Mexico with Muriel & Don

Planning for the trip began before Muriel and Don Stauffer and I finished our trip to El Bajío two years earlier. The Stauffers would spend Christmas with me in Belize, then the three of us would go to Mexico for a two-week tour. For once, plans developed steadily to happy implementation.

Don promised to arrange to rent a car if I would make hotel reservations. Since nine reservations were involved and only one car, I wasn’t sure the division of labor was fair. As it turned out, I managed quite nicely with phone and fax while Don had a devastating time completing his solitary project.

He did not realize that rental cars can’t cross the border. That finished his plan to visit both Belize and Mexico with the same car. He arranged with Hertz to rent a car in Chetumal. A few weeks later they closed their agency there. Don tried frantically to rent in either Mérida or Cancún. Eventually, he was able to book a small, non-air conditioned vehicle in Cancún. Plane reservations were changed to suit pick-up location.

When the Stauffers arrived at the Hertz office in Cancún, they were told that there was no car available. Indefatigable Muriel, with details that I could only imagine, staged a one-woman sit-down until they provided the promised vehicle. The harassed Hertz agent supplied a slightly larger, air conditioned vehicle, still caked with mud from its last rental.

Muriel and Don drove from Cancún to Chetumal, spent the night, and left the car at the hotel in secure storage, awaiting the arrival of a taxi from Belize, which I had arranged for them. I did not tell them I intended to ride up to meet them.

 

Mr. Arnold of U-Call Taxi Service picked me up at 6:30 am on December 23rd. We had a pleasant drive to the border. There I was horrified to find myself in line behind a full complement of passengers from a large bus. To my surprise, twenty-five minutes later we had cleared immigration in both Belize and Mexico and were on our way into Chetumal.

I told Mr. Arnold that my friends were at the Del Prado. He did not know the hotel. From the location, however, he determined that it now was called Los Cocos. When we arrived, I recognized it as the hotel I had stayed in a few years earlier under the name El Presidente.

Muriel and Don were sitting near the entrance, waiting for us. They were gratifyingly surprised to see me arrive with the taxi. We had a pleasant drive back to Belize City, arriving around 1:00 pm. To avoid walking into a flurry of activity fixing lunch, I planned Belikin beer…warmly welcomed…and open-face grilled English-muffin sandwiches. Afterwards, we drove around the city so Muriel and Don could see how Belize had changed since they left it in the early Sixties.

The Stauffers and I enjoyed Christmas festivities, as I have written separately.

Sunday, 27 December

We spent the morning packing for our trip. Mr. Arnold arrived at 1:30 to drive us back to Chetumal. No one was traveling during the Christmas season, so we were through both Belize and Mexican border stations in moments.

We checked into Los Cocos. I went off to find Gemma Patterson, Emilie Bowen’s English granddaughter, who had checked in ahead of us. We had offered to drive Gemma as far as Palenque on her way back to Oaxaca, where she was spending a year studying Spanish. She is a lovely young woman and was a delight to have with us. We had a brief happy hour in the Stauffer’s room to celebrate the beginning of our Mexican expedition, then walked down to a superb restaurant they had found their first night in Chetumal. Camerones al Mojo de Ajo (shrimp in garlic sauce) all ’round.

Monday, 28 December

We started on our long drive to Palenque at about 9:00 am. The road was decent, except for:

1. Endless topes (“sleeping policemen,” speed bumps) so high that our little car scraped bottom dangerously crossing them.

2. A series of about eight bridges under repair. They were short spans, temporarily surfaced by logs balanced side-by-side, parallel to the direction of the road. Without exception, two or three or more logs were missing in the middle. Don had to position the car on the spans as if he were going onto an oil ramp. One time the gap was so large that he fully expected to plunge into the ravine below. At every bridge, workmen sprawling at rest alongside laughed as we made the crossing.

We reached Palenque before dark, found Gemma’s bus station after some inquiries, let her buy her ticket, then took her back to our hotel to have dinner with us. Her bus would not leave until 10:30 pm.

The Hotel Misión Palenque was charming, surrounded by lush planting. Our rooms were pleasant, though hanging space was almost non-existent. We had a nice dinner in the delightful patio dining area of the hotel, then took Gemma to catch her bus. We hovered like worried parents until she was safely aboard. Gemma was doing what she did regularly by herself, but all we could see was a beautiful young Englishwoman alone in a foreign country at night.

Tuesday, 29 December

We had a poor breakfast at the hotel buffet. On Gemma’s recommendation, we took the hotel’s courtesy bus to the ruins.

Palenque: A peaceful, green oasis of a time-warp. Palenque has escaped the heavy restoration and great acres of concrete of the major Yucatecan ruins. It was there, as I was snapping Muriel and Don climbing down the main temple, that I realized there was no film in my camera. This took care of my Christmas pictures as well as my immortalization of our visit to the ruins.

Just as we finished our extensive exploration of the many buildings in the complex, we saw our bus from the hotel disappearing. We decided philosophically to have a cerveza (beer) as we waited. The nearby restaurants did not serve anything stronger than Classic Coke. We lamented our mistaken decision not to bring our own car; there was ample parking space, as early as we arrived at the ruins.

 

I managed to scare everyone on our return by stumbling up an uneven hotel curbing. I fell flat, but since both my glasses and my stockings survived, considered my shin and elbow minor sacrifices.

We went into the town of Palenque for lunch, did a little minor shopping, returned to the hotel for a rest, then gathered as usual in the Stauffer’s room before dinner. We went out to another hotel, Nonotún, for dinner. We sat in its pleasant restaurant, overlooking a river, and dined much better than we would have back at the Misión Palenque.

Wednesday, 30 December

We left Palenque for San Cristóbal de las Casas mid-morning. That was when we all realized that what we had suspected while planning our trip was true: the places we wanted to visit were too far apart. We spent close to half of our time on ill-paved, potholed roads, much of it winding up and down mountains, around hairpin curves with little but faith to protect us.

We paused en route at Agua Azul a magnificent series of water falls.

At lunchtime we reached Ocosingo, a pleasant small town, and found an attractive restaurant facing the zócalo (main town square). The veranda was festooned with Christmas decorations. The table was not clean, but the food was good. Don and I ordered Enchiladas Suizas—chicken wrapped in flour tortillas, topped with a generous amount of melted goat’s cheese. We used the green salsa picante copiously, as usual. Muriel had simple quesadillas.

Don remarked that their friends predicted deathly illness for all of us in Mexico. He told them haughtily at none of us ever had problems.

 

Before dark we reached San Cristóbal de las Casas and the Hotel Flamboyant Español, recently remodeled and renamed. No one at the desk spoke more than rudimentary English. We had reserved rooms with fireplaces but were told none were available. I was very tired and was not feeling well. I protested in rapidly disintegrating Spanish. Ultimately, I was given a room with a fireplace, but Muriel and Don were taken across the patio, through an arch, around a corner, and down a corridor to a room heated by an electric radiator. Muriel was unhappy that their window looked out onto the concrete wall of an air vent. I was unhappy at not having a tub (obviously one had been removed during remodeling). Returning to the reception desk, I asked for extra blankets and was told that they would be sent. They assured me that someone would come to build a fire whenever I asked.

Even in my jaded condition, I could admire the hotel. The patio was lushly planted. The rooms were colonial style with dark beams, heavy paneled doors, and shutters at the windows. Old flowered ceramic wash basins brightened modern, tiled bathrooms.

I went down to Muriel and Don’s room briefly. Don fussed with their TV for awhile, then succeeded in showing the videos taken to date. I realized that I felt too sick to think about supper, and excused myself. Don admitted feeling a little rocky from lunch, too.

Back in my room, I telephoned the reception desk, asking again for extra blankets and for a fire in my precious fireplace. Effusive promises of instant compliance. I got ready for bed. When nothing warming arrived, I did what I could to secure myself against the increasing cold. I took the blanket off, doubled it, and replaced it on the bed. I donned panty hose under my warmest flannel gown, and put my cozy emerald robe on top. In desperation, I added my Isotoner fleece boots. They happened to be clean for the trip, but at that point I didn’t care about the hotel’s sheets if they didn’t care about my extra blanket. I crawled into bed and let a long night’s sleep act as an antidote to my lunchtime semi-poisoning.

