Mérida with the Family

All of us were sick, in relays, before Christmas, so we stayed fairly quiet. As usual on the 24th, we had a delightful Christmas dinner with the Tattersfields, our closest friends and former neighbors.

We had a lovely but simple Christmas. Our Christmas present to Alex and Carli was a trip to Mérida. With nothing much to buy in Belize, we pooled our own funds, added Christmas checks from generous relatives, and wrapped Mexican visas and travel brochures in large boxes so the children would have something to open Christmas day.

 

On December 31st, we took off. A new cold wave had surged into the area, so it was a long and bumpy flight in our Cessna. Head winds, which I calculated…through astute use of my Terribly Complicated Calculator…at 45 miles per hour, put an extra hour on our usual two-hour travel time. It was clear enough, but rough and tiring.

The Mérida authorities are used to Cessna Zero-Four-Uniform by now and whipped us through Customs and Immigration very graciously.

We were checked into the Hotel Tropical Maya shortly after noon. We fell in love with this motel out near the airport on a trip last summer. The layout is charming with thatch-shaded walkways connecting the rooms; an irregular pool that meanders the length of the patio, often making islands of trees; imaginative, lush planting that creates many little private areas for tables or sun chaises in nooks along the pool’s edge; a picturesque outdoor dining room with stone wall, fishnet-draped ceiling, lights in woven baskets; and spacious, modern rooms.

The children each had a single room in a separate two-unit cottage with a real thatched roof…terribly interesting from inside or out. Bucher and I had what they consider their minimum-price double: a large room with tiled floor, two double beds, armchair, small table with two chairs, a large dressing table built against one stone wall, walk-in closet, and tiled bath…also with one stone wall.

 

The weather was very cold; the wind whipped around the patio in a most unfriendly way so it was obvious that the lounging around the pool, which we had anticipated, was out. Instead, Bucher made arrangements to rent one of the hotel cars for 24 hours.

In the afternoon we drove into town for a short shopping trip. We missed our turn and wound up in a perfectly gorgeous old residential section that we wouldn’t have seen otherwise. Mérida was established by the Spanish in 1542…allegedly set up as a new capital for Yucatán after repeated pirate raids on the seaport of Progreso, which had been the capital. I suspect some of these homes date back to that era. They are monstrous, ornate, ancient, and utterly charming.

Finally we made our way to the central market…which unerringly attracts me in each Latin City…after thirty minutes of utter confusion in the one-way streets and some choice remarks in Spanish when we made the wrong decision at intersections. Having Tropical Maya emblazoned on every flat surface of the car probably saved us; a policeman was most helpful about showing us where to park when we finally reached the market vicinity.

One of the great tragedies of our marriage is that Bucher is not an aficionado of markets. He detests them. And if there’s one thing he hates more than a market, it is being involved with me in one. With this in mind I moved quickly, lingered seldom, and didn’t enjoy the visit much. We located a little shop where we had been well treated on our earlier visit, and both children made purchases. I’m developing into a Latin-style bargainer, though I hate it. But apparently even in stores you aren’t expected to pay the quoted price. I learned this a little too late in Guatemala, but I’m ready for ’em now. I knew you played that game in the markets…but in a nice store! Well, really!

Anyway, Alex bought himself a guayabera (tucked shirt-jacket) and Carli picked out a blusa…a blouse heavily embroidered around neck, bottom, and armholes with multicolored flowers. By the time we finished, it was getting dark and Bucher was nervous about being in a strange city at night. We did have a city map and got back to the motel with no trouble. Christmas decorations still were up and the lights were lovely. Both the Coca Cola and Pepsi plants outside town had the most elaborate displays I’ve ever seen…Coke, a giant crèche with live cows, donkey, and sheep.

