Mérida with Becky

Bucher’s youngest sister, Rebekah (“Becky”) and I had discussed the trip through our last several visits with each other. It is not easy to get to Mérida from Belize, but plans finally were worked out. We would drive to Corozal, leave our car with a friend, take a taxi to the Chetumal airport, and fly to Mérida.

 

The drive was pleasant. The new road, bypassing the old narrow, curving, dangerous road, is a joy. We sailed along with Becky enjoying the Northern scenery, which she never had seen. About 15 miles outside Corozal, I became aware of strange noises and feelings. Just before I had time to become really alarmed, there was a tremendous bang with successive unwelcome clattering; the wheel jerked; and I was able to hold the car, ease onto the verge, and bring is safely to a halt. I assumed that, at the very least, a wheel had fallen off. Not only did we find four wheels in place, we found four inflated wheels. Without the comforting sight of a flat tire I assumed that the underpinnings of the car had disintegrated.

There was an equipment-sort-of place back a bit on the other side of the highway. As I started toward it, a man on a bicycle sprang out of the earth to ask if he could help. We conferred for a moment then I left him with Becky while I went to see if a telephone were available. The nearest phone was in a town “right down there around the curve,” but since I barely could see the curve in the distance, I had no intention of striding down the highway alone in the middle of the drug country for endless miles, regardless of having a plane to catch.

As I was conferring with the friendly but amused men, Becky came running to say that our friend on the bicycle had found a great strip of tread that had come off one of our front tires. My new friends laughed and ushered me back across the road where they vied in helping change the tire. Tips and smiles and good wishes all round, and we were back on our way.

 

I explained to Becky that I was driving very slowly because my spare was intended only to get me to a filling station in Belize City. We were about 1-1/2 miles from Corozal when it blew out and I had a replay of keeping the car under control and getting it smoothly onto the shoulder.

Again we were within sight of a shop filled with men eager to be of help. One packed me into his truck and sped on into town where I bought two new tires, had one put onto a rim by a nice man who assured me he would be available to fix the second on Sunday so that I did not have to delay further. By the time we returned to the car, it had been jacked up and the bad tire removed. The helpful young man who had done it hurried to affix the new tire under the badgering of my “chauffeur,” who reminded everyone in sight that we had a plane to catch.

The amusing thing was that Becky had learned through visiting with our tire-changer that he didn’t even work in the shop; he just had stopped by to have his lawnmower fixed and somehow found himself delegated to change our tire. My driver even co-opted a passing truck to guide us to the Coke plant, where we were to leave the car. Again, multitudes of thanks and tips and smiles, and “may-you-have-a-safe-passage.”

Our taxi was waiting; we dashed to the border; the driver ushered us quickly through formalities on each side; and we were checked in for our flight in time for a revivifying beer, which I sorely needed. My store of grace-under-pressure had been gravely depleted.

 

I had planned for us to stay at the old Gran Hotel de Mérida, since I love its gracious old public rooms and general atmosphere. Alex insisted that it was ridiculous to pay their prices in Mérida, so I booked at a highly recommended nearby hotel. We made what I considered an undignified entrance to the Hotel Colón, since the taxi driver dumped us unceremoniously at the corner and we had struggled half a block with our suitcases. The hotel entrance was definitely second-class, though lovely old tile and patios showed further inside.

Our room was perfectly all right, simple but immaculate, with the most aggressive air conditioner I ever remember being exposed to. That’s the plus side. There was no hot water; there was no stopper in the sink; and they did not give me the plastic basin I requested for washing my stockings. I managed that by bailing water into a plastic waste basket with a small water glass (an endless process). The cold water for morning showers was a gentle trickle. They did not bring me the extra towel I requested for blotting excess water from my stockings, so I dried off from my sort-of-shower with last night’s damp one.

Becky and I decided that we did not need to put up with this on our long-awaited holiday. We had been further turned off by a dismal restaurant, even though the food was acceptable.

Anyway, by mid-morning we were reestablished in a lovely corner room at the Gran Hotel de Mérida. The fact that the air conditioner underperformed and that the following morning we asked to be moved is not important. They put us in another corner room with even lovelier view of old Colonial buildings. Despite Alex’s horror at paying high rates in Mérida, we were quite happy with the us$13 apiece per night the room cost us.

 

You don’t need details of our forays into the market, shops investigated, delicious food found. It was fun from one end of the day to another. As we headed homeward the first evening, we were accosted by a pleasant man urging business cards on us and insisting that we must visit his guayabera factory. I knew from Alex that this was the way to get really good buys, but was reluctant to vanish into the upper reaches of a Mexican loft. However, his stairs were brightly lighted; Becky needed presents for children and grandchildren; and we followed him without a qualm.

Our friend thought he had died and gone to heaven when Becky began buying five of this and eight of that and nine of something else. Prices tumbled, discounts bubbled over, and she got a beautiful selection of excellent-quality guayaberas, huipiles (embroidered blouses), and Tehuacán dresses for at least a third less than it would have cost her shopping here-and-there.

 

Alex had given us two don’t-miss names for meals. We tried the first, “La Prosperidad,” for our first lunch. It is a large place with low thatched ceilings on a series of semi-separated rooms. Típico entertainment throughout, instrumental, vocal, comics. We sat way at the back under a fan (Becky’s choice, and a good one, since the music was background instead of overpowering). The end of our area was open grillwork giving onto a tiny patio, where two live fawns and some turkeys improbably were cohabiting.

Two waiters rushed up as we were seated. One dashed off for cerveza (beer) and the other quickly put four platillos of appetizers on the table, with a great pile of fried tortilla triangles. There was a gorgeous guacamole, something slightly spicy involving ham, a plate of chicharrones (fried pork rinds), and something strange and unappetizing that tasted as unappealing as it looked. (We later learned that it was chicharrones softened in lime juice and we could only wonder why.) Later they brought a menu and we had something-or-other delicious and Mexican. Alex said that when he was there, they never ordered since an endless stream of platillos appeared until they were almost too sated to move from the table.

Alex’s other recommendation was “El Hereford,” a steak house where they semi-cook your steak and let you finish it on a brazier at the table. Since it was a Friday night, we called ahead for reservations even though we planned to eat unfashionably early. We arrived to find ourselves the first guests. However, the waiter was attentive and was pleasant about our asking to have drinks in peace before ordering. Dinner was delicious and we laughed and visited and had a marvelous time. As we paid our bill and left, we still were the only diners in the cavernous restaurant.

 

Our original plan had been to drive home from Corozal Saturday night, but Becky had suggested spending the night in Chetumal instead. Even before our car troubles, I had agreed that it would be far easier. There now is one of the El Presidente chain hotels there and it is lovely. First-class rooms, excellent restaurant, and breakfast buffet on a patio, which converted this non-breakfasting type to a plate loaded with five different Mexican offerings.

The trip home, after having the second new tire put on its rim, was uneventful and we were enjoying the breeze and sea view from our living room, beer in hand, by noon.