Fun and Sun on a Yucatan Vacation

The Mayan deities must have been indulgent, whimsical gods, spawning white sand beaches and turquoise waters, gifting their people with unparalleled good attitudes. While the majority of Mexico’s inhabitants are now Catholic, they have found a way to integrate devotion and fiesta with none of the guilt that seems to plague their counterparts north of the border--you’re as likely to see a priest in church as you are whooping it up at the local bar. It makes for a perfect escape from the U S of A.

Granted, while our Sunday guilt seems to have passed them by, the commercial areas have gobbled up American pop culture by the truckload.

“You want to check out a cool Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt? Come on, lady, it’ll be rad. K-mart prices, for sure.”

Did he just say rad? I can’t help but smiling as I wind through downtown Isla Mujeres, a forty-minute ferry ride from Cancun. The streets have no names, yet they are user-friendly, and it helps that there aren’t many of them--you can walk the whole commercial zone in an hour or two. The merchants here are both aggressive and unfailingly polite--especially to women. Perhaps it has something to do with Isla Mujeres’ origin--the island of women, named for the ancient fertility statues found by the Spanish conquistadors. Oh, by the way, I walked the whole island, and I didn’t see a Hard Rock Cafe. I did find a strange-smelling remedy for sunburn, though. I never quite found out what was in it, and I don’t want to know.

“Nada, gracias.” I shake my head no, and duck into one of my favorite bars. Placido del Mar, reads a sign most likely done by a happily inebriated painter. The walls are a riot of color--no doubt the place is dedicated to Ixchel, the Mayan rainbow goddess. The thatched roof holds the smell of the sea, and I can hear the waves of Playa Norte lapping the white shore across the street. It is long past noon, yet locals still linger at the hand-carved counter.

Grinning, Rumy, the bartender, informs me in Spanish that it is happy hour. He also reminds me to call him Romeo, though with his outrageously loud Hawaiian shirt, I can’t imagine him killing himself over some girl. (More like getting her pleasantly toasted and then serenading her to death with his Vanilla ice impressions).

Rumy pours the best mojito in town, cuban rum and all. As he dips a straw into one of his signature coladas, he asks what I’ve been up to. Unlike my trip mates, I haven’t done that much drinking or sunbathing. I spent yesterday swimming in the picture-perfect waters of Playa Norte. The day before I hiked to the easternmost part of Mexico--the tip of Isla Mujeres. Beneath the ruins of a Mayan temple, a series of stone trails have been carved into the cliffs, and I followed them down to the sea. It’s a tropical paradise, I confide to Romeo, but I’m getting antsy for some mainland adventure. I’m the active type of traveler with a tour book glued to my hand and an underlined itinerary in my pocket. (*cough* type A *ahem*).

Rumy is all helpful suggestions. Go to Tulum, he says, the last great Mayan city. Or Chichen Itza, see more cool ruins. Skip the overpriced tourist garbage of Cancun, es stupido. Grab some ceviche and guacamole at the hotel restaurant before you go. Fish just caught this morning. Best in town. He’s right on both counts. I think this is both the cheapest and most healthfully I’ve ever eaten while away from home.

I smile and fork over the pesos for my drink. He hands me another one, already sweating in its styrofoam cup--2 for 1, drink ‘em now or later. The sweet, coconut concoction comes in handy as I roam downtown. The island is for lazy ladies and ramblin’ gals alike, but if you’re the latter, make sure you’re prepared for the heat. Perhaps I’m not setting the best example here. Scratch Romeo’s colada, replace it with a bottle of water (ever hear of Montezuma’s revenge? Thought so. Avoid tap water at all costs). Throw in a big hat and 70SPF sunscreen. Ah, yes, now we’re ready to comb the streets.

Caveat emptor: aside from restaurants and bars, you can talk almost any price down. If you’re not comfortable haggling, practice before you come. Only a sucker pays the ticket price. You can get a guide who’ll drive you out to Tulum, two hours from Cancun, for around 300 pesos (about $30), or Chichen Itza, three hours from Cancun for around 400. I’d recommend a guide, because road travel can be dicey and rental car prices are astronomical. However, if you have cash-a-plenty and ovaries galore, you might want to swing a solo day trip.

The next morning, my fiancé and I are up at five to catch the ferry to Cancun, then the bus to Chichen Itza. The drive takes us back through time, from the downtown high-rises to country roads, to dwellings made of material gathered directly from the earth. In one Mayan village, the only hints of modernity are black electricity cables stretched tight beneath the robin’s-egg sky. In the shade of a thatched roof, a woman grinds corn for tamales.

As I hike through the ruins of Chichen Itza an hour later, I wish for the strength of that woman’s caramel limbs, for those biceps and ropy calves I’ll never have, no matter how much I sweat at the gym. In many ways, Chichen Itza has been my interface with my finite nature, with the limitations of my own muscles and brain. Heck, while my people were mired in the Dark Ages, the Mayans were developing astronomy and making calendars. Chichen Itza’s 75-foot-tall pyramid of the deity Kukulkán was constructed without metal tools. I can’t even put a futon together without 20 screwdrivers and pliers.

There are secrets here I will never comprehend. This is a world of universal truths, symbols for which we no longer have words. I know the Mayan people still remember, still pass the knowledge from generation to generation. The understanding is there. It is in their laughter, in the strength of their hands, in their union with nature. It is in the smile of the young boy who has learned enough English to hawk his hand-carved souvenirs to the busloads of anglophone tourists, one dollar, ma’am, just one dollar, great price, please.

It is there, accepting of the city bustle that knocks on all four doors, but somehow it still remains calmly, gently beyond all of that.