!Feliz Navidad!

Christmas in Quintana Roo

Since the birth of Sinéad Nua, I’ve been chucking challenges at myself from left, right, and centre.  This one was going to be a little tough.  As a self confessed Christmasaholic who believes the festive season is all about sharing and caring, I was daunted by the prospect of spending the holidays alone, yet excited at the challenge of doing so.  Having travelled solo before I knew it was a doddle, but at this time of year one can be lonely for anyone so far from home. 

I flew to Cancun a couple of days before Christmas and hopped straight on a bus to Tulum to arrive late and tired at my hostel.  I ate in a local vegetarian restaurant and took my first breath of holiday air.  The past few weeks had been frenetic to say the least, between juggling two jobs, I still had the thin air of Tuxtla fighting to make way to my lungs. At 534m above sea level the city sits much higher than my port town so getting used to breathing the air takes time, as does getting used to wearing a uniform as thick as Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat in the low 30s.  I needed that vacation.

The relaxation seeped into my muscles pretty quickly, and by the time I had hired a bicycle I was well on my way to chilling out.  It was Christmas Eve and I was pedalling along in search of the ruins that sit on the coastline.  I wandered around with admittedly very little knowledge of Mayan history and culture.  I promise to read something in my time here, hand on heart.  I was equally fascinated with the plant life surrounding the ruins, as the ruins themselves.  Beautiful fans of exotic leaves captured the sunlight and boasted intense shades of green.  Of course the sporadic rain showers guaranteed shininess, and slippery flip flops so I returned to the sanctuary of my hostel and started work on one of the several books I had packed in my weary rucksack.

 On Christmas Day I followed a lonely road towards the nearby cenotes.  I stopped at Gran Cenote, the most visited one, to find a nice garden where people sat on rugs having picnics, and lots of snorkelers exploring the underwater caves.  I got in but my status as ‘scaredycat’ has reached dangerous proportions and I freaked out a little at the thought of drifting into a cave and getting trapped forever and having to live on stalactites.  Irrational fear renders one, at the very least, completely bonkers.  I got out after about five minutes and congratulated myself on at least doing that.  Next stop was the beach; I deserved a Chelada for being such a brave little soldier.  Cheladas are one of my favourite discoveries since arriving in Mexico, along with Micheladas, Sincronizadas, Chilequiles, and Gorditas which are aptly named; Gordita translates as ‘chubby girl’  I fear I am becoming somewhat of a Gordita myself.  A Chelada is a beer with lots of fresh lime juice and salt, and is an amazing refreshment on the beach.  The beauty of Cheladas, and Micheladas, is that they contain such punchy flavours you have to sip them slowly, so my alcohol consumption has reduced quite a lot since moving to Mexico, which is always good news.  I watched kite surfers cruise back and forth, listened to super cool chilled beach choons, and read the book I had been neglecting over the past few months.  It was certainly the most relaxed Christmas I’ve ever had, I even forgot it was Christmas.  What was there to remind me?  The bikini clad sunbathers?  The soft white sand?  It was lovely to bask in it and forget about the madness that Christmas carries, end of season sales, getting everything preened and plucked in time for that one day, lifting a big ass turkey out of the oven that you know you’re going to be cursing for the next week.  I recommend a beach Christmas, if not for just one year.  After my afternoon of sunbathing and general lolling about, I decided I would treat myself to a posh dinner. I found the perfect place, a restaurant that had a big open fire used for cooking in the kitchen but not really required for heating purposes, I suppose nostalgia got the better of me for a moment.  It reminded me of a cosy country pubs where you’d go after a brisk walk through endless fields, and settle in for a delicious pint and a Sunday roast.  I ordered steak and red wine, and more red wine, and more red wine, and a chocolate brownie, and rolled back to my hostel in jeans that were far too tight for a meal of that magnitude.  I needed to be horizontal and in elasticated trousers for a while.  Not so vastly different from an Irish Christmas after all.

 

The following day I ventured a little further on my two wheeled stallion and found a sleepy beach in a tiny bay with sun loungers, palapas, and a pretty view of the Caribbean.  I had an obligatory Chelada that washed down guacamole and tostadas and rested my bulging belly in the sunshine.  I cycled back to repack my bag for an early departure to Playa Del Carmen by Colectivo the following morning. 

My hostel in Playa was located just off a big busy highway, with a construction site next door and a huge hole in the road right outside.  Feck.  But, inside was a haven with a garden, a pool, and a seating area with an outdoor kitchen.  I felt a little more at ease about my choice of accommodation, especially when I learned that the beach was only a ten minute stroll away in a straight line so even I couldn’t get lost on the way.  I had heard that PDC didn’t have a lot to boast, but I enjoyed the twinkling lights of 5^th Avenue, and the atmosphere created by swarms of people parading the narrow pedestrian street that peaked and troughed along the coastline of the town.  I visited the beach for a day of sun worshipping and was disappointed to find the large hotels had a monopoly over it, and had rows of sun loungers that were strictly for guest use only.  They even went to the trouble of appointing security guards who patrolled the area protecting their many unused sun loungers against guerrilla sunbathers.  I’ve been to many beaches where restaurants and hotels have built