Thursday, 31 December

I was wakened at 8:00 am by Don’s worried call asking if I were still alive. I assured him that I was reasonably rejuvenated. Dressed hastily, then joined Muriel and Don for toast and coffee. When I finished, I went to the front desk, hoping that there would be a different clerk. There was. Last night’s hard-eyed young woman had been replaced by an affable gentleman who was horrified to hear that I had been given neither blankets nor a fire. I asked for a room with a heater. In fifteen minutes, without my repacking, they had moved me onto the same corridor as the Stauffers. I had my own little electric radiator on wheels and two beds, so that I could steal my own extra blankets as necessary.

 

We had an easy day, wandering around town, visiting churches when we saw them, doing a bit of unsuccessful shopping. Muriel hoped to find a ring, but we were in the wrong part of Mexico.

We found an open-air market next to the Temple of Santo Domingo. Most of the vendors and most of the handcrafts were Guatemalan. In recent years, thousands of Guatemalans fleeing terror from both guerrillas and army, escaped across the border into Chiapas.

I found some enchanting, funny little clay animals and bought them with no idea of what I would do with them. A gorgeous, soft rebozo (shawl) in Carli’s special shade of aqua caught my eye for her birthday. We were more successful this time in our choice of a luncheon restaurant. Its unusual patio was a beautifully planted sunken rock garden with a winding pool filled with large goldfish. At the far side, a trio, playing a native flute or pipes of pan, drum, and guitar, offered plaintive music.

After lunch, Don left us to go look for a guayabera. Muriel and I returned to the market. We continued past the crafts, found the local mercado, and wandered through it.

We returned to the Temple looking for a shop we had read about. We finally discovered Sna Jolobil at one side of the church buildings. The finest examples of embroidered clothes and linens from each pueblo were displayed. Each town had its own colors and style. The embroidery was exquisite. I regretted that there was nothing I needed, and was relieved to be spared expensive purchases.

As we left, a shoe-shine boy ten or twelve years old approached Muriel. She agreed to his price of 1,000 pesos to shine her shoes. However, when she found that he expected her to perch on one leg for the performance, and when his first swipes were directed more at her stockings than her shoes, she changed her mind. She offered him 400 pesos as a tip. He demanded the 1,000 price for the full shine. Muriel argued. The boy got angry. Muriel became nervous. I took over. My Spanish startled me as much as it did the boy with its fluency as I told him to leave us alone. I can’t remember whether Muriel finally gave him the 400, but I know she did not give him the 1,000. We had been warned that Chiapas Indians are not especially fond of tourists and that there occasionally are unpleasant situations. I think we were on the edge of one. Muriel asked me later how I had been able to stand up to the boy. I admitted being worried, but said that I still was bigger than he, and probably meaner.

 

That evening, Muriel and I dressed in our most festive gowns…red, of course…for New Year’s Eve. We strolled into our charming, but empty, restaurant at an unfashionable eight o’clock. No one was there but the waiters, the same interesting combo of flute-guitar-drums, and us. Dinner was delightful. Guests began arriving as we departed.

Don suggested that we walk down to the zócalo to join in the festivities. The stillness should have warned us. Not a single fire cracker, left from children’s afternoon activities, broke the silence. We found that we were the revelers. We saw one strolling couple, quite literally wrapped up in each other. A stray man strode rapidly through the park, intent on reaching refuge from the biting cold. Bells chimed eleven o’clock. I giggled as I informed Don: “If you think you’re going to march me around the zócalo in this weather until midnight, you’re mad.” The three of us raced back to the warmth of the hotel as quickly as our best shoes would let us wobble. Even the cheerful marimba music in the patio of the hotel—played by glove-wearing musicians—could not arrest our dedicated drive toward the comfort of our warm rooms.

Friday, 1 January, 1993

New Year’s Day we explored outlying Indian villages. San Juan Chamula was as fascinating as we had heard. Don pulled over and parked across from the Tourist Office. The car was surrounded instantly by a horde of solemn children. I pushed past them to get our permits to enter the church. When I returned, the expressions of sheer terror on Don’s and Muriel’s faces behind the shielding glass of the car would have been funny, had they not been so authentic. Chiapas is known for the unfriendliness of its Indians. I brushed the children away from the car like flies and directed Don to park a little farther from the plaza, away from curious eyes.

The church was the same mixture of Christian and pagan as the one in Chichicastenango, Guatemala. While devotees knelt on pine-strewn stone floors, their neighbors drank Pepsi Colas and visited in front of the candles honoring Saints.

Across the street in the long, low building that included the tourist office, smoke billowed from the last two doors. Poncho-clad devotees massed by the doors. Later we looked in and saw three large crosses, heavily outlined with branches where some kind of ritual had been performed.

The men of San Juan Chamula almost without exception wore heavy natural-color wool ponchos over their clothes. The ponchos were fringed, and secured with a heavy belt. Hands were thrust inside the front of the poncho for warmth, giving the Indians a peculiar, un-masculine bulge above the beltline. Off-white ponchos were loose at each side; the less-common black ones were sewn up the sides.

The women were wrapped in colorful rebozos. They crouched on the patio in front of the church with small piles of fruit or sweets for sale in front of them. Children in bright huipiles (embroidered blouses) and serapes were everywhere.

As we drove out of the town, we passed a group of about a dozen men in elaborate holiday regalia—black with red and yellow embroidery and hats decorated by long multi-colored streamers. A second group, garbed like the first, appeared in the road behind them, but turned off the track and, like Christmas carolers, entered a building. As we passed we realized that the building into which they disappeared was a cantina.

 

There was some question about whether we would bother to drive to nearby Zinacantán, since we already had seen the “must” pueblo. After a few words of discussion, we decided we might as well, since it was so close. We wound up a dirt road and suddenly both Muriel and Don, from the front street, exclaimed, “There it is—all that red!” From the back seat, I could not see what they were talking about. By the greatest of luck and a casual decision, we found a fiesta that will burn in my brain forever.

There must have been two to three thousand Indians around the village church. All were dressed in red. The men and boys wore belted red serapes, elaborately embroidered with flowers and birds in pinks, aquas, limes, oranges, deeper reds, occasionally shot with gold and silver threads. Their shirts under the serapes were red. Women wore red blouses and skirts of similar, intricate workmanship. Even the babies in slings were swaddled in exquisitely embroidered red garments.

The men, in flaming ensemble, grouped, dozens deep, around the church. The women sat on the low wall surrounding the courtyard or on bleachers set to one side near a smaller chapel, not talking, patient, out-blazing the sunshine in their collective crimson. On the other side of the street, a large group of men in their brilliant garments watched a hard-fought basketball game. The players, sweating under the sun, despite the crisp air, were the only earth-tone notes.

Our cameras were locked in the trunk of the car. This particular village has a reputation for smashing cameras when in a good mood, or killing tourists, if provoked.

It was obvious that everyone awaited something. We waited with them, moving as discreetly as we could among the Indians. The “something” proved to be a typical dance with masked people representing the Spanish conquistadores, women, and a bull. It was very like ritual dances of the Mayan Indians in the south of Belize. The play-let was accompanied by great explosions, of grenade rather than firecracker intensity. The dour Indians yelled and laughed and shrieked at each blast. Over a period of about an hour, the dance was performed twice in front of the church where the men were grouped, and twice in front of the bleachers full of women.

It was only as festivities came to an end that we began to see family groups, instead of rigid segregation of the sexes. Little families strolled off together wordlessly, or climbed into buses for the ride back to their isolated adobe huts.

Saturday, 2 January

As our Panamerican Highway curved back through the same area, we realized that even the common clothes of that group of Indians are red. For the rest of my life, I will warm myself with the memory of that conflagration of color.

