A journal of our travels.
December 15, 2001
James: Animistas are those small road side shrines that catch your eye as you're intently gripping the steering wheel with both eyes glued to the events unfolding right outside the windshield. They can be colorful and ornate. They can be modest and drab. They usually include a cross and often they will have a bouquet of flowers. Sometimes the flowers are real. Most times they are plastic.
I first noticed these shrines when driving in Chile. I learned what they were called and I learned that they were dedicated to those who had perished at that site. In America some grieving folks pay for a green highway sign that reads something like "Dedicated to the memory of so-and-so by his or her loving parents, grandparents, etcetera." In America to the South they build small edifices reminiscent of churches.
The animistas creep me out. They pop up right where you would expect them --- deadman curves, steep inclines, busy intersections on lonely highways. They are sad reminders that death and loss is always close at hand. I appreciate the directness with which they tell you to be careful, slow down, pay attention, be alert. But, still, they are eerily unnerving because they appear predictably and confirm that --- yes --- driving these roads is deadly serious business.
Dec 16, 2001: Seybaplaya, Yucatan.
Mace: Our
first night on the beach. Hammocks were strung, and waves sang us sweetly
to rest. The Gulf waters are a bit murky, I thought of the put in at the
Sauk when I first saw them. The water itself has taken on a beautiful
shade of blue, and I'm even more anxious than ever to go diving.
Our campsite was an interesting one. We managed to miss the main throng of beaches by the town, and ended up near the port facility to the North. The gate guard assured us that there were palapas and that the beach was public, so we pulled Greg down to the end of the road and made dinner and camp. I took quickly to checking the water out, and was pleased at how warm it was. Reminds me of Singapore, more or less. Dinner was served, water conserved, and folks headed off to their beds.
Somewhere around an hour after all the lights went out, headlights came a calling down 'our' road. I watched from my hammock as the truck eased in behind Greg and turned on his brights, and then his flashing lights. The po-po had arrived! Nothing really came of it. The local police were just curious about the big white bus full of amigos (we're no longer gringos, if you didn't know), and concerned about our safety once they knew just what we were. It apparently wasn't the safest beach in the world, nor the cleanest. But, it was nice to sleep outside, under a thatch roof, in a hammock.
Dec 17, 2001: Merida to Cancún
Mace: Last night was spent in the beautiful city of Merida. Merida is the state capitol of the Yucatan state, and was our best 'into the city' excursion thus far. Some of that, I have to admit, was due to our reorganization of the top platform. As we entered town, we decided it would make our lives, and James' driving a lot less stressful if we lowered our clearance. Kyle put it best when he said, "Great. Only 60 blocks, and two million wires to go!" So, we undid everything, and made quite the improvement. Our clearance was lowered by just over a foot (down to 3.65 meters now!), and the high points made so that anything hitting them would slide up and over as opposed to snagging.
Our new aerodynamic look in place, we charged into the heart of town with renewed confidence. I must say that we're getting better at this. It only took us a little while to find where we needed to be for information, and from there we found the hotel we were seeking immediately. There was a good spot to park the bus outside the hotel, and we proceeded to negotiate accommodations. I can't really go into too many details since I decided to take a night off and sleep in a bed (all for about $10 US), but I hear it was the least restful night of sleep thus far.
I met a very animated hammock salesman while wandering the city's
plentiful shops. Angelo was a very cheerful fellow, and seemed very eager
to sell me a hammock. I knew Clark was looking for another, so I informed
him that I already had one, but I would send my friend to his shop when I met
back up with him. Clark, Marth and I returned later on as promised, and
Angelo began giving us the low-down on hamacas. I must say that
Angelo certainly knew his trade. He described what other hamaca sellers
would tell you to a tee, and explained a lot behind their sales pitch. He
was certainly the only salesman I met so far that wasn't claiming to do all the
work himself. We then received what must have been about an hour long
lesson in hamaca making and the differences in the sizes, weaves, materials and
weights involved in the different makes. He even gave us great tips on
hamaca use, and great instruction on how to fold them up to help keep them
better. For his efforts, he was rewarded with the sale of tres hamacas
familias, and each of us bought them for a good deal under what his initial
price was. I would recommend Angelo to any friend looking for a hammock in
the Yucatan!
We began making our way toward the Caribbean at 7 AM today. We push onward to the crystal waters south of Cancun at Playa de Carmen, and the island of Cozumel. We're about half way there now, and I think everyone is looking forward to the ocean and the beaches. I see no reason that the scuba gear won't be out and wet mañana.
James: We are writing the book on guerilla camping in Mexico as we go. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Last night, in Merida, our guerilla camping instincts failed us miserably. Not only did we park for the night in the center of downtown in a metropolitan city, we came to a halt directly across from El Mundo del Dia, the daily newspaper, and the entire community of Merida was --- surprise! --- in the midst of some kind of celebration. Nearly 140 nights of bus dwelling for Ally and I and Merida was the worst of them all.
Celebrations mean incessant loud music, drunks who piss in the corner of closed shops and hordes of people wandering the city. Fair enough. So, what, you might ask, is the problem with a newspaper business? The printing press is hammering away all night. Street hawkers arrive at various hours of night to collect their stacks of newsprint. People are coming and going at all hours raising metal garage doors and lowering them. Loudly, as well, I might add. No consideration for the homeless asleep on the sidewalks, or bus dwellers.
The air was still, fetid and muggy. No-see-ums were niggling nuisances throughout the sticky night. I can usually sleep through just about anything (if anyone writes about the stay at the garbage dump disguised as a beach outside of Seybaplaya and our numerous nocturnal visits from security guards, policia and prowler wannabes --- I slept through every last moment of it) but, in Merida, I was sleepless and fidgety.
For some reason or another, our guerilla, or free, make-do, camp selection this entire trip has, to put it bluntly, sucked. On our previous Bus Tours (see Costa Rica '98 and Baja '99/'00), we have scored gorgeous cheap campsites. Occasionally, we would get stuck in a hole-in-the-wall truck stop populated by neolithic-looking characters, or a hell-mouth like Yavaros in north central Mexico which we had hoped to be a beach but turned out to be a swamp. But, more often than not, we'd land on all fours on a sweet plot of earth that wouldn't cost us a dime. Or someplace unique or inspirational like Jala's town plaza in front of a whitewashed cathedral and being awakened early in the morning by a candle-lit processional of softly singing grandmothers, mothers, daughters and nieces.
This trip --- maybe because we are heavily utilizing the toll roads and trying to make time --- we are seeing too many gas station parking lots and pull-offs right beside the highway. Hell, we almost accepted a campsite on a makeshift sand soccer field next to the Cardenas Pemex station where the smell of gasoline was nearly overwhelming and we were warned it was too dangerous to light a match. We landed instead in the ant-infested, sand parking lot of a roadside diner, and considered ourselves fortunate. We were given access to toilets after all and the price was exceptional --- free.
After the Merida experience, and let me clarify that this is not a reflection on the town because the town was lovely, in fact, the condition of the highway and the cleanliness and orderliness of the towns in the state of Yucatan were five-star notable, but after suffering being bus-bound in the bowels of Merida, where passers-by could gawk into the interior and the grating sounds of the city were ever-present and persisted throughout the night, we are now raising our camping standards. And, perhaps, coming to the realization that we might have to surrender some hard-earned capital in order to ensure a higher quality experience.
Guerilla camping remains the preferred bus dweller's option, but the bar has definitely been ratcheted up.