The former historical settlement area of the indigenous people of Mexico covers a total of 350,000 km². In the northern part of this strange Mayan land, the Yucatán peninsula extends far into the Caribbean. A place full of romance.
“Anyone who has ever eaten tortillas, frijoles, or tamales, and has left the country, will get homesick for Mexico,” writes Monika from Borthwick in her book, “La Cucaracha.” She’s so right. Even the street vendors with their 75-cent meat-filled enchiladas deserve a 5-star certification. Never before had street food been such an excellent treat for me.
We arrived in Cancùn, the federal state of Quintana Roo, in the most southeastern part of Mexico. A small, cozy guesthouse for travelers awaited us. No fancy tourism, no luxury, no pool, no air conditioning, no restaurant. Just simple accommodations.
My fellow student Holger and I were hungry, struggling with the jet lag now coursing through our bones; we could hardly breathe within this strange climate. The heat, the air humidity, and the lack of air conditioning were pushing us to our exhaustive edge. That night, we could not sleep. I got up, went to the bathroom and turned on the shower, just to be able to get any little bit of mist from the cold water.
Soon thereafter, light vibrations raised the room. Glasses danced in the cupboard. The bed began to move. An earthquake, at four in the morning! Experiencing such a phenomenon enlivens the senses, and stirs up the adrenaline. Here in Cancùn, it seems to be totally normal. The tremors disturb no one. No screams, no panic, no riots. As quickly as they came, they went.
However, for us, the earthquake was completely disorienting. We decided to go out, in search of food, since going back to sleep now would be pointless.
Outside, on the street, in the early morning hours, there were just a few people, mostly girls coming back from a night out. Two streets away, we found a 24-hour Supermercado. Two packets of cereal and a bag of milk should save us the “night.” On the way back to the hotel, we were approached by a group of prostitutes. They hugged us, groped us, and grabbed for our shorts. The insomnia, the hunger, and the climate change affected us so much, that we didn’t have any energy to exert in their direction. So, we smiled and thanked them for their somewhat off-putting offer. Alone we came, alone we went our way.
The next day, we moved further south to paradise, Playa del Carmen. With its endless white sandy beaches, palm trees, and turquoise blue sea, the manifested beauty made us feel like we were knee-deep in luxury. We rented a room in one of the most beautiful beach hotels — the Reef Playacar.
That same evening, we decided to go out and settle in one of the nearby beach bars. A Mexican Corona and a dish of beans, meat and salad made our joie de vivre swing higher again. A local man looked at us intensively as we ate, alternating his gaze between us and a small yellow book. After some time, he stood up, fasting courage, and spoke to us. He introduced himself as Ricardo. He had noticed how we spoke German, and asked us if we would be so friendly as to teach him a little of our language. The small, slim man told us that he was studying German, and how he loves Europe and feels their hospitality when he visits. He went on to say how he felt aversion and distance when interacting with American tourists in Mexico, who treat the locals like servants for their entertainment.
We tried to be interpreters as best we could, as Ricardo concentrated on German, absorbing every new vowel. I could see it in his eyes — a love had started to grow like a flame. The love for the German language. I imagined this same flame of love in the eyes of many good writers, whose passion ignited in such a way. At the end of the evening, he wanted to express his gratitude by intending to pay our bill. We knew about the high salary differences between Mexico and Europe; and while we were beyond thankful for his intentions and company, we couldn’t allow him to pay for our food.
The next day, we found an early taxi. We negotiated a good daily price and drove to the places that the locals described as “worth seeing.” A map painted on a napkin served as the taxi driver’s navigation, as well as our itinerary.
Our first destination — the Blue Lagoon, as the locals called it. A crystal clear lake, with healing effects, in the middle of the jungle. It’s believed that who swims in it experiences a transformation. A revival. Even thought that fact seemed a little bit too esoteric and detached to us, we did not want to miss this experience. We drove along highway 307 for a long time, until we spontaneously turned onto a kind of dirt road. This led us straight into the wilderness, where we plunged deeper and deeper into the jungle — a green, beautiful hell. After a few kilometers, however, we became consciously aware of the danger we were in, for the first time.
There we were — in the middle of the primeval forest, with a completely foreign taxi driver who does not speak our language. No map, no notion of where we were exactly, and no knowledge about the animal world living here. We felt completely delivered to our untimely end, but before we could worry even more, the taxi stopped.
“Estamos en el Blanco,” the driver said as he pointed to the mysterious lake that had now revealed itself directly before us, in the middle of the jungle. Laden with lianas and grass of the most different kind, we heard noises from all kinds of animals in the background — from croaking parrots to twittering birds, and other noises not known to us, but which I knew up to now only from some horror films.
“You go in first!” said Holger.
My eyes widened, and my pulse quickened. After some back and forth banter, we agreed that Holger would venture the first step. He was much bigger and stronger than me, and looked like less of a prey to any of the nearby animal predators.
Holger bent down and scooped a handful of water from the pool. He looked in my direction and from his expression, I understood that the water was salty! My unsuspecting expression betrayed to him that I was still hesitant to get into the lake. Salty water really meant nothing.
“Piranhas and crocodiles are sweet freshwater fishes,” he added, dryly and coyly, as he jumps into the crystal clear lake of transformation.
A quote from Voltaire occurred to me in that instant:
Every day we learn the things from which we had no notion.
Travelling really teaches you so much.
As Holger swims to the middle of the lake, he suddenly and briefly squeals, stretching an arm upwards, as if he was being pulled by something stronger down. My breath faltered in my chest, and my heart felt like it had stopped beating. As taken root, I stood there with no ability to even utter a sound. Holger had disappeared underwater — completely out of view.