The road in Chiapas state was noticeably worse than the one in the Yucatán. It wound up and down mountains, potholed and unprotected. We headed for Tehuantepec, an obligatory overnight stay en route to Oaxaca. We assumed the worst and found one of the best hotels of our trip.

We stopped en route at several spots overlooking Sumidero Canyon, a spectacular gash through the mountains.

Sunday, 3 January

As we left Tehuantepec, we suddenly were in country that Don compared to the Mojave Desert. Instead of the jungles of the previous day, the road was bordered by many varieties of cactus and slim trees with threadlike branches, their leaves sparse to non-existent. Patches of gray yucca were pasted improbably against the mountainsides.

Impossible as it seemed, the condition of the “highway” deteriorated. The surface became a lace-work of concrete holding the potholes in their uncomfortable pattern. Hairpin curves and the perforated pavement decreased our speed to a crawl. This, we commented to each other, was the famed Panamerican Highway.

The highway into Oaxaca took us past the ruins of Mitla and a large native market. We stopped briefly, enjoying the outside of the ruins, with their unusual geometric mosaics. As I got out of the car, an Indian woman offered me a pair of colorful Zapotec dolls. I wanted them so badly for my Guatemala-ish guest room that I did not even bargain. I bought the elaborate dolls for the equivalent of us$6 each. Moments later another vendor offered me a similar pair for half the amount. I did not regret my “extravagance.” The dolls were worth far more than I paid.

 

The salmon-colored Hotel Victoria is on the side of a mountain overlooking the city. Our rooms had large sliding-glass doors that opened onto a delicate white iron railing with a red-tile roof below it. The entire room became a balcony when the doors were open. I slept as on the deck of a ship, stealing extra cover from the second bed to protect myself from the unaccustomed chill. At night, the city lights sparkled for us. At dawn, mountains across the valley scalloped the sunrise.

Monday, 4 January

We walked down two easy flights of curving stairs to the garden restaurant for breakfast, secure in the memory of the previous night’s excellent dinner. It was the first time our hotel provided food so good that we found no need to go elsewhere.

We spent the day shopping and sightseeing. Among our “finds” was the Tule tree, one of the largest in the world. It is said to be two thousand years old and more than 150 feet in circumference.

 

Late in the afternoon we made our way up the mountain outside the city toward the ruins of Monte Albán. Somehow, we took the old road. It was in such bad condition that Don thought briefly of turning back. Just then, around a sharp curve came a herd of goats. Each of the two young goatherds guarding the flock cradled a tiny kid in his arms. We stopped the car to let the mass of animals part and pass us, then drove on, delighted in the pastoral vignette.

Monte Albán is an extensive, well-excavated ruin of the Zapotec culture. It was about 5:00 pm when we arrived. Only a handful of visitors, most of them Mexican, remained. We felt that we had the handsome buildings and great expanses of grass between them to ourselves. While Muriel and Don climbed one of the low pyramids, I stood alone, immersing myself in the setting. Gradually I became aware of movement, not shapes, but their activity. I felt that I was observing the daily life of Monte Albán. The unseen forms moved with a slightly foreign rhythm. I sensed both men and women. Briefly, I was a part of the past.

 

We were thrust rudely back into the present with Don’s decision to fill the car with gasoline in anticipation of an early departure next morning. Before we had time to escape, we were in a line with thirty cars (accurate count by frustrated females). I was sent to investigate. I learned that only green pumps supplied the fuel we needed. We were in the right line. Much later we finally arrived at the pump only to find that its nozzle was not adapted to our gas tank. By that time we were beyond frustration. In passive acceptance of life in Mexico, Don drove with uncharacteristic stoicism past station after station until, on the other side of Oaxaca, he found a Pemex station that had 1) a green pump, and 2) the proper nozzle.

We returned to the Hotel Victoria, and I announced to Muriel and Don that it was my birthday. We had birthday drinks in their room before dinner, then a superb meal. We celebrated by having a final Kahlua-and-conversation in the bar before separating for the night.

