Category: Mexico

Nighttime in Tulum

Dang, it’s noisy here in Tulum. Yes, that castaway beach town your friends were telling you is such a great place to do yoga and dance in the sand. It’s noisy here in town. Jackhammers, buses, kids screaming and laughing. I’m not at all saying the place is spoiled–in fact, everyone here seems leagues happier than when I first came through town (when there were no sidewalks) in 2003.

I’m just saying there’s a Subway sandwich shop.

Dude. You won’t ever hear me lamenting about lost paradise–I got to know Mexico too late for that, and I’m not going to begrudge anyone making a living in this edge-of-nowhere state. But a freakin’ Subway? Someone’s a visionary, I guess. I just wonder if it opened before or after the secondary streets, beyond the view of most visitors, got paved (they still weren’t last year).

This comes after a particularly disorienting day of driving around Xpu-Ha beach, which is really only about 200m of sand, but somehow a shocking number of hotels are being built on it, and all the old roads have been rerouted. I didn’t even recognize the main road because it looked so much like a construction site. To go from mega-millions condo construction to middle-of-nowhere dirt track through jungle just by making a right turn…well, it was very confusing. Back up the road, same issue south of Puerto Morelos, except substitute mangrove swamps for jungle. I saw workers’ barracks that looked like movie-set concentration camps (not having seen the real ones, who am I to say?). And I saw so many successful middle-class-Mexican housing subdivisions, I lost count. It’s like Vegas here.

And I hate to admit it, but I think I like Cancun better. I mean, there, the damage is done. It is what it is. Watching this area develop is like dealing with a teenager. What, you’re going to wear that out of the house? You have the chance to make an adult choice, and you pick a Subway?

Well. I also like electricity. The beach hotels in Tulum still don’t really have it, and in a weak moment, I actually paid cold hard cash to stay in one for two nights running. The appeal: going in the water, and not having to get back in the car wet and sandy (yes! I actually went to the beach! More on that later…), and also just staying in one place for two nights straight.

But. Uh. My computer. My camera batteries. My voice recorder sucks the lifeblood from iPod. What was I thinking? The really dumb thing is this hotel–though it is still one of the cheapest with proper screens and a private bathroom–is not cheap. It’s good for the book, though–I am honestly assessing the value of beach accommodations, instead of just poking my head in and saying, Pretty!

Re: beachgoing, have I lamented recently that I never really get to do it? Every time someone says, Wow, you have such a dreamy job!, I want to remind them of this cruel irony. Yesterday morning I checked out of the Club Med without getting in the water, as I was running late, and then by late afternoon I wound up at a place with an extremely unappealing bit of breakwatered-up sand. Cruel, considering I’d actually hustled to get stuff done to allow for beach time.

Anyhoo. Today I went in the water for about ten minutes, as the sun was setting. It was gorge. And I’ll go in again tomorrow morning. And heck, maybe the next. Then I go inland.

And now, for lack of a full restaurant review, I leave you with only this existential question: Does listening to harp music while watching the NBA on a wall-size flat-screen drive you insane? Maybe it was just the espresso talking. But this not-to-be-named Cancun restaurant (oh, fine: Casa Rolandi) was serving up a big daily special of cognitive dissonance, from which I am still recovering.

And thanks to the Subway, I’m not sure I’ve bounced back yet.

Live from Club Med

The Us Weekly offices are decorated, just as you would hope/expect, with giant photos of celebrities looking ridiculous.

One of these photos is of Jessica Simpson, astride a moped, with a look of horror on her face as the thing zooms out of control beneath her. Her blond locks are flapping in the breeze; her premium denim-ed legs are flying in the air.

For lack of any other point of reference, that’s exactly how I imagine my first experience driving a moped. Not that driving a moped seems particularly hard–it’s just that I’ve never done it. So it was with visions of J. Simp in my mind that I approached the rentadora de motos this morning on Isla Mujeres. I had exactly two hours to cruise the island, and that required more speed than I could manage on a bicycle.

When the guy asked if I’d driven a moped before, I of course said yes…but it was, ah, four years ago. He must hear that crap all the time. Anyway, he gave me the briefing (“Oh, no gears! That’s much easier than the last one I drove!” I dug myself in deeper), and then I hopped on and went scooting off. “Slooooowly!” he shouted behind me.

Well, everything actually went fine until I was around the far side of the island and paused to take some pictures of an interesting house. When I got back on the moped, it wouldn’t start. Freakin’ great. I tried various buttons–the horn, repeatedly; the left blinker–and then finally I remembered I had to hold down the brake while tweaking the starter.

This all must’ve addled me, because then, as I was making a U-turn in the road, I completely lost it when I realized the first car I’d seen in 20 minutes was coming along toward me (at about 10 miles per hour). I did the full J. Simp gasp-and-panic, and drove my moped down the crumbling asphalt and into the sea grapes. The woman in the car helpfully leaned out and said, “You should really be very, very careful when driving that.”

I muttered something about how I’d been just fine for an hour and a half, before she came along, apologized a million times, and drove off…slooooowly.

Fortunately I’ll never see her again.

Other things that happened today: a cabbie named Rafael simultaneously stroked my cheek and asked with unapologetic curiosity, “What happened to your ear?!” I can only imagine what would’ve happened if he’d been reaching for my breast and ran into my sternum scar. I only know how to explain my ear in Spanish (“una infeccion; mi madre me dijo “Cuidado!”, pero…”), but not my heart surgery. But the guy might’ve driven off the road before it came to that. (I know, I know–never sit in the front seat. But whatever–my suitcase was taking up the back seat. And he was nice, for a lech.)

Later, on the public bus to Cancun’s hotel zone: a guy sang powerful songs, accompanied by guitar. One was heart-wrenchingly sad. Another was a rockabilly tune about how he left his girl at ‘el ADO’–the long-distance bus terminal. I felt clever knowing that, because half an hour before, I hadn’t been able to remember this normal word for bus terminal and had been asking drivers about the ‘terminal de autobuses,’ which is a tedious mouthful.

Then, on the same bus: a clown got on. An advertising clown, I think. He had red and yellow hair, a white and pink face, baggy pants, striped socks, and a green balloon-animal microphone. He ranted and raved for several stops. I couldn’t tell what he was talking about, but I’m assuming it was advertising something. The alternative–that he was completely insane–is a little depressing to contemplate. (Also depressing to contemplate: his fate, should he try that shit on the NYC subway. Mexican singers: love ya; Mexican clowns: dead meat.)

Then I arrived at the Club Med. Here is proof that you don’t necessarily get fabulous treatment when you’re staying somewhere on assignment. No one told me that “the village” operates on its own time zone–an hour later than the rest of Cancun, I guess still on Daylight Saving Time–and so I sat in the green-lit bar, reading, for more than an hour while I waited for my reserved dinner time. Then I marched in, promptly at 8:30, only to be told that the kitchen was closed.

As you can imagine, I nearly cried. I wound up with some fried snapper and a chocolate dessert. No greens. No happy-tizers. Ker-sniff. While I was eating, I remembered how I’d smugly reset the clock in my room–“Luxury, my ass,” I was thinking. “That’s some crappy attention to detail right there.”

Then I came back to my room, and my key no longer worked. Double ker-sniff. I hoofed it to reception for help. Maintenance would be along shortly. Forty minutes later, I began typing away here, while the dudes replaced the battery in my door lock.

So, now it’s 11:30pm “village time,” and I guess I’ll take a bath in my ridiculously huge tub. After all that, my room is quite splendid, and I’m looking forward to enjoying the sea view tomorrow morning. I just wish the morning weren’t coming so soon…

Queremos Halloween!

Just arrived in Cancun today. Halloween seems to have swept Mexico–a crowd of kids just came by the ice cream shop in Isla Mujeres where I’m using the internet. They were all dressed up as ghosts and witches and pumpkins and chanting ‘Que-re-mos HALL-o-ween!’ Well, the ice cream shop proprietor didn’t have any HALL-o-ween to give them, alas. But she did have some tasty lemon gelato for me–there seems to have been a gelato invasion on Isla M, along with the Halloween invasion.

Things I forgot (remembered, each time, with an audible groan that made my airplane-row-mates look at me askance): an umbrella, my phone charger and maps. All my maps. This will be interesting. Still, it’s better than the year I forgot to renew my driver’s license.

I’m off to bed, even though it’s 8.15. Mexico already switched out of Daylight Saving Time, so I got two hours back when I landed here…but I could barely make it till sundown. I’m running only on all-cane-sugar Coca-Cola now. I anticipate zombie mode any moment.

The Road to Punta Allen: the evidence

Since I just wrote my acknowledgments for The Rough Guide to Mexico, which included a shout-out to the extremely kind and helpful staff at Budget Rent-a-Car at the Cancun airport, I also remembered I had this photo. Here’s what the road to/from Hell looks like:
punta allen road
Pretty, huh? Don’t be deceived. Ignore the palm trees and the blue, blue sky. That is a vast, muddy lake spreading up and around the bend in front of the truck for, oh, ten miles, give or take. It’s Hell, my friends, HELL. (If you have no idea what this is all about, read this post from November.)

Missing the Boat

For everyone who doesn’t happen to know: I am blind in my left eye. This is a pretty recent development, but so far it doesn’t seem to have cramped my style–biking, driving, getting through crowds on the subway, no problem.

But this past Saturday, I realized just exactly how much I can miss. I was on Isla Mujeres, at the ferry dock to go back to Cancun. I’d arrived a little bit early for the 11:30 boat; I bought my ticket in a leisurely fashion, and then wandered over to read some assorted tourist info posted on the wall inside the little wood-frame shelter in front of the dock.

I was about one paragraph into a treatise on whale sharks when in my left ear someone said, “Hablas espanol?” I turned to see this guy right next to me, looking a little miffed that I’d been ignoring him. Yes, I speak Spanish, but I haven’t gotten around to figuring out how to explain that I can’t see you if you sneak up on my left side… Not worth it, in this case, as the guy was just trying to sell me a snorkel tour. I showed him my Cancun ticket and told him I was leaving, so no thanks, and he wandered away.

That was a little clue, of course, that I was not really getting the whole picture at the ferry dock. And I did check my watch and look around to assess the crowd. The boat would be arriving off to my left, I knew, but I figured I’d hear the ruckus caused by everyone boarding, and really, how could I miss a giant super-fast blue-and-yellow ferry?

So I went back to reading about how whale sharks are called “rasp-tooth” in Latin.

Then, just a few minutes later, I looked over to see the ferry pulling away.

Somehow, fifty people had boarded the thing in total silence, and the only person left was the guy who’d try to sell me on snorkeling. That jerk knew I had a ticket to Cancun, but did he happen to point out that the ferry was going? No, of course he didn’t–because he assumed I could see the boat just like everyone else.

So as I’m standing there gaping at the ass of the boat, Sr. Snorkel comes over to me, points at his watch and at the boat, and says, “Exacto! En Mexico, el barco esta exacto!” I swear he said “exacto” about eight times, as though to drive home the point that I was a lazy slug who couldn’t be bothered to get on a boat on time, and that I shouldn’t be assuming that I was in some slack country that didn’t follow schedules.

I just said, “Crap!” about eight times and stomped off.

The next boat left an hour later. I was still in a pretty bitter mood when I got on, but then some American guy kept talking to me, so I couldn’t stew anymore. I ended up giving him a ride to his hotel because it was raining. I didn’t tell him I couldn’t see so well either.

Stupid Resort Food

First, let me complain that my desk in this room at this brand-new luxury resort is too high. My shoulders are already starting to seize, so this should be a brief post.

I know I shouldn’t complain at all. I travel along the most beautiful stretch of beach in Mexico and visit the nicest hotels. Everyone tells me what a fabulous job I have. And I gently remind them that I have to stay at the crappy places as well, and eat at the crappy restaurants.

Which brings me to this evening’s topic.

I feel ill. I feel like perhaps my best course of action would be vomiting before bed, then getting a fresh start in the morning.

This of course isn’t how Miguel, the dining room manager at this resort where the desks are too high (or the chairs too low?), would want me to feel. And he did pointedly ask if there was something wrong with my pasta. But I couldn’t tell him what I was really thinking, because it would have taken too long.

So, lucky you. Here’s what happened:

Course one: three Baja California oysters. Turns out Baja isn’t known for its oysters. Plus, there was a little chunk of iceberg lettuce mixed in with one. And quite a lot of grit.

Course two: a “salad” that consisted of a bundle of lettuce and cress standing vertically on my plate. Alongside were arrayed a few slices of pear, a soupcon of blue cheese and three hazelnuts. Atop it all: raspberry goo.

Course three: alleged pesto pasta with scallops. No basil in sight. Instead: mushrooms! Plus, the barest hint of cooked green pepper, just enough to trigger the old school-lunch memories.

In the background through all this: crap piano music (inside) and crap violin playing (outside on the terrace, but unfortunately audible). A simultaneously bland and cloying white wine. Not in the background: my waiter, who was pretty much nowhere to be seen at any point.

The really depressing part of all this is that this isn’t the only place this is happening. Just a couple of nights ago, Tamara was moved to say, “Huh, I guess I understand bulimia a little better now,” after we’d suffered through a meal at what’s purported to offer the finest all-inclusive dining on this coast.

So, what, are we just hateful food snobs? I don’t think so. I don’t think you need a trained palate to realize that this simulacrum of high-end dining is complete bullshit. I don’t think the elderly couple sitting in front of me on the terrace tonight–she removed his reading glasses for him while he was eating–took any particular delight in receiving their lettuce in a vertical bundle.

But there are a lot of places like this. It’s one thing to pay medium-range money to spend a week at a resort living the way you imagine rich people might (that appeared to be the target market for the place two nights ago), but it’s quite another to shell out twice as much and still get such utterly dispiriting and even hateful food as I did tonight. The two-nights-ago place served items like foie-gras ice cream, which I can’t imagine Middle America really has much taste for, or even understands the culinary lineage that brought it to their plates. The [resort name here] is to El Bulli what H&M is to Prada…or perhaps something more like Alexander McQueen.

Eating the Stupid Resort Food–usually in a dining room that’s lit very badly, with music that’s atrocious–is like eating in Bizarro Gourmetlandia. All the details are there–Michelin credentials, vast wine cellar, sleek furniture, some sort of challenging foam or savory ice cream.

But then it’s just Not Quite Right, starting with the occasional incident of bad English: “chocolate mousse souffle with an idea of Black Forest,” “Freshly Oysters.” Then it goes very, very wrong, as when Tamara noticed (fortunately, before we’d ordered it) that the house red was Citra, the heinous jug wine that Ali serves at the KC, for when we’ve drunk through everything good we’ve brought ourselves.

But I’ve also visited some really fantastically high-quality hotels that happen to have exceptional food and service, and make it all seem effortless.

So who’s to blame? Well, scale, for one: these resorts are trying to feed 400 to 800 people a night, which must require some enormous appliance called the Blanderizer. And I’ll go back to being a food snob and assert that people just don’t fucking know any better–yet they don’t even realize they don’t know, which only makes it worse. And usually they’re on some kind of group travel deal, or their company is paying or whatever, so they’re less likely to dwell on bad things. And then there are the just-plain-bad chefs who think they’re fucking awesome–all those dudes in the chili-pepper pants who are stoked to get a job on a Caribbean beach with all these hot mamacitas running around.

Basically, what I’ve learned on this trip is that real rich people live very differently from how not-rich people imagine them to. They do not require attendants in white gloves who call them “Mister” and “Missus.” They do not need absurdly thick terrycloth robes–at least not in the tropics. And they do not eat vertical lettuce.

The Road to Punta Allen

This road stretches from the Tulum beach for about 50km to a village that sits at the very tip of a little strip of land. It is a known Bad Road. Halfway across the Yucatán, people are saying, “I hear they fixed up the road a little,” or “The road is really terrible now.” In Punta Allen, the 400 people who live there greet you by saying, “How was the road?”

There happens to be another way to get there—you take a tedious, rattly drive straight east from the main highway, and then get a boat across the bay. Because you have to stare straight ahead at the same scenery for hours, you get that optical illusion where the sky seems to be constantly receding. But then you get in the boat, and the bay is the palest turquoise and so clear you can see the bottom and the shadow of the boat, and the clouds are scudding across the sky just above the palm trees and so on. That’s where, two years ago, I was actually inspired to exclaim, “I love my job!”

This time, though, I thought I’d better drive The Road.

Even though I had rented the tiniest car available—not even a Dodge Atos, but a knockoff Dodge Atos.

Even though the rainy season still has not ended.

Even though the guy at the entrance to the nature reserve through which the road passes said, “You’re going to Punta Allen in that car?”

But for all the talk about the Bad Road, no one had ever explained to me just exactly in what way it was bad. A couple of times I’ve driven about 3km down the road past the nature reserve gate, and, yes, it was horrible, with these roller-coaster-like potholes, but if you just drove slowly, it was doable.

And I had all the time in the world, for once. I got started even earlier than I’d planned, and it was 10:30am when I passed the skeptical gate guy. I was guessing two, two and a half hours driving down, an hour around town, and then the drive back.

The road was bad. There were potholes, and pretty big puddles. There were a couple of muddy spots. But I kept it in second gear and kept my eye off the clock. But then, a little more than halfway into it, the pretty big puddles started getting bigger, to the point where there wasn’t dry land to keep one side of the car on. Soon, there was barely any dry land in between the puddles. And needless to say, I couldn’t see how deep they were. For some reason, I just kept driving through them, imagining that it couldn’t really get worse.

Finally, about 2km from town, the car stalled and wouldn’t restart. Miraculously, I happened to be on a tiny strip of dry land, rather than up to my axles in mud. After about half an hour, some guys came along and helped push my car out of the road. So I sat there, catching up on note-taking and so on, for a couple of hours while the engine dried out. By then I’d also readjusted my mental calendar to allow for spending the night in Punta Allen. By the next day, the water would be a little less, I reasoned, and I would’ve regained the nerve to drive out. Eventually, the engine started, and I rolled the last little stretch into town, to astonished cries of “You got here in that car?”

But that night the wind battered my little cabin, and it poured rain. When I woke up, the streets of Punta Allen, which had already been filled with puddles, were utterly swamped, just as the road had been. I walked around trying to find someone driving out, and this required walking through muddy water up to my knees—which means I surely managed to contract some horrible tropical flesh-eating worms. The low point was when I nearly stepped in some dog crap on a rare sidewalk, and thus destroyed the fantasy I’d built up about the water being just muddy, and nothing else. I slogged to the one place in town with a telephone and called Peter to whine, very briefly at satellite-phone rates, about my situation.

The story ends happily, though: I was able to secure passage out on the beer truck that happened to be making its monthly delivery, and the rental agency, amazingly, is retrieving the car, at no cost to me. (Although, as a side note, it turns out nothing has changed in Punta Allen, thus making my trip completely pointless.)

Most important, I was able to meet Tamara in Tulum as planned. Now she’s here, and that’s a whole other reason I probably won’t get around to blogging again for a bit.

Best. Avocado. Ever.

It was only a garnish with a plate of chicken, and it was only about a fifth of one, nowhere near the whole thing. But there it was, bright buttery yellow with a rim of delectable green, and it tasted so good.

So sweet, I could see immediately how tasty it would be as a sugary drink, say–something that had never occurred to me about avocadoes until a few years ago, when some Ecuadoran guy told me this was standard practice.

And I’d never imagine saying this was a positive, but it was a little watery, almost succulent. This wasn’t the typical I’m-so-rich-and-fatty boasting of your standard Haas. This av was more confident–it stood on its own, and it was very clearly a fruit, which isn’t usually obvious with a grocery-store avocado.

This all went down at the fantastic Restaurante Los Tres Reyes, in Tizimín. Ideally when you go, I would hope you get to see the bullfight on TV, and get the good waiter: an older guy with gray hair in a ponytail, thick glasses and a jaunty hat. He knows what you want, and he just gives it to you. He’s proud of the food: the handmade tortillas (you can hear the pat-pat-pat back behind the screen–and then see the operation when you duck back there to use the toilets), and the fried winter squash, and he just tells you to get the special, which in my case was pollo en pipian.

I was expecting a thick green sauce, but this was reddish and light and bright, a little earthy, but the taste of the chicken really stood out. This may have been a chicken I saw strutting around by a speed bump just hours before, for all I know. I’d be raving about the chicken if it weren’t for that avocado.

About two-thirds of the way through my chicken (a thigh, a leg and a wing), I realized I’d totally overlooked the black-bean soup. Which was also delicious. And did I mention the smoky habanero salsa? And of course fresh chips.

Oh, and I have a huge soft spot for ridiculous boasting in a restaurant context (viz. Kabab Cafe): Los Tres Reyes says, in very fancy Spanish, that at the turn of the millennium, it is proud to be serving its fine customers, and testifies that it will serve them until the year 3000. And its food is “tradicional, tipica, regional, nacional, internacional, mundial e interplanetaria.” I can repeat this because my lovely waiter gave me a souvenir business card, after a brief lecture on the health benefits of chaya (a great leafy green that grows everywhere here), as well as an utterly perfect little cup of coconut pudding, flecked with chewy bits of coconut flesh and served with a shaker of cinnamon, so I could season as I pleased.

And was I ever pleased, as is abundantly clear by now. The trouble with Los Tres Reyes is that it’s in Tizimin, which is just a big cow town, and sometimes where people change buses. It’s genuinely worth getting off the bus for, but I doubt anyone will. Basically, the chance of any tourist not traveling in his own car, and not utterly obsessed with food, actually going to this place is nil. But for those who do: make sure you get some avocado on the side.

Like an elephant

So here I am back in New Mexico, land of enchantment (state bird: roadrunner; state cookie: biscochito), and I'm sitting in a cafe in Albuquerque using the wireless Internet, and I hear some guys next to me chatting.

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