Cozumel notes

The last day in Mexico. It’s unusual in any number of ways. I notice myself, for example, increasingly thinking about work. It's clear that I’m transitioning into that northern continental mindset where you cannot easily shake off pressure.

But there are other twists to this day as well. The weather still gives us blustery winds and various levels of cloudiness. The kind where you first over-dress then under-dress, never getting it quite right. Of course, it is positively tropical compared to what awaits back home.

Our lunch cook tells us – I would die if I had to live where you live.





We’re eating a late midday meal at a house a block up from our hotel. (Our hotel proprietor is a regular here.) It’s a small place – literally someone’s front room and back yard. A standard dish will be maybe $4.





We make good chicken mole, the lady of the house tells us.




It is indeed quite excellent. And the flan is in the best ever range.




Food in Mexico has been a delight for us. We’ve not had trouble finding small, fresh and honest places. Most of our dinners have been in neighborhoods where we were living. Very local.

Okay. The food is good on this day as well. How else might I describe our brief fling with Cozumel? Well, varied.

We want to explore the island, but it’s a large island (maybe 50 kilometers by 15) and it has no public transportation. Your option is to walk along the roads, take taxis, or hire something that moves. We rent a motorbike. We’ve listened to scare stories about how many people die here on the roads in biking accidents, but I'm okay with this mode of transport – Ed is a genius on a motorbike.

(Except when he misses a red light and gets pulled over by the police. I want to pipe up from the back seat that maybe clearing the tree branches around the light would help future motorists notice that there is a light, but I stay silent and after some hesitation, we’re waved on.)

We cross the island to the Caribbean east shore, where the waves are pretty and the coast stretches in either direction with strips of fine white sand.





The sea and landscape are a study in blues and greens.





We walk along a path that more or less hugs the shore and it is so empty that Ed can dunk in for a swim and not be noticed.

The path is fragrant from the essence of a plant that flowers and attracts bees and the sun comes out occasionally to mark this day as only cool at the edges.





Later, as we motor to the southern tip, I note how pretty and serene this part of the island is. You could learn to love Cozumel if you only make your way here and keep away from the ferry landing.





The only noise comes from the waves. And the hiss of the spray from the blowholes in the rocks jutting out over the water.






But returning up the western shore, the perception changes. The coast here is cut off in most places by hotels that stake out turf and turn away visitors with gates worthy of palatial grounds. The traffic is heavier and we soon understand why. As we drive closer to Cozumel (the town), we see the cruise ships. Three in one port, two in another. I'm smiling, but it's a forced smile.





Monster boats. And if Playa del Carmen was a zoo, the place where the people disembark at Cozumel is a riot of pop music, margarita bars and souvenir stores. With Starbucks, for the truly addicted. [I am not a Starbucks dretractor and I like margaritas, but not like this – not with whistles and bells and circus noises.] Truly, this side of the island has nothing in common with the other.


I do have to admit though that I also have a higher tolerance for shopping than Ed does. So it does not surprise him nor me that I find myself later in the day admiring yet again the embroidered garments that are so ubiquitous in this country. The ones that catch my eye now are from Oaxaca. The woman who sells them tells me that’s a hefty 24 hour drive by truck from here.

Outside the store, her little girl is playing with the daughter of the neighboring shopkeeper. I buy one small flowered shirt thinking all the time how there isn’t a place on earth where combining work with childcare doesn’t present a challenge.





Okay. Predictable. I love children, I love the colors of women’s dresses and shirts.

Less predictable is our last Mexican vacation moment. The WiFi at the hotel can be spotty in the afternoons. I decide to stroll over to the Internet shop a few blocks down. But on the way there, I take note of the restaurant/café just at the corner. With working WiFi. And one of the best coffees that I have had this past week. And breezes moving from one door to the next. It feels not unlike the café on the Isla Mujeres. How symmetrical is that! Our first stop of this trip and our last are at island café-restaurants with open spaces, good coffee, promoting a sense of well being that comes when you are not in a hurry, when you're not forced to think ahead to the next minute or even the next hour.




Sipping a coffee, then, later, a margarita, I suspend myself in the airy calm. I catch up on email, check headlines and, taking my cues from the cat, sit back and engage in the serious business of looking out at the world.

en Cozumel

We must return the car today: noon, bus station, Playa del Carmen. Two hours away from where we are. Some say three hours, depending on how you take the bumps on the road.

One last morning walk to the center of Valladolid. One last respectfully admiring glance at the women, who bring such beautiful hues to a town that’s already rich in color.