Tuesday, 5 January

We were away by 9:00 on another of our long days of driving. We would not have believed it possible for the road to deteriorate more than it already had, but soon after we left Oaxaca, we found ourselves on a narrow, twisting mountain road with potholes often more than a foot deep. Even worse, clouds blanketed the mountain tops, sinking into the valleys between. We crept along, trying to avoid pits, or easing into them slowly enough that we could come out the other side. Half the time these tortuous maneuvers took place with our car on the wrong side of the road, inches before a blind curve. We comforted ourselves with the thought that cars coming the opposite way had to be moving like nervous snails, as we were. Fortunately, the clouds lifted fairly soon so that our intrepid driver at least could see hazards clearly.

The mountains were the steepest and the most dramatic we had been through. Sitting in the back seat, with no responsibility for watching the road, I could immerse myself in the magnificent scenery.

Rarely did we pass a vehicle or a building. At about the morning cerveza hour, we found a simple cantina and restaurant at the top of a mountain. Despite the dirt floor, it gave an impression of cleanliness. The oilcloth-topped tables were immaculate. A variety of posters decorated walls that were made of mats of palm thatch. A smiling Indian girl of about eighteen pushed aside a curtain that apparently separated the kitchen from the dining area and took our order. She was disappointed at our not wanting to eat, but Don and I were still nervous from our inadvertent illnesses early in the trip.

When we finished, I asked her in impeccable Spanish for directions to the ladies’ room. I assumed that it would be outside and sans plumbing. To my incalculable horror, she threw her arms wide and with a beaming smile said, “Campo libre.” Although she had been kind enough to offer me all outdoors, I suspected that each bush might already have served as shelter multiple times. Civilization couldn’t be that far away, I assured myself, as I thanked her politely and retreated to the car with my shredded dignity.

Again we had a perforce overnight stay between one of our target towns and the next. This time it was Coatzacoalcos. I knew the city only as a dingy port and petroleum center. We expected nothing of our hotel, and again found a gem. Our dinner at the Hotel Terranova that night was one of the finest of the entire trip.

Wednesday, 6 January

We left early for Villahermosa. The drive was uneventful. The countryside was nondescript, but the road was both flat and well-paved. We were in our hotel before noon. Unfortunately, the Cencali was undergoing remodeling, so things were not as pleasant as they might have been.

The main lure of Villahermosa was the charming park that displays some of the enormous Olmec heads discovered in the area. Near the entrance, some thirty or more coatimundi of all ages and sizes ranged through the woods or ventured out onto the path. They searched busily for insects with their long, sensitive noses, and ignored the fascinated tourists watching their antics. Small wild deer browsed nearby.

To Muriel’s delight, most of the Olmec heads had been moved to museums through Mexico, where they can be protected from the weather. Still a few of the huge stone carvings were beautifully displayed throughout the park. We took the obligatory pictures of each other standing alongside the heads, dwarfed by their height of seven or eight feet.

There were other old carved pieces besides the heads, plus a strange structure of enormous log-shaped stones, which we learned later was an ancient jaguar cage. Adjacent to the park buildings was a large enclosure with bushes, a pool, and a live jaguar.

Thursday, 7 January

We started early for our final trip destination, Campeche. It was a delightful drive, flat land and good roads, for a happy change, with a view of the Gulf of Mexico that rivaled the mountains for beauty.

We reached the ferry landing leading to Ciudad del Carmen just as the ferry pulled out. Our car was third in line behind a stake-body truck. I asked a nearby vendor with a refreshments cart whether we could leave the car. He assured us that it would be safe to lock it and walk back down the pier to one of the cantinas on the shore. He promised to watch the car for us.

We followed his instructions and settled on the sand under a palapa (thatched roof) for a cerveza. Muriel busied herself with her sketching materials. Later we investigated lunch possibilities in the two or three ferry-side restaurants and decided that we could wait awhile. Open boats like Alex’s ran briskly back and forth ferrying passengers from a nearby dock to destinations hidden by a point of land. In due course, the ferry returned. We walked back out the pier past the now-lengthy line of vehicles. I found the vendor with his bicycle cart and tipped him for watching our little red car. He demurred, but I insisted that he take the modest amount offered him.

