The ride from the Yucatan had always been earmarked as one of the easier ones. Flat, wide and well habitated, we started out in Campeche. A fair sized town with its colonial history bared thru cobblestone streets, planned functional layout based around a church and square, each home or business freshly painted almost in perfect pastel harmony with not only its neighbour but the whole street. It was our first gaze upon the Gulf of Mexico and while our guide book warned us about expectations, after 2 weeks in the jungle is was great to see the horizon again.
Our path would take us out of the city to the northeast and like any other sprawl, it was a morning divided between exhaust fumes, pot-holed roads and rubbish. Litter in Mexico defies belief. Almost without exception each and every way one looks there is the chance to see the effects of a society thrust into plastic prone consumerism. Disposable diapers the manufacturers wishfully hoped meant the bin, plastic bottles of soft drink, Coke and Pepsi still battling the road sides for supremacy, chip and biscuit wrappers rounding off the illustration of this country's poor dietary habits and environmental understanding. I can’t understand how the locals cannot see or gauge it impact on either nature or visual beauty. But then again these people can sleep through fireworks and brain shattering music at 3 in the morning. Or am I just being soft?
Our first goal was Uxmal, a Mayan ruin, its name meaning thrice built even though its was built 5 times! As the day drew on and the kms rolled off the back wheel it was time to consult the map for a place to nest for the night. A triangular dot in the middle of nowhere indicated a small ruin. Maybe, just maybe I could fulfill my dream of sleeping among the hopes and ghosts of the ancient. Our arrival however heralded a place of soft grass, roadside shelter among ancient carvings and a very helpful yet persistent guide informing us that my desires were not to be met that night.
The riding was great. Meandering back roads, the verges thick with dense green shrubs each one sporting hundreds of bright yellow daffodil-like flowers. To look ahead revealed a passage of yellow, two walls keeping us on the road while also shielding the inevitable plastic strewn ground. Passing vacant fields of corn and the occasional large irrigation project, the towns soon gave way to villages and then to dusty mud and thatched homes all furnished with roaming chickens and occupied hammocks.
Fellow cyclists were in much more attendance now that we had dropped down out of the steep mountains and into a much more self-propelled appropriate flat country. From the Mexican made mountain bike complete with dual suspension to the weightier yet much more appropriate single geared behemoths, peddle power was well and truly alive in this part of the world. And to my cycle-loving heart the rickshaw was back, you could even get your hands on a brand new one at the local supermarket for a low low $187. Be it firewood, the shopping or the missus, anything could be found in the front of these machines.
A night spent in-doors was a surprising luxury after being erroneously told there was no longer any camping in town by a greedy Frenchman. The next night was back to more real environs as we set up camp in one of the thatched huts, our tent enacted in response to our ever supposed threat of scorpions and snakes.
Uxmal was a real treat even after an already growing list of forgotten archaeological sights. The facade of the governors’ palace vast, intact and intricate, the wizard’s castle a post card from any angle. We picnicked on the grass in the shade of a tree watching the passing parade of herded tourists and indifferent iguanas. That night while our accommodations were perfect the peace as not. Firecrackers and bass-heavy tunes thumped all hours as yet another fiesta raged on in honor of some ambiguous cause.
And with my in-built and unchangeable alarm clock un-fazed, not much sleep was had before another big day in the saddle. 90kms later after an exhausting time battling the wind we found a small town. Weary and dreaming of a Best Western we almost took a room for the night in the home of an old lady who ran the small shop on the town square. As the teenager with headphones already on dropped his last coin into the jukebox our decision was made, tonight would be another night in the bush. Our new friend the shopkeeper, brandishing her last few remaining teeth in a smile told us that it would only last until 11 pm. With our daily bed time hovering around the 6:30-7 mark we filled our water bottles and continued on. While our camp that night tucked off the road along a woodcutters forest path didn’t quite inspire our imaginations but it sure beat yet another assault by the indefatigable hordes of Mexican pop.
