. Michael was in a different dorm and we didn’t see him until noon. We took a dip in the pool and lay in the hammocks, and went out and ate and bullshitted the day away. Michael needed a pair of pants so I killed some time shopping for pants with him in the chaotic bustling market streets of Merida. We returned to the hostel with beer and I found Elyse.

She lit up to see me and we hugged and I sat at a table recounting my jail time tale in full detail while Martin took salsa lessons.

It was another night of beers and plans and Michael, Luis and I  set out once again for The Mezcalaria — this time with a girl from the Bay Area named Rebecca whom I’d met earlier in the day.  She had a grating valley girl accent, but she was cute. She was accompanied by a very kind hippy girl friend of hers.

The Mezcalaria was not alive in the way it was the night before. It was mostly men filled the place. We sat in the same corner and I chatted with Rebecca the whole night (her girl friend left early, but I convinced Rebecca to stay) and thought I had an ‘in’ with her because we were both from California. When she finally decided to leave, I left Michael and Luis to go with her.

She was staying in the same dorm as me (with her father, go figure). I tried to kiss her on the patio during a pause in conversation and she pulled away. I didn’t expect her to do that. We both muttered things and she went to the restroom and I went to my bed feeling awkward.

TO VALLADOLID:

I left Merida feeling slightly hungover. I walked down Calle 62 through the Centro and back toward the bus station. I bought a second class ticket for Chichen Itza and waited in a roach infested station eating tortas. An hour later I walked through the entrance gates of one of the new seven wonders of the world.

There were tour buses littered about the parking lot; pasty American, European and Canadian tourists milling about; Mexican men lounging in the shade, watching the world. I walked through the crowds, bought my ticket and entered the gates. The pathway to the ruins was lined with vendors selling souvenirs; crafting masks out of wood right on the spot; jaguar yells blown from a type of flute sounded from all directions. I walked past it all with a quick pace. At the end of it I gazed upon the famed El Castillo

and felt weirdly underwhelmed. The energy felt flat. It didn’t feel like the grounds of a once pulsing Mayan civilization. It felt like a park built for tourism. I wandered the ruins for an hour and a half before leaving. I ran into Martin too, on my way out. He was taking pictures of tourists taking selfies in front of El Castillo

and shared the same opinion of the place as I did (in contrast to previous ruins we visited – Palenque, Tonina, Bonampak, Yaxchilan, etc). I told him I was headed to Valladolid for a night and then Tulum; and we parted ways expecting to see each other again in Tulum.

It was an hour bus ride to Valladolid (all bus rides are an hour in the Yucatan, seemingly). Valladolid was a smaller Merida. I might have like Valladolid more than Merida. I can’t say. I didn’t spend enough time and I’ve gotta go back. But it was similar to Merida;  cobblestone, colonial and pastel. I slept at La Candelaria hostel. It was a nice hostel. It was a quiet scene, empty dorm. I took a walk at night. It was a Sunday and everybody was out at the central square. Dessert carts, teens holding hands; grandparents holding hands, dancing in the streets, Mariachis – just another Sunday in Mexico.

I ran into a Belgian backpacker outside of an ice cream shop, ice cream in hand, who recognized me from Nomadas. I didn’t recognize him, I told him, and apologized. He said,

“you’re the guy who went to jail right?”

I said yes and asked how he knew.

“I heard the story at the hostel and somebody pointed you out”

He was traveling with a group who was tight and specific and non straying on concrete set plans, and managed to separate from them for a bit to buy ice cream and ate it while asking me questions. I asked him about his group situation and was amazed by him. His group was completely different from him. Almost like a cruise ship group, while he was a freewheeling backpacker. Neither of us understood why he went with them instead of going alone from the start. We made plans to meet up in an hour at the same corner. I never did see him again. We both didn’t have phones and I wandered around looking for him for a while before I went back to the hostel and slept, ready for:

TULUM:

I checked into the Hostel Sheck. We had to buy beer from the hostel bar in order to drink inside, so I skipped out and bought two pints of Victoria to drink outside and went for a walk. There was a taco stand across the street and I had some time to kill before it opened. While walking the blocks around the hostel I was approached by a group of Canadians — the leader blonde haired and looking like Christopher Titus; his sister a cute friendly blonde; and buddy a portly handle bar mustached jokester. They asked me for directions like I didn’t speak English. They thought I was from Mexico. They were  looking for Hostel Sheck. I told them I was staying at the same hostel, and led the way.

I walked across the street as soon as the taco stand opened, took a stool and ordered five tacos (Asada, Cabeza, Pastor and a mixture of meats – cheek, tongue, eyeball, brain, etc) .  They were the best tacos you could probably have in Tulum.  Made by the best old real true heart and soul Mexican man who you see throughout all Mexico, old Mustache Mexico.

I bought a caguama at the hostel bar when I got back and sat at a table playing drinking games with the Canadians. The night ended late; boozy with full bellies (I led them to the taco truck across the street, and had more myself) and country music played on acoustic guitars by the two Canadian guys.

I woke up the next morning ready to soak in Tulum (I felt bad visiting Merida and not doing or seeing anything, same as San Cristobal). There I was in the Caribbean; the land of cenotes, white sand, turquoise water and the Tulum Ruins.

The first day was a bust. I took a collectivo to the Muyil ruins

You couldn’t climb the ruins. There are only four structures, three of them small. The biggest structure was a nice little feast for the eyes, though the whole site wasn’t worth the time and money when I could have visited Coba

an expansive site; large structures to climb and cenotes on site. I really don’t know why I chose Muyil over Coba. I guess after Chichen Itza I was trying to visit ruins less restored and frequented.

There was a path at the end of the ruins in Muyil. It led to a booth with a man trying to lead you to a lookout over vast lagoons — for a price. I told him I wasn’t interested and, nice guy that he was, told me that I could access the lagoons for free if I walked half a mile down the road and made a right at the first dirt road. I thanked him and was on my way.

It was the Chunyaxche Lagoon I was after. I made it to the dirt road in no time. There was an orange stand to the side of it with a man, a woman and girl tending it. The man called out to me as I turned to the dirt road. He was drunk. Sometimes certain Mexican men make a scary kind of eye contact when drunk (I first learned this from my uncle Julian); yellowing flat straight drinkers eyes; the eyes of a man who handles his drink and can stare you straight in the eye and you don’t know what the hell comes next — camaraderie or enemy; anyway, he asked me where I was headed. I told him. He told me I had to buy oranges to use the road. 5 pesos for 1 orange. I bought two oranges and the two women gave me an extra one.

I reached the end of the dirt road. There were a few lanchas (small motor boats) and men talking around them. They didn’t pay any attention to me. I stared at the scene for a bit, which wasn’t much of a scene. The only way to experience the lagoon was to hire one of the lanchas which I knew would be around $40. Sometimes it’s good to travel with a partner. It’s not in me to hire a lancha and do the thing alone. Some things I’d  like to experience with other people. I turned around and headed back.

I took the combi to the cross roads for the Gran Cenote. I bought a torta at the side of the road and loaded it with habanero chile. I ate salsa and chile indiscriminately while I was in Mexico and never felt any real fire because of it. At this stand the lady warned me about the habanero I was loading into my torta. I told her I loved habanero and she warned me again. I figured she thought I was a gringo who couldn’t handle his flame. I was on my way and half way through my sandwich my face was on fire; crying, sweating, sniffling; drinking endless water, wishing it would end. It seems the lady knew the potency of her chiles. I still ate habanero chile throughout the trip, and never did eat some as hot as the old lady’s chiles.

I walked to the Cenote Calavera — my first cenote — a small dark hole with a ladder leading into it. I was disappointed in the same way as Muyil. There was a bunch of scuba divers preparing to enter. It seemed that it was a cenote better for diving. I decided right away that I wasn’t going in, and headed back to the entrance to find the land owner that I paid the pesos to. I told him I didn’t go in and asked for the money back. He didn’t put up a fight about giving it to me (and I didn’t feel great about asking for a refund).

So I started walking further up the road, ready to walk something like three miles to the Gran Cenote; one of the more popular cenotes in Tulum. I stopped after half a mile or so, ready to hitchhike. I couldn’t make it walking beneath the Caribbean sun. I waited under a palm tree canopy at the side of the road, right after an immigration checkpoint, smoking cigarettes, staring at tourists in rental vehicles with my thumb out. I waited for half an hour before I saw two young backpackers walking down the road in the opposite direction. I walked across the highway and chatted them up. Two Aussies. A bearded man and his cute woman. Nice people. They were returning from Gran Cenote and to my disappointment didn’t speak highly of it. It wasn’t  more than a mile further they said.

I decided not to visit it. It was too much in that sun, walking or hitchhiking. And after their review, I wasn’t having it. I was tired of let downs (though don’t get me wrong, I’d seen some mind-blowing sights too — Palenque, Misol Ha, glowing plankton in Sayulita, the Mayan market in San Cristobal, etc) (and more to come). I walked back the way I came, with the Aussies, toward the crossroads off the main drag where we parted ways (next night found them sitting at the taco stand across from the hostel) and I headed for the Tulum Ruins.

It was a big day of walking and there were some moments where I would have benefited from a taxi. But I’m so used to walking, I walk everywhere I need to be, or use a bike. I refused cabs my whole way in Mexico because I’ve got the soul of a donkey.

I didn’t even use a cab or bus for the Tulum ruins. I always figure my destinations are a few miles shorter than they are. And when I finally made it I was dog tired. What a day of walking. But in the end it was worth it.

I can’t imagine a better introduction to the Caribbean. The moment you see the Castillo perched atop its cliff overlooking the Caribbean; seeing colors like that for the first time in your life. The scene was insane. It didn’t feel real. I don’t have the words to do the place justice. Don’t pass it up.