The ferry ride was a pleasant half hour. We stood at the front of the open upper deck, enjoying the wind and the view of the approaching shore.

Once off the ferry, it was a relatively short drive to Campeche. We followed the coastline, the Gulf waters brilliant shades of blues and greens to the left of us. Suddenly Muriel insisted that we stop. She couldn’t stand another moment without walking on the beach. She and Don walked down a slight bank and strolled along the narrow shore, stooping to pick up shells as they went. After my first step affixed five sand burrs to my stockings, I decided to stay where I was at the edge of the highway, watching their progress with amusement and recording it on film.

We reached Campeche comfortably and checked into the Hotel Baluartes. The hotel was undistinguished, but our rooms overlooked the Gulf. Around five that evening, we drove back up the coast to the commercial fishing dock to watch the return of the shrimp fleet. We were late. We had a pleasant stroll along the long jetty, the only sound the lapping of waves against hulls of shrimpers moored several abreast, and the slight sibilance of wind in the rigging. One late boat arrived and Don was able to get some good pictures with his camcorder. Meanwhile, the sun set in fire-red brilliance behind the black skeletons of masts and lines of moored shrimp boats.

Friday, 8 January

We spent a desultory day exploring Campeche. We climbed to the battlements of the baluartes, the old forts of the city. We went through its tiny but attractive museum. We found the city market, enjoyed prowling through it, but found nothing of interest. It was not our best day of the trip. We all felt that Campeche did not warrant the long drives we had to endure to include it in our itinerary.

Saturday, 9 January

Our final long drive. After some discussion, we agreed unanimously to avoid the road with all the makeshift bridges on our return to Chetumal. Furthermore, we did not want to make a second risky pass through the town of Escárcega. The U.S. State Department travel advisories warned of problems with bandits in the area. We went through safely once, but were not eager to retest our luck. Don, in charge of maps, decreed that we had time to stop at two of the small ruins along our new route back to Chetumal. It was one of the best decisions of the trip.

Sayil was the first. The Palacio, only half excavated, has an extraordinary facade of delicate columns topped by a handsome frieze. Quite different from the other Mayan ruins we had seen.

Next was Kabah, noted for its Temple of the Masks. From a distance one sees only a long building with intricate carving. Up close the carving proves to be an endless progression of theatrical masks in deep bas relief, the noses protruding in splendor.

We were on a secondary road. The paving was adequate, superb even, compared to the roads in Chiapas and Oaxaca. The road was narrow, bordered by either the low Yucatan jungle or evenly constructed dry stone walls. We passed almost no cars, but saw bicycles everywhere. Casually dressed young tourists pedaled or walked from ruin to ruin, miles away from civilization. At Sayil we met a happy couple on a bicycle-built-for-two.

Muriel, at the wheel a little later, narrowly escaped a heartbreaking accident. Just as we passed, a huge sow poked her snout out from the high grass bordering the road, starting to lunge across. Fortunately, she and Muriel saw each other in time to miss contact by centimeters. In the grass around the stiffened legs of the sow were numberless piglets, well-enough disciplined not to move without their mama.

We stopped at the small town of Ticul at a junction of the road where we had been told we would find an excellent restaurant. Our lunch at the charmingly Colonial Restaurante Los Almendros was one of the best of our entire journey.

 

The final drive to Chetumal was unremarkable. The guard at the hotel’s enclosed car park greeted Don like a prodigal son. Something to do with his having left the car there through Christmas and generous tips, perhaps.

We checked into rooms identical with the ones in which we had begun our trip. A final Happy Hour, a final walk down the street to our Pizza restaurant and its superb Camerones Al Mojo de Ajo, a good night’s sleep, and an early farewell completed our Mexican holiday.

Sunday, 10 January

Mr. Arnold arrived early to drive me back to Belize. Muriel and Don left at about the same time for Cancún, stopping at the ruins of Tulum en route. They would turn the car in, spend the night, and fly home the following day. Before parting, we began making plans for a fourth Mexican holiday in another two years, a return to our favorite towns in El Bajío, the mountainous Colonial area northwest of Mexico City.