their businesses on the periphery, but I’ve always been able to sit on the loungers in exchange for a small purchase.  I found this commandeering of the beach space rather greedy and it made the presence of the hotels along the coast all the more oppressive and ugly.  You can’t see for hotels.  It wasn’t until I went looking for the ferry to Cozumel that I found the beach space for commoners like me, and was disappointed to see it was nicer and less crowded.  Lesson learned, explore more on day one!  There was one upside to the beach I frequented.  It was home to a chocolate café called Ah Cacao, where the speciality was a decadent spiced hot chocolate.  I told everyone who would listen to visit and try it.  While taking a break in the air conditioned café, I noticed advertisements on the wall for ‘Chocolate Therapy’.  I thought that was in the drinking of it, but evidently there are soaps, body oils, and creams on sale also.  Bloody waste of good chocolate if you ask me, but I guess slathering yourself with the stuff is less fattening than drinking it as much as I did in my three days in Playa. 

Back in the hostel the evenings were pretty social, and on one of the evenings a group of Australian guys broke out the barbeque and made a huge meal which they divvied out amongst the hungry folks who were chatting and sipping beer around the table.  I thought it polite to pop out and buy some beer, but they already had a crate load of that too, so I drank my own and enjoyed the banter.  The following morning was a struggle but so worth it, and as it rained a beach visit would have been a wash out.  Better to have a sleep in and a subway meatball sandwich..

 Next stop was Cozumel.  I was excited about spending New Year on an island.  So far on my travels I have learned one important thing, although I can settle almost anywhere, I do prefer to vacation in small places, preferably islands, where I can bimble around and have adventures on my own.  However Cozumel is big.  I had no idea until I got there how big, it’s easy to forget it’s an island.  My idea of cycling around in a day quickly got flung out the window and I hired a moped instead.  I drove on the main road around the island, which took hours.  It was an invigorating ride though.  On one side there was infinite sea, and on the other, seemingly endless lush vegetation that glistened beautifully in the afternoon sun.  With very few other vehicles on the road I felt like I was alone on the island, I felt free, independent, and thoroughly elated at having the opportunity once again to explore a beautiful place so far from home.  I returned to my hostel, parked up, and planned my New Year festivities.  I decided that I would remain in the hostel and take advantage of the exclusive use of the rooftop to ring in the new year by myself, and before anyone feels sad and sorry for poor old Sinead Nua, let me tell you this.  I had some good friends with me, wine and cheese.  I dropped my buddies, Malbec and Edam, off in my room while I went for a freshen up, and met my room mate, a German guy who was also travelling alone and was about to head downtown to check out the bars there.  I wished him a happy new year and went on my way.  I showered and headed for the roof where I met a family who were relaxing before going for a meal at a local restaurant.  They were from the North of Mexico and told me they vacation every year for the holidays.  They were surprised to see a woman travelling alone, and I think they assumed I was lonely.  I politely declined their invite to dinner; I was looking forward to my time alone.  I try to see the good intentions in people who look out for a woman on her own, but I feel disappointed at times that this has such a stigma.  When you’re done with this post, take a look at the article I’ve pasted below which gives the perspective of many women who have travelled alone.  It’s an inspiring read, no scary stories, nothing to confirm the fear that a woman isn’t safe alone.  I wish we could move past old fashioned sexist attitudes towards the capabilities of women.  Right, I’ve vented for long enough.  Let me get back to Cozumel because my story is about to get a little more interesting.  So, I said goodbye and happy New Year to the lovely family on the roof, found a playlist on Spotify, and tucked into my picnic.  Shortly after, my German roommate arrived back carrying a six pack of beer and a disappointment at the lack of atmosphere downtown.  I cleared some space and we chatted, and were joined by the third resident of our small dorm, a guy who had just flown in from Japan and who was suffering with jetlag.  We chatted about our experiences in Mexico and exchanged suggestions on where to go until our Japanese friend announced the time.  It was already 11.50pm and I had completely forgotten that it was New Year’s Eve.  We went to the edge of the roof to watch as locals celebrated with floating lanterns, it was nicely understated.  Then, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, captivating music wafted over the rooftops and lured us to the streets; well two of us, our Japanese friend gave in to the jetlag and went to bed after midnight.  My German acquaintance and I followed the sound through the neighbourhood, but ended up lost in a warren of sleepy streets, determined not to give up.  I had Malbec in my blood and I wasn’t ready to give up the night.  We encountered some local men chatting outside a house and I asked in my pigeon Spanish where the music was coming from.  Luckily one of them, a market seller, spoke English so we were able to communicate in a common language.  My Spanish is not Spanish you see, it’s Spanglish in a Cork accent.  Nonsensical, in a word.  We chatted for a bit before having cans of beer thrust at us.  We politely obliged, until one beer turned into several and an invite to dinner.  So I found myself in the middle of a family celebration, eating chicken and mashed potatoes at 2am.  So much for a quiet one.  Ironically I had earlier basked in a smug glow of the possibility of waking early to drive out and watch the sun rise.  Let’s just gloss over that one.  My night turