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And so, after a year of heading the gearbox department in one the most high-tech series in the world, and after a raucous celebration of hard-fought victory, Chris was looking for a quiet, relaxing, warm place to unwind. Choosing to avoid the turkey and stuffing at Thanksgiving, we instead elected to spend a refreshing week in Mexico. Diligent research concluded that a tiny cabaña on the cliff by the sea just outside Tulum would suit us. We packed our snorkel gear and flew off to sunny Mexico.
Upon landing in Cancun, we were immediately inundated with “deals,” like fresh meat is attacked by carrion. Promised endless benefits and free tickets, we agreed to listen to one pitch later in the week. Then we ducked our heads to dodge the other hawkers and ran for our rental car.
Chugging away in our tiny car with tough, nearly bald tires that look more like four space-saver spares than actual treaded shoes, we quickly adapted to driving in Mexico. The 307 between Cancun and Tulum is a well paved dual carriageway – four-lane as far as Xcaret. Slower traffic (unless tourists) has the courtesy to drive half on the shoulder to ease passing, which brazenly takes place in the face of oncoming traffic – which also drives half on the shoulder to accommodate the maneuver. No honking, no rude gestures. It’s all amicable and expected. Only foreigners didn’t obey this unwritten rule. While Chris accepted the system matter of factly, I delighted in a new-found manner of driving and fervently (not to mention futilely) wished America would adopt it.
Surprises in store
Turning off the smooth tarmac of the 307 onto a rutted, bumpy two-lane road, we wound our way back to a jungle that revealed a dirt road to Cabañas Copal, our home for a week. The reception desk was an open-air counter in the sand, fronted by friendly brown faces that greeted us in broken English.
Our own faces fell when we were shown to our cabaña, a dark, damp, crowded circular bungalow on the main path, with no running water to speak of. Severely disappointed, we didn’t complain. However, upon realizing the length of our stay, the management graciously offered to move us to a nicer cabaña high on the cliff. We gratefully accepted, and after one night in the “cave,” we took up residence at the top of the hill.
Although our new abode was brighter and airier than our previous accommodations, it was three days before we had hot water. Some days we were lucky to have any water at all!
We knew the cozy cabañas were sans electricity, but we weren’t prepared for the endless darkness, broken only by dim votive candles that nearly let you see vague features if you squinted enough. The sandy trails picked up enough moonlight to be barely passable, unless the moon was in a crescent phase. Never have we seen so many stars: the sky was utterly littered with them.
Sunrise peeked into our cabaña at 5:30, offering a spectacular view, even from our mosquito-netted bed, with aquamarine waves crashing and slamming against a beige shore and pink clouds resting on an orange horizon.
We soon discovered that Copal, like much of the Yucatan, was designated clothing-optional. Our stateside inhibitions and busyness lingered for a few days as we rushed about, trying to see and experience all the Yucatan had to offer. Eventually, we began to shed our attitudes, cares and clothes, as we succumbed to the rythmns of the sun-baked jungle coast.
Venturing out
We stumbled upon flea market after flea market, and eagerly bought beautiful trinkets before grasping the art of Mexican bargaining. Everywhere we went, we were told “special price today” because there was “no business.” If our glance rested too long on an item, vendors insisted on unfolding blankets or putting bracelets around my wrist, certain that physical contact would seal the deal. It was the Mexican version of our Jamaican “no pressure” experience last year.
But it wasn’t until a few days later – and a second trip to the wonderful market stalls outside the ruins – that we completely understood our buying power. In search of a lapis and malachite necklace, I scoured every stall. No one had what I was looking for, but one little Mexican had a stunning lapis pendant, which he quickly put around my neck. The price: 900 pesos. Plus another 350 for the silver chain. But for me, because there was no business (!), the price quickly dropped. Chris argued that it lacked the green sparkles of malachite and walked away. Twice the Mexican merchant chased after us, thrust the necklace in my hand and painfully offered a lower price. We hesitated, we discussed, I ogled, we left, after offering 400 pesos for both. He shook his head and went to confer with his associates, stoically watching this little drama play out. It was minutes before the shops closed and we agreed that there would be dozens more markets to visit the following day. Nearly to our car, we heard him call out one more time. 400 pesos, he said, shoving it into my hand. What could we do? We dug out our money and paid the man, who walked away in defeat, it appeared.
Because our flight and accommodations were so cheap, we calculated several purchases into the vacation equation. We were on a talavera hunt. Bright, bold and big pieces of talavera pottery tempted and teased us, but we knew we couldn’t get it all on the plane. We bought a few manageable pieces, but when Chris expressed interest in a talavera and tin mirror, I was determined to get on. We searched shops in Playa del Carmen, Tulum and everywhere in between, finally returning to a fabulous little shop in Tulum where we had already purchased several pieces of pottery.
We bought brilliantly striped wool blankets, turquoise and malachite jewelry and more talavera, happily wandering through every market we encountered, fending off eager vendors.
It wasn’t all shopping, though. We took an excursion to snorkel a reef off the ruins. The sea was choppy, the fish scarce, but the views fantastic.
We explored Xcaret, enjoying the animals and the river excursion, complete with caves to snorkel. We quickly became accustomed to the 65-degree water, and relished the skylights as well as the hidden depths.
Ruined
Mid-week we decided to use our pass to the posh all-inclusive, earned by enduring the hard-sell presentation inviting us to purchase a time-share. The Aventura Spa Palace, north of Copal on the 307, presented an impressive façade and seemed loaded with amenities. We discovered it was loaded with people and noise, and that the amenities were so manufactured that we didn’t enjoy them much. We snorkeled and kayaked the man-made “lagoon,” we ate at a couple of the restaurants, and after an eternity of searching for two lounge chairs that weren’t reserved, we sat by the fake beach to read. But the loud, arrogant Americans, and the loud, annoying speakers eventually did us in, and we longed to return to our quiet, holistic retreat in the jungle.
Our trip to Cozumel and Playa del Carmen were similar: poor snorkeling, big crowds and over-commercialization. Both were becoming too much like Cancun.
We spent the next day sticking close to “home,” lying on the beach, swimming in the waves, reading outside our cabaña – with few, if any, clothes on. We walked into the village for dinner, or drove the few minutes to town to shop and explore.
One exploration on a lazy day of wandering led us boldly past a no trespassing sign up a road with a great deal of foot traffic to what we discovered was the exit of the ruins. As it was late in the day, we decided against buying tickets, but when we peered through one of the original stone gates and saw the remarkable pyramid, we were hooked. Without a guard to toss us out, we slipped quietly through the gate – only to take photos, we first thought. But it lured us farther inside. We walked through the ruins, completely overwhelmed at their beauty and splendor, dilapidated as they were.
Two days later we repeated our trespass, this time intentionally, and better prepared with more film and a movie camera. We climbed rocks, peered over cliffs, gazed in wonder at the crumbling, tilted, broken structures, trying to envision life within the walled compound. Quiet and peaceful, the walled city was now merely pasture and rubble, memories of a Mayan civilization now given way to “progress.” The humidity and heat were abated slightly by sea breezes, but the jungle clung to the area, spreading flowering branches in every color to envelope the mysteries of a forgotten culture. The place was captivating: light stone buildings softened by time and by lush green foliage facing an azure sea. It was no less than stunning.
Other surprises
Despite warnings from the Copal staff against keeping any food in our room, we came with supplies of trail mix and granola, fearful of what the local food would do to us. Instead, we were pleasantly surprised to find several wonderful restaurants. Small, intimate places (usually part of a hotel) on the beach: sand floor, candlelit (exclusively, as all the Tulum hotels were either without power completely or on generator). We returned to our favorite, Zamas, in the village, learning later that it was a favorite of all the regular travelers.
We adapted quickly to life without electricity. The sound of the breakers was a constant while at Copal, but we also had some tunes. Chris brought a portable CD player with speakers, and every evening we allowed ourselves a little music. He also packed a flashlight, which enhanced our ability to read in bed after dark. The sun set around 6 pm, and unless we went out, there was little to do but stroll on the beach, watch the stars or simply relax in bed.
Our pace began to match our surroundings. We began each day shortly after sunrise with a naked swim in the sea, followed by sun bathing and reading, and we ended each night with a stroll on the beach. Without a TV to stare numbly at, or a telephone and computer to answer to, we spent most of our time outdoors, my fair-haired husband seeking shade as much as possible. The stars weren’t the only things more visible in Tulum: we spotted lizards and iguanas everywhere, saw cats and dogs going about their way in town and on the beach, watched (and heard) birds of every type all around us, and battled a few bugs.
Reluctant to return to the States after a week of sun, we spent the last morning on the beach, soaking up every last ray. I missed our own animals terribly, and found my mind already turning to the tasks awaiting me in Indy. But it was hard to leave the warmth of Mexico – by which I mean the people as much as the 90-degree temperatures – and the lazy ease of being on holiday at a beach resort. Not to mention the talavera! Our only consolation was a second trip planned for the Christmas holiday: this time, St. Croix.
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