With an erratic heart and fear, I approached the water edge, millimeter by millimeter. My gaze focused in upon the place where Holger had just splashed, ten seconds ago. Suddenly and unexpectedly, he dove up like a jet, like a blue whale, sucking in his biggest breath yet, and then flashing a wide grin.
“This is no place for jokes!!! You are impossible. I could have died of fear,” I said, contemplating wiping that grin off his face.
Regardless, I knew the time had come to jump into the lake myself. Spontaneously, I remembered the title of a yoga magazine I had read before: “Discover your Experience.” Since I was always addicted to adding new experiences into my life, I put my fear aside and jumped into the cold water.
It was an incredible moment and feeling — swimming in the middle of the jungle between lianas and tropical trees. I swam into the middle of the lake, when something strange happened. Hundreds of small fish came swimming from all sides and began to suck on my skin. They probably thought Holger and I were two big fishes from which they could get some plankton. And while it was a strange feeling, and a little confusing, I had no fear of being eaten by these little creatures.
After half an hour of healing transformation in the lake, we made our way back onto the highway with our taxi driver.
Tulum was the next destination on our journey. It’s the only Mayan site right on the sea, and an archaeological marvel. Standing there on a twelve-meter high limestone cliff, directly above the Caribbean Sea, the Temple of the Wind is an adoration and a sacrificial temple of the ancient culture of Mexico.
Our taxi driver dropped us off, and proceeded to take a siesta in the shade of the veranda of a small bar. He waited for us each time, until we had explored everything and wanted to resume the ride. What clock confidence? He had not received a penny payment from us yet, and patiently waited each and every time.
We admired the Mayan seafront buildings. I went up to the Temple of the Wind, into a small building, and sat down on the sacrificial table. I laid back and closed my eyes. Thoughts of the past arose into my consciousness — how it must have been, to lie here and be sacrificed for some bloodthirsty god or senseless religion. A shiver ran down my spine. I took a deep breath and felt like I was inhaling the past of this place. Goose bumps spread all over my body. In the distance, someone called my name. I opened my eyes, and at the entrance of the temple stood a Mayan Indian. My heart almost stopped.
The Spaniard dressed in bright colors smiled at me and asked if he could come in. He would like to see the ruin from the inside too. Behind him, Holger appeared, desperately looking for me below.
I remembered a sentence from Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, the great American poetess:
Life is so exciting that there is hardly time for anything else
We descended the limestone cliff stairs and sat on a hill with a direct view of the sea, as well as the most beautiful beach in all of Mexico. Holger reached for his camera, trying to capture one of these dreamlike images, as he saw them with his eyes. I watched a young, slender woman walk down the beach, adjusting her swimsuit as she casually strolled through the surf. I took a picture with my camera and saved it on the memory card, while Holger saved it in his memory mind.
Continuing with our taxi driver, our next destination was Akumal. It was snorkel time! Time to cool down. What you see here on the coast with a snorkel, you can see at the Great Barrier Reef in Australia; only here, its 25 meters in depth. Who would miss something like that?
With borrowed fins, swimming goggles, and a clamped snorkel, we stood with anticipation on a piece of rocky coast, as we jumped into the sea. Diving into the crystal-clear water, we were surrounded and swarmed by gigantic shoals of fish. The biodiversity was indescribable, beautiful. The Caribbean pleasantly warm and still refreshing.
As the seabed darkened spontaneously, my gaze wandered upwards. A huge manta ray was swimming over me. Tangibly close, I felt like a part of the sea, a marine resident.
With a special housing for Holger’s camera, we made some attempts at underwater shooting. Photographically, we recorded some corals, tons of fish species, and a small part of this indescribable underwater world. A universe of its own.
Still intoxicated by the pictures and impressions, we made our way back to the reef, and back to our taxi driver.
Onto our next destination, we started out to Puerto Aventuras, and found again that we were no lump-sum-all inclusive vacationers. Dolphin swimming was offered on the beach. The marine mammals were marketed as a tourist attraction in a special, fenced pool. Somehow, my thoughts drifted to a book by Stefano Benni, titled, “There are No Bad Humans, Said the Bear, if They are Well Prepared.”
Disgusted, we granted ourselves a break in a small beach bar. With a cool drink, we enjoyed the fantastic view of Marina, the port of Puerto Aventuras. A big red bird came flying in and sat down on the roof edge of the bar, right above us. Unbelievably, it was a full-grown macaw, looking down right on us. This parrot species is traded in Europe with an approximate value of $3,000. Here, they could move freely, without fear of landing somewhere in a cage. Once again, the feeling of freedom overpowered me. I was inwardly and completely intoxicated with the world.
Travel lifts the soul, because one is confronted with true beauty. The sun began to grow quieter, and slowly sank toward the horizon. Our trustworthy taxi driver, with his 1.50-meter height and a nice belly, brought us safely and quickly back to Playa del Carmen.
From a distance, we could see a fire on the beach. There, where a round pavilion of palm leaves and bamboo wood rested, a beach party was just starting. We paid our taxi journey with a $50 bill and a generous tip, and strolled down to the beach. Arriving at the beach bar, we met Christine, a young blonde in her early thirties, who worked in one place until she had enough money to move on to the next paradise destination. A true globetrotter. She stayed in each location for approximately four months, at which point she would leave for her next country. Her addition to the beauty of the world was something to be desired.
She stood behind the bar and addressed us directly in our native language. With a few cocktails and an ice-cold Corona, we ended the evening full of delights. I gave one last look over at Christine. A feeling arose in me that manifested with a single thought:
This beautiful woman was living my dream.