And so it was we rolled into Piste, a run down tourist town servicing the newest member of the 7 Wonders of the World, Chitchen Itza. Past dilapidated hotels and glitzy plastic looking restaurants advertising all-you-can-eat buffets, as much salmonella and re-fired beans you can shove into an over-portioned American tourist, we were hoping that this town had a much needed place to camp, and even more so, a shower. Both hopes realized we tucked into that ever-reliable travelers back-up, a pizza, that will be a Grande thank you!
The Mayan ruins themselves were another slap in the face for us Australians. Citizen of a country whose documented history reaches all the way back to the late 18th century, these carved monuments represented an advanced civilization stretching back as far a the birth of Christ. Turbulent, violent yet artistic it is still a mystery why it fell apart in 100 short years. Today the main pyramid stands alone on well manicured and trampled lawn, its stairs now closed to camera toting tourists while the observatory remains an enigma for archeologists and scholars. One phenomenon is undisputed, get there after 11 am and battle the hordes of packaged tourists, their bared fat bellies, too loud voices and fawning souvenirs sellers would make even old King Jaguar Paw himself think about joining the virgins in the sacrificial well.
So far the ride thru the Yucatan may have been on level terrain but the wind had been a constant companion, and not a welcome one. The next 3 days would be no different as the weather continued to hurl dark, low clouds directly at us. Gusts at times strong enough to pull the profanity out of my mouth even before I had the chance to throw it at this malevolent Mexican mother nature. The rain had now been dogging us for the last 2 days, so far our timing had been spot onto avoid the inevitable drenching. As we sat down in the food hall for a cheap feed off the main plaza in Valladolid we congratulated ourselves for outwitting our precocious pursuer yet again. But the riding had lost its edge. No longer winding wistfully thru back roads, it was now time to hug the white line against the traffic and huddle down in a naive attempt to reduce wind resistance. But with bags hanging off everywhere, my next day’s underwear flapping in a vain attempt to dry and a soggy tent leaving a wet trail behind me I was definitely not the picture of a lycra-clad, streamlined road racer.
The town we now found ourselves in was a tourist circus. Stuck in the path of Chitchen Itza bound buses from the even bugger circus of Cancun, it is the obligatory ‘colonial town’ stop for those bored of the beach. Shop after shop compete in an effort to sell the same crap at the same price to what could be clones of the same tourist. Once the last bus rolls out then sanity returns until that is, the warm up of the school musical set up on the now closed main street. Out rolls the street vendors and the crowd gathers in plastic chairs under an ominous sky. Then the PA starts up, not with the expected soothing un-obnoxious background music but full-on, chest thumping techno. Instead of gyrating teenagers, eyes glazed in response to a cocktail of chemicals throwing their arms around in a wild display of attempted human flight, there sit relaxed grandparents treating their young nervous grandkids to ice-cream and pop-corn with no outward display of the assaulting noise as anything unusual. This is simply not right. You put my Nan into an Ibethan nightclub and you better have the defibrillator charged up. Maybe I'm getting old, maybe I value my hearing a bit more these days or maybe the weirdness of the picture was simply too much but I certainly didn’t begrudge the kilometer walk to our cheap hotel way off the town center.
Slowly making our way towards the Caribbean our next stop was Coba, yet another Mayan ruin set in the jungle amid crocodile infested lakes. Once more into an ever increasing head wind it was a unanimous decision, the ruins had stood for 1000 years already, they could wait another day while we enjoyed the Spanish inspired, Mexican perfected siesta. And our decision paid off, we had the place to ourselves the next morning, early enough the beat the usurious charge levied by random Mexicans on bikes, the fee supposedly for road maintenance. Bicycles of course being the reason for the crater sized pot holes and NOT the thousand’s of dilapidated 4WDs driven all over the country side with wanton abandon.
42kms of wide, heavily trafficked road now stood between us and the blue waters of our imagination. The wind continued its assault as a bus passed me closed enough to blow the wax from my ears. A quick stop in town for some lunch and a run-down thatched hut secured for the night and into the warm watery embrace of one of the most well known bodies of water on the planet. We had made it, 2000kms later and finally the dirt and sweat from the road started to feel like it might be loosening its hold on us. We felt positive however that it might just take a few more days in the salty water to make sure.
From the Caribbean (man)
Mark