[Men, with vaquero (cowboy) hats are here as well; but the women catch my eye with their splash of pink, blue, purple.]









Moving solo, sometimes in groups, sometimes with an infant slung over the shoulder. Not so much with the entire family. That was yesterday. Today is a workday, a school day.












Last poke into a store for that last purchase: vanilla beans, cocoa, a belt... Reminders of the Yucatan.

One last look at the courtyard of our b&b...




We are on the road toward the coast. A modern, new road to Tulum. It was built to draw the coastal crowds inland. It’s almost empty today.

There are so many places where it’s tempting to leave the road. Side trips that could be taken. Things missed. Cenotes (underground watering holes), other Mayan ruins, other villages.

Next time.

As we approach Tulum – toward the southern end of the “Mayan Caribbean,” we readjust ourselves to this different world of mega-resorts, eco adventure parks and big signs advertising everything that’s glossy and contrived.

We enter Playa del Carmen. Ed draws a deep breath. He’d been here some decades back, when it was just one quiet main street with a ferry dock at the end. Today, it is an outdoor mall with a traffic jam and a Sam’s Club and a Pizza Hut and a million souvenir stalls. And four persons dressed in some form of nothing, dancing at the ferry landing in the hope of a few pesos.

None of this is photographable to me. I focus instead on the beach separating commercial chaos from the sea.





We hand over the automobile (the odometer indication is that it’s a newer car, but we know better: the seats are threadbare, the clutch malfunctions and it reeks of gas when you roll down the window; on the upside, it was very very cheap!) and set out toward the ferry. The goal is to get to the largest of all Mexican islands – Cozumel.

The ferry schedule on the Internet does not match the ferry schedule that’s here today and so we have a couple of hours in town. We search for that café away from noise and we do find it. I get Ed to shed the scowl. At least for the photo. The (wooden) parrot looks on.





And now I have to remind myself why exactly we are going to Cozumel. It is said to be a diver’s paradise, but I don’t dive. So why?

I want a taste of this corner of Mexico (with the exception of Cancun). Cazumel has its fans. And, its possible to get to the airport from here on Wednesday morning without a car. And so now, there we are, on a ferry to the island.

And what a ride it is! The waters are choppy enough to make a sailor belch. (Ed would, of course, call this only moderately rough seas.) The boat is fast, but from my perch, it appears to mainly heave from one side to the next. I count the seconds, reminding myself that at the end of this half hour journey, there will be ground.


On the island, the first impressions continue to make Ed recoil. So many stores, so many vendors beseeching us to buy! I am less bothered. It is how tourism develops. And, of course, there are places where aggressive selling far surpasses what we see here, on the coast of Mexico. You need only travel in China to know this.

As we walk to our b&b and move into the more residential blocks of Cozumel’s port town, Ed relaxes. Once you leave the shore, the neighborhood becomes the familiar mix of small houses and corner mini markets. It’s a place of barking dogs and yes, crowing roosters.

The b&b (Mi Casa en Cozumel) has nine rooms, stacked in a modernistic way, one almost on top of the next, making it, at four levels, by far the tallest building in the neighborhood.





From our top of the heap perch, you have the view of the area.





It is a lovely place! Our room has no window panes, just wooden slat doors leading to patios and wooden slat windows on all sides. By opening them, you get all the island breezes careening through your room.





Again, the price ($72 with breakfast and taxes) is a fraction of what you would expect across the border or at the beachfront properties.

Ed needs to “decompress” on the hammock. I take a brief stroll.










We are hungry early. Somewhere in the day, we lost our breakfast and lunch. Bakery rolls have been keeping us satisfied, but I am ready for a warm meal. (The shifting weather patterns are still messing with the Yucatan peninsula; the skies are blue or gray, depending on where you look, and the winds gust up a coolness that is unnatural to the area.)

We walk back to the square, look at one place, then another. Too big, too impersonal. We stop at a bakery off to the side, buy more sweet rolls...









...and ask the man at the counter where he likes to eat. Denis. Go to Casa Denis.

We do and it’s a lovely recommendation. The tables are outside, but in this quiet alley, the air is calm, warm even.

I order a Margarita and I laugh (not without pleasure) at the size.




The waiter tells me – that’s the small one. You want to see our large version? Here’s the glass for that one!





Next time.

I am still one foot in the Mayan world and without much hesitation, I order the fresh fish of the day (grouper) in a Mayan spinach sauce. It is absolutely delicious.





At Mi Casa, I open the slats and throw a warm blanket over the bed. The wind sweeps through the room, a dog barks.