Since it was New Year’s Eve, we dressed up a bit for diner. Thank goodness at the last minute I had tossed in coats for Carli and me. We needed them. The men had sweaters under their suits and said they could survive. The food at the Tropical Maya is typically Yucatecan and excellent (though you can get more ordinary things if you prefer). All but Carli ordered shrimp in a garlic sauce that is divine…so good Alex had it three nights running. Carli had Chicken Mole…a Yucatecan sauce, dark with spices and the tiniest bit of bitter chocolate. Bucher thought wine would be in order. The waiter simply assumed the children were included and he brought glasses for them; Alex and Carli saw to it they weren’t returned. Mexico has some lovely light wines and this was awfully good.

Toward the end of our meal, a couple took the table just next to us. From their talk it was obvious that they were from Chicago, that bad weather in New Orleans had delayed them so that they missed their connecting flight to Campeche, that they were freezing to death, and that they had been trying to compensate for all this in the bar. They were loud, raucous, made embarrassing comments on everything around them, and yet under it all obviously were nice people, basically well-bred and kind, who simply weren’t careful enough about their manners. I looked over at Alex and his eyes were twinkling, that dimple at the corner of his mouth crinkling, and he was trying exceptionally well to keep a straight face. As we left the table, he couldn’t wait to tell me, “I know now why they talk about Ugly Americans.”

We took the car after dinner and went out to the airport to make sure Zero-Four-Uniform was tied down securely. Went back to the motel and had a liqueur, since the children are allowed a creme de menthe frappe on Special Occasions. About 9:30 we all bid 1963 good night.

The motel was having a dance that night and guests had begun arriving before we retired. In spite of the weather, the most glamorous and low-cut gowns were in evidence. Although we woke up once in a while to notice the band still was playing, it was a very orderly party and we never were aware of loud voices.

 

On New Year’s morning we left about nine to drive to Progreso on the coast. We stopped on the way to see some famous half-excavated Mayan ruins. While we are not dedicated ruins-goers like some of our friends, the ruins always are fascinating.

Drove on to Progreso and turned north along the coast. This is where Mérida people have their vacation cottages…little concrete Colonial-style bungalows that probably sleep thirty guests. They are magnificent, one after another behind their high walls along the beach.

We had heard of a new hotel north of the city, so we kept driving through mile after mile of scrub land along the beach on a sandy rut road. Only periodic signs spurred us on. Finally we found the hotel and it was charming. It was built by the same people as our Tropical Maya, in much the same style: stone, thatch, and very irregular and imaginative layout. The beach is wide and white, reminding us of Sarasota. They have a large, very deep, slightly irregular pool, and a sunken bar with windows looking underwater into one end of the pool. There is an outdoor bandstand and dance floor and glassed-in lounge and dining room overlooking the Gulf. The one trouble is the hotel’s inaccessibility. We were assured that they intended to put in an airstrip and, when they do, we’ll be up. The rooms are almost identical to those in the Tropical Maya, the prices the same (reasonable), and it would be lovely to be on a beach again.

We left the hotel and drove back into Progreso. Now if Bucher is not a market-goer, there’s one thing he is…a wharf rat. We drove out to the end of every pier along the way, got out, examined cargo facilities, ships at anchor, warehouses…the lot. And when we ran out of piers, we drove along the shore where many shrimp boats were careened on the beach in the old fashioned way and where the rest of the shrimp fleet was anchored just off the beach. I’m not dead sure, but I suspect Alex could give you the name, rigging, color, and possibly repairs needed for every boat in the fleet.

 

Bucher had been studying the map and it appeared that there was another road back to Mérida that we could intercept by following the beach road south of Progreso. We had time and it seemed like a good idea, so we did. Saw more beach homes, less elaborate; much new construction. Got lost in the first village when we lost our highway and circled the sleepy square without finding the extension of it. Returned to a little cantina and ordered a coke, thinking that we might get directions. I feel sure the heavy proprietress had never been out of town herself because the best she could do was send us to find someone else at the square. Meanwhile she showed us out to a patio behind the cantina where we could sit at long marble-top tables. This was obviously a dance floor at night, with thatched roof supported by thin poles, the sides completely open. To one side, under a separate thatched roof, were the couple’s living-working area. The old man was making charcoal and the woman doing her washing. Chickens, dogs, and ducks wandered around the area. It was charming.