I found Michael (from Germany from Nomadas in Merida) when I got back to the hostel; on his phone, drinking, alone, smoking cigarettes at a table. We drank beer and caught up. A friend of his invited him to a hostel a handful of blocks away for boozing and trip planning.

His friend was Giuseppe from Italy

He was staying at a hostel a mile away. I’d been emailing Martin (from Hungary from Nomadas in Merida from Misol Ha in Chiapas), who was staying at a hostel not far from Giuseppe’s. We met him on the main drag, bought food, walked over to Giuseppe’s and stumbled across a weirdo scene.

There were five people sitting in a circle around a table; very drunk and high you could tell right upon approach. Weed and pipes and empty beer bottles crowded the small table in front of them. A bottle of whiskey being passed around. Michael greeted Giuseppe and I shook his hand. He was all smiles with half lidded eyes and a slur and sway. I sat next to a young twenty something year old guy from Alaska; there were two young black dudes across the table and a sixty something year old white man from the Central Coast of California –  the coolest of the group and he didn’t give two fucks.

“I’m high and I’ve done coke. Who’s ready to wake up at 5 AM for coke and eggs (to one of the black guys – “give me a hug. I love you” – (nuzzling face against face) (black dude awkward about it, trying to play cool). Giuseppe, Michael’s friend, drunker than a skunk and stumbling and falling around the table — on weed, coke, liquor beer — and me and Michael (Martin had scuba lessons early next morning and left after a beer) smoked pot and drank liquor out the bottle, staring at the crazy scene — and now the old white man loving Giuseppe, kissing him on the cheek. What a scene. The vibe was a drunk high coke vibe if you’ve ever been around one, weird.

The next morning I had breakfast and chatted with an Aussie girl named Breone, who I’d met the day before. She was headed to Dos Ojos Cenote by herself and was looking for a traveling partner. We took off after breakfast, Michael nowhere to be seen (same as Merida, slept till noon), on a combi. A New Zealander named Sam, who I drank with the day the Canadians arrived, boarded along the way and we all three sat together in the back. We got off at the crossroads, along with another guy also headed for Dos Ojos. He was from Mexico — an underwater photographer at Dos Ojos. He flagged a taxi and we all rode together.

Dos Ojos is two cold clear blue water cenotes; open to the sunlight and wide open for swimming (much better than cenote calavera) — stalagmites and stalactites; bats; little fish — quite a sight.

Sam took to the water like a fish, floating and paddling his feet with fins, and snorkel, exploring the scene. I dove in with my goggles, unable to stay underwater for long. I tried to swim further and further down but the water kept pulling me up and I lost my breath (not like a swimming pool where you could swim to the bottom and pick a penny from the floor no problem). I gave up trying to follow Sam and Breone (looking ripe in a bikini) and mostly treaded water near the cave walls, submerging my head every few minutes to peek at what lay beneath. There were dark cave entrances right below my feet and I had disturbing thoughts of being pulled under by something too frightening to imagine.  I swam over to a shallow end where little fish nibbled at the scabby mosquito bites on my ankles.

We grew cold from the water and left. The day was early. We walked side by side along the road back to the main highway. I suggested we hitch and we caught a ride with a couple from New York (their proud first time picking up hitchhikers, and Breone and Sam’s first time hitching).

From the highway we caught a combi to Akumal where we swam with sea turtles and sting rays.

All you had to do was wade into the water at about breast level and dive in. Every few minutes you’d see a big old slow eyed sea turtle swim by so close you could touch it; and below your feet the sting rays slowly glided above the sea grass.

Swimming back to the sand I found a zip lock bag of US Dollars. I grabbed it and looked around nonchalantly while I continued swimming. Nobody spotted me and I shoved it into my back pocket. When I got to the sand I showed Breone and counted 60 something dollars while she hid me from view.

Michael left for Laguna Bacalar the next morning, and onto Guatemala the day after; and I left after him, headed for the beach and then on to Playa. I walked far down the length of sand before stopping at a group of pretty young Mexican girls goofing off and doing yoga poses for a camera. I sat down and watched them like a creep, hoping they would strike up a conversation, but they didn’t.

They left, and I went for my first dip in the Caribbean. The water was cooler than I expected, and very calm. You could see straight to the bottom. The sand was like baby powder. It was a scene from a destination magazine, and I was living it.

I struck a conversation with a Norwegian girl standing in the water close by. We exchanged stories and when I inevitably got to the part about my time in the cell she exclaimed, “Oh my god, I heard about you! Someone from my hostel told me this story”. It was a great feeling to meet people who had somehow heard about my story, I’ve never experienced anything like that. She was staying in the Tube hostel, same as Martin (who remained in Tulum to complete his scuba course); and I’m sure he’s the one who told her the story.

Amazing. There I stood beneath the sun, soaking it in; from jail to the Caribbean, swimming in it; sipping beer on white sand; among bikini clad women. All in a week. I left the beach with the Norwegian girl and we parted ways on the street. I caught a combi to the bus station and bought my ticket to Playa Del Carmen.