Getting lost in Valladolid

 The slowly rotating fan on the ceiling, supported by the open screen door and three screened windows letting in a slight breeze, make the temperature quite comfortable in our room at the Posada Ya'ax ich in Izamal, Yucatan. Evening noises drift in: the rhythmic chirping of insects, the almost bird-like call of a gecko, a dog barking in the neighbourhood, the occasional moped. Roosters are quiet at the moment, and so, thankfully is the cat who serenaded us with its mournful love song yesterday. No more loud music from the fair at the centre of town either: last night I still heard it when I woke up briefly at four. Still, carousels were running and kiosks still selling sweets and french fries, families with small children gathered to listen to a singer on the lit stage when we went for a last walk into town around 9 pm.

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.

The internet at the "Posada" didn't work until this afternoon, so I'm behind with my blog, and now I'm too tired to continue. Tomorrow!