We went on, decided where the road had to be, recognized the fact that the pavement had ended, and continued on a dirt road. Alex commented that we must keep looking for a causeway. I waved the map at him and said that the road junction came before the bay that made a narrow peninsula out of the lower end of the area. Alex replied that that was fine but, as far as he could see, we had nothing but water to the left of us and we’d better think about some way to get across it. You know, he was right.

Finally there was a dirt road running off to the left and, sure enough, there was our causeway cutting directly across the bay and disappearing straight through the woods on the other side in the direction of Mérida. When I say causeway, forget all those solid concrete things you’ve been exposed to. This was a rut road on a tiny hillock of sand some two inches above the water and just wide enough for the car. It seemed solid, though, so we proceeded.

After a bit, Bucher casually wondered why that stick was standing up in the middle of the road. He plowed over it and, a moment later, eased to a slow stop as our causeway ended in a six-foot wide slash of waterway. There had been a severe storm the week before and, obviously, our causeway had washed out. Fording would have been nice…but dubious in our little rented car.

Back we went to dry land. And then there was a decision to be made…back to Progreso or ahead to a possible other causeway. You know what we did. We followed rut roads one direction and another, found a causeway that led to another causeway that ran around a little bayou and led to another causeway and, after miles of meandering, we realized that we were in the middle of the salt flats. There was a conical pile of salt to one side, gates in the middle of each causeway to let the water flow or be stopped. It was fascinating. I doubt that many Gringo tourists see it. And we decided that we’d seen enough of it. Back to Progreso it was, and home to Mérida.

 

Friends from British Honduras had arrived in the mean time. Bob and Lynn Edwards live in Big Creek, where he’s manager of the Hercules resin-extraction plant. With their three children, they had come to Mérida to meet Bob’s parents and to put their eldest son on the plane back to the States and college. We visited with them for a little bit before diner.

 

When we had left for Mérida, we were undecided how long to stay. Given the cold weather, we decided we probably would leave the morning of the 2nd. By then, however, it seemed warmer and the wind had dropped so we asked the children what they wanted to do and got an enthusiastic pair of votes for staying an extra day.

Bucher, Alex, and I established ourselves with books in chaises beside the pool and shed layer after layer of clothing as the sun made coats and sweaters unnecessary. Carli was restless, wandered to the shop in the lobby, and bought herself a pretty silver key chain with a ferocious silver bull on the end of it. She started around the edge of the pool…and then she disappeared.

I guessed the answer and was right…she had bumped into a group of Mexican girls around her age and had joined them. About an hour later they all strolled by us, arms around waists, headed for their bathing suits. They jumped in at the other end, with the wildest giggling and squealing ever heard, and then gradually worked their way to our end. Not only the shape of the pool is irregular, its bottom is too, deep in one place, ankle-depth in another. Rather fun.

Well, the girls finally got down to our end and the prettiest girl you ever laid eyes on…a dainty, curvy, black-eyed teenager with creamy skin, and her black hair piled up in an informal knot…asked Alex if he weren’t coming in. He cranked up his Spanish in a hurry and explained that he had to finish his book first. She smiled and nodded…and by the time the girls reached the other end of the pool Alex was bathing-suited and in with them.

And that was the end of Alex and Carli for the day. The group swam, dried off, lunched, and stayed together till evening. Alex and Carli admitted that conversation was a little halting, but somehow they managed and all enjoyed each other.

Meanwhile, Bucher and I had company. My flight instructor, Al Malone, who worked for Maya Airways in Belize, had been transferred from their local run to Maya’s international run and was based in Mérida. We got in touch with him and he came over late in the afternoon. We called the captain on the run, George Innes, and got him to join us for dinner and had a wonderful evening of “hangar flying.”

 

Our flight home the next morning was a bit rough. We still had rough weather and the wind thoughtfully had switched so we again had some head winds. North of Belize City it socked in completely so we flew out over the water just along the beach where we had visibility at low altitudes and followed the “coconut beam” home with no trouble.