Wednesday evening
I'm back here at the table in the dining area of El Jardin after a day of exploring the wonderful Maya site of Uxmal. I don't think I'll manage to write about it tonight anymore, but since our travel plans for the next few days are somewhat vague and I have no idea yet where we'll be tomorrow or the next day, if we will have internet or not, I think I'll at least post some photos for now.
Wednesday morning, 7 am
It's early enough that the metal chair feels almost cool against my bare legs out here on the terrace, but no, it doesn't really cool off a whole lot during the night. We are still in the low twenties, and days go easily up to the high twenties and low thirties. I haven't had to wear anything but sleeveless shirts since we arrived, and I can't see that changing any time soon.
We've been here at the 'Posada El Jardin' since Monday evening when we arrived after an uneventful bus ride in the dark already. The 'Oriente' bus leaving from Izamal took us all the way to the 'Centro Historico' bus terminal in Mérida as we had been promised when we bought the tickets the day before; this was important because it's a different bus company ('Mayab') from Mérida to Ticul. Often the companies have their own terminals which are not necessarily close together. The only small glitch on Monday's travel was the fact that we missed the earlier bus to Ticul because the first one was too late. This one left at four instead of three which meant we arrived after sunset.
It's always nicer to arrive in the day, of course, just because things look different then and you get an impression of your surroundings and sometimes it's easier to orientate yourself, but otherwise it doesn't pose a problem: it doesn't feel unsafe here at all. We had made sure this time that we knew where we were going, Johann took a screenshot of the map, and I wrote down instructions of how to get to El Jardin – still, of course we could have got mixed up like the first day. We didn't, however, and even though there was no sign to indicate that we had reached our destination – only a few blocks from the bus terminal – we found it without a problem. Theresa, our host, stood by the open gate, and I still don't know if this was just by chance because we hadn't been able to give an exact arrival time, nor did she know where we came from.
El Jardin is named appropriately: it's a small tropical paradise with trees, lush green, well tended plants, different sitting areas, a pool and very spacious rooms, all decorated simply but tastefully. Right in front of our room is a huge tree whose intertwined air roots reach higher than me. Asked about its name Theresa told me that they call it 'Alamo'.
That first evening we only went for a walk for a few blocks to stretch our legs a bit and get a few things from the supermarket. Ticul is a mid-sized town of about 26,000 with nothing special that would draw tourists, except that it's on the route to Uxmal and several other Maya sites. There are four other guests at our little hotel, and they are the only light-skinned people we've seen here so far. Of course nobody speaks English, beyond here and there a couple of words, usually less than my very lacking Spanish. Still, somehow we have managed so far to get where and what we wanted.
Interesting juxtaposition of cultures
The collectivo waited until it had assembled a full load – 15 passengers plus a baby and a young kid – before it left for Santa Elena, which makes the departure times a bit vague, of course. It took a good half hour until this point was reached, but we were in no hurry: we had no intention of going to Uxmal yet.
Santa Elena is a sleepy little town (maybe appeared especially so since it was early afternoon, siesta time?), and hardly anybody was around. We remembered driving by a sign for a hotel/restaurant called 'The Pickled Onion' when we entered town and walked back there: the name suggested that here somebody might speak English and give us some information about Uxmal. The sign told us that 'The Pickled Onion' was a kilometre in the other direction, the one we had just come from, on the highway to Campeche City, the capital of the province of the same name. Back we walked – there didn't seem to be much else to do – and eventually found the hotel at the outskirts of town. No luck with English there either, but we did find out that the bus of the 'Sur' company stops there on its way to Campeche and Xpujil, one of them possibly our next destination.
The only 'attraction' in Santa Elena is the 'Museum of the Dead' that displays the mummies of four children from the 19th century, but we found it closed, possibly because it was still siesta time. The collectivo back to Ticul was nowhere to be seen either, so we found a small restaurant open with view of the taxi stand and quenched our thirst with a beer. It takes only minutes of walking in this heat and high humidity until one is drenched in sweat.It takes only minutes of walking in this heat and high humidity until one is drenched in sweat. With not too much delay the collectivo appeared eventually, and, windows open for 'air conditioning', I enjoyed the drive on the narrow road that allowed glimpses of small corn fields from time to time. Traffic here is sparse, which is nice.