In the morning, I wake up to the rooster. And a rainbow somewhere over the sea, off the coast of Cozumel.

taking flight

Diego shivers. This is the coldest it gets, he tells us. But, I have a friend up in Milwaukee. He tells me I don’t know what cold is!

Indeed.

The clouds are threatening, but I know we’re done with the rains. That was yesterday. Today we have gusty winds – the tail end of a storm system that came down from the north. Up on the Gulf coast of the Yucatan, the wind makes me think it’s a lot colder than the posted 60.

We're in Rio Lagartos – a small fishing village some 100 miles due north from Valladolid (our home these days).




We’re here because of the Reserva de la Biosfera. It’s not the best season for viewing this, but the lagoon is home to numerous species of water fowl. Including the flamingo.

A year ago, the age of the Internet came to Rio Lagartos and the ever enterprising Diego set up a link to his boat trips out on the lagoon. The man knows birds and he knows these waters well (having lived here all his life).

It’s a family operation. His wife runs a small waterfront restaurant in this sleepy hamlet. His brother-in-law takes people out on the lagoon as well. His son is even now wiping down the small motor boat.

I brought my fleecy jacket, but I’m thinking it’s not enough. Do you have an extra wrap? Diego, ever the good person (and knowing that a happy customer is a warm customer), brings a warm jacket for me. Ed looks wistful. Diego runs to his house and comes up with a windbreaker big enough to fit Ed. The man can perform magic.

We set out over the shallow waters.




At times, Diego moves slowly, especially as we approach a bird. They’re timid and quick to fly away.





...and they are, for that reason, difficult to photograph.





But, the hefty winds and muscular gray clouds notwithstanding, the birds are spectacular to behold. Ibis, white pelicans, egrets, cormorants and of course, the flamingo.





The flamingo is orange from the shrimp it harvests in the shallow waters. The plumes, alternating with white ones, are truly magnificent.





Diego works the boat into tight waterways and occasionally, a winged creature takes flight in front of our nose. But mostly it is quiet, interrupted by an occasional screech or whistle.





You see the deadwood? That’s from the hurricane that came through in 2002. The worst one in fifty years.





At other times, we move in more open waters – all the way to the opening of the lagoon.
That’s the Gulf behind us! Diego shouts against the wind.






The birds are unruffled. Wind, no wind, does it matter?









In September, the flamingos come out by the hundreds. Now, you have to follow them far into the heart of the lagoon. That’s for another time. I feel grateful for the chance to come this close to their natural habitat.

Diego turns the boat toward the village.






Under a large awning by the water, Matilde, his wife, serves us hot bowls of shrimp soup. Diego joins us (preferring a Tequilla over my cold beer – to warm the insides!).





Are there a lot of people who come up? We ask.
It’s getting better. Last year was hard. The economy, the flu... Today, the weather is the hard part!

Funny -- to me, the weather is appropriate. The wild lagoon seems more hands off with the clouds hovering over us. Don’t get too close! Take a look, yes, study us, but only for a minute!

A bird taking flight is indeed a beautiful thing, but Ed and I are fully aware that they are fleeing from us. We are the intruders. We should not overstay.






Oh, but it has been such a fine day!

Earlier, in the morning, as we head into the center of Valladolid, we are struck how crowded it is on this cool Sunday. Shops are open, vendors are out. People from surrounding villages have come in to sell, to buy. Some cover themselves protectively against the wind.





But to me, the colors are so warm that the grayness of a cloud or two is hardly perceptible.





We visit another store that sells not only embroidered dresses, but threads for those who practice this craft.





Aida (and her brother? cousin?) sells the threads and patterns, and her family, too, is engaged in sewing. Back in the village -- here it is: She shows us a business card with the family name.

I am struck how much the work of a family stays concentrated around a single craft. There are sewing families, there are water-tour families, there are families engaged in the manufacture of leather goods.

Valladolid is crowded on this day and between the cars, bicycles, motorbikes and the steady stream of pedestrian traffic, the few minutes that I have for taking photos becomes a mere grain of time needed to capture the movement, the family life, the culture of food, of spices, of color: it spills out on the curb, or remains quite hidden in a doorway.




Our last evening here. I feel the pang of having to leave. We aren’t really hungry, but we want one more Yucatan meal. I have the soup with chicken, rice, chick peas, avocado and cilantro. It’s warm and comforting and I make a note to occasionally throw in chunks of avocado into a chicken soup, to bring out the flavor of Valladolid.

Even though it wont really bring out its flavor. We come, we leave and we take just little bits of memories. If we’re lucky, they'll have made a mark.