Not in town, however! We had a pizza at 'La Gondola' for a late supper, doors open to the street on two sides, and I once again marvelled at the stream of mopeds, riven by men and women alike, transporting families even with small babies, the parents always wearing helmets, older children mostly, but smaller children almost never. Once I saw a girl of maybe five standing up on the seat between her parents, looking around. Of course there are tuk-tuks, motorbike taxis, even 'taxis' propelled by pedalling power, but also new and fancy cars, by far not only the old beaters we've seen elsewhere sometimes.
On the way back to the hotel we stopped at the plaza near the church to watch the (small) school marching band practice. We had heard them the night before and now were able to watch their drill. The drums knew their part well already, but the same could not be said of the trumpets. There was a certain resemblance with a herd of elephants ... On the other side of the plaza a group of young teenage girls in school uniforms were practicing a dance routine with Christmas music, English as well as Spanish. They'll be ready for their Christmas concert, I'd say; already they were looking quite good.
It's a peaceful Monday morning, sunrise bird songs and whistles have quietened down, the swish-swish of a broom in the courtyard the only sound close by, cars and mopeds on the street hardly noticeable. It feels good to be here! Walking to and from town yesterday (our hotel is about seven blocks from the centre) I thought how, as so often, Latin America is a place to make me feel good. A nod, a smile, a 'buen' día' is almost always offered or returned. People look you in the eye when they say it, the smile crinkling their eyes, white teeth shining in dark faces that, here in the country of the Maya, are in some cases at the level of my waist. They laugh easily and enjoy company, and that is passed on to those they encounter.
We had chosen our hotel for its location – easily walkable from the bus station – and were not disappointed either by what the description had promised: it is quiet, very clean, with a nice garden area surrounding the outdoor pool. What we hadn't expected was that once again we seem to be the only guests. It must have to do with the fact that it's not yet high season here. In two weeks things might well look different.
Izamal, also called 'the yellow city' or 'ciudad amarilla', is rightfully named so: at least in and close to the centre of town all buildings seem to glow in the sun, beautifully offset against the blue sky. According to the Lonely Planet, for the Maya this was the centre of worship of their supreme god Itzamná and the sun god Kinich-Kakmó in ancient times, and, recognizing the importance of this place, the Spanish built a huge monastery here, using the stones of the Maya temples. Yet, a few of the temple ruins remain, Kinich being the biggest one, right in town. We climbed up the first afternoon, joining a good many other visitors, and enjoyed a good view from the 34 m pyramid. It's a bit strange to see cell phone towers and windmills on a distant ridge from the top of a pyramid, a quite different experience from our hike to El Mirador several years ago, or even Chichen-Itza or Tikal. On the other hand it's fascinating to think that the descendants of the people who built this are now offering us accommodation, sell us fruit and water, serve us in restaurants. Now, Izamal is surrounded by dense vegetation; then, the area had been stripped of trees for many, many miles to make room for temples and the people they served. It's hard to believe that the view from where we stood would have been so drastically different before the decline of the Maya empire twelve hundred years ago.
Yesterday we walked up the ramp to the monastery from the plaza, strolled along the arcades, supposedly the second biggest after St. Peter's in Rome (not sure if this is true) and went into the church, empty in the afternoon after the service in the morning when it was filled to the last spot. Its famous statue of the Virgin Mary was gifted with a crown by Pope John Paul II at his visit and is supposed to have healing powers, thus a destination for pilgrims. Right now the statue can be admired from close up, beside the altar; usually it is located somewhere higher up. It is still a functioning cloister, and nuns were selling handicrafts and religious articles in a little store beside the church.
Outside the convent square, at the bottom of the ramp, the fair was in full swing, music blasting from all sides – a strange juxtaposition.
At the bottom we found the big iron gate secured with a lock. Now what? Right across were stores with people we probably could alert. Or maybe we could find a way around the gate somewhere? No, within a couple of minutes a man came with a key and opened up the gate. We told him that there was another couple still up on the pyramid and went on our way. He likely has to deal with that on a regular basis.
On
the way back to the main square we passed an open door from which
loud music flooded the street. The day before we had gazed in in
passing already, and I said to Johann, “this must be where the
locals drink.” This time we were ushered in by a solicitous man,
tempting us with 'cerveza, tequila, mescal, margerita?' A beer felt
just right, even though the music was almost unbearably loud, and we
gave in. A 1.2l (!) bottle of 'Tecate Light' appeared on our table
immediately, followed by a few little bowls of snacks in part of
unclear origin. 'Poc-chu - pork,' we were told, which, I found out
later, is a Mayan dish where pork is marinated in sour orange. It was
good, in any case, and we didn't get sick from it either. This was
indeed a spot where the locals came to drink: not a tourist in sight,
although at some point a man approached us in English. “How do you
like my city?” he asked. “I'm Emilio, lived in the US for fifteen
years, but now I'm back in my town.” He tried to invite us to
another beer, but this was just enough to quench our thirst.
Today it is overcast but no less hot, as we found on our way to a hotel on the square for breakfast. It's almost time to leave. If all goes well we should be in Ticul, another small town south/southwest from here. No direct bus goes there, and we have to change in Mérida, travelling time altogether no more than three hours. Tonight we'll know more.
We've only been gone for a few days, but home feels very far away. For the first time in four years we are back in Latin America, travelling – for the most part - the way we did so many times before in the past fourteen or so years: by local bus. Things didn't always go exactly as envisioned, but we are slowly getting back into the travelling groove.
As usual our plans were vague when we left home. We marked a few places we were interested in but didn't want to plan very far ahead, remaining open for what comes our way. We booked a hotel for the first night in Cancun near the airport, with the idea of taking the bus to the picturesque little town of Izamal the next day. The hotel had arranged a taxi to pick us up at the airport, and, taken aback by the price for the short ride, we gratefully accepted the offer of a German couple we met over a beer in the evening to take us with them to the airport the next morning when they returned their rental car. The Hertz shuttle dropped us off right at the parking area for the ADO busses, where we inquired about tickets to Izamal at a small kiosk. Instead of a direct bus to Izamal, however – which we thought we had found online the night before – we were ushered into a bus leaving for Playa del Carmen almost before we reached our seats: they obviously wanted to add a few more passengers, and we had no time to question the route they had chosen for us. Oh well: we were on holidays, after all, and since there seemed to be no way of reaching Izamal that night we would stay in the bigger centre of Valladolid, also a nice town according to the information we found.
In Playa we waited for two hours for the 'connecta' (15 passenger) van that would take us to Tulum and from there to Valladolid. The ride was comfortable, the temperature very pleasant, the A/C system not running full blast. So far we still didn't know where we would stay, but with internet at the bus station in Valladolid we soon found a small hotel, interestingly described as a 'home stay' in some of the reviews, not too far from the terminal for us to walk there. We shouldered our packs and followed the street in the direction we had figured out. After about six blocks we should have reached our destination, but nowhere was any accommodation with that name to be found. Confused, we turned around. We had been so sure that we had neglected to write down the exact address, and now, too far away from the bus station wifi, we couldn't access our booking anymore, only knew the name of the place, “Casa Fereny”. A young man we asked on the street shrugged his shoulders: although we must be right close he had no idea who we were looking for.
We passed a small cafe with the
interesting name “Bike House Coffee” and decided to inquire
there; maybe they could help us. The owner was very willing to try,
and, seeing how affected we were by the heat, offered us water from a
dispenser that perspired with cold. I ordered a coffee, too, and he
went to work to figure out how to get us to our destination. Soon he
was joined by his partner who spoke excellent English: it turned out
the two had operated a bike rental and guide company for several
years and had now turned that job over to another guide while they
started the small cafe at the site of the bike shop – hence the
name. It turned out that, unfamiliar with the way the numbering
system set up in this city, we had got the wrong coordinates: everything
is called 'calle', both what would be streets and avenues at home, and we had
switched around the ones going north and south and east and west - not that there would have been a way to know for the uninitiated, at least without a map. We
set out from the bike shop with new and detailed instructions, plus
information about the bike tours they offered, possibly something we
could do on the way back.
After another twenty minutes or so we reached the Casa Fernery. Without the picture on booking.com when we booked it we still probably wouldn't have found it because no sign on the outside indicated that the house was anything but that: a house. We were greeted effusively by Nery, who, together with her husband Fernando, operates the place. It is small, only four rooms, and that night we were the only guests there. Fernando suggested we might want to take in the light show at the Convent San Bernardino at 9:30, which gave us a lot of time to relax after the long walk in the hot sun and the day's excitement. The bike people had mentioned a wonderful street food place 'right where you'll be', Tacos Patron, and our hosts encouraged us to pick up a burrito or tacos there which we could eat on the terrace of their place, right across. We did, accompanied by a beer we picked up at a small supermarket nearby. All evening the rhythmic tapping of knife on cutting board gave witness to the popularity of the small venture, and even when we finally returned from the light show around 11:30 pm after another wrong turn, long wanderings and an inquiry at a hotel reception, the four young men were still cooking, people still eating, the music still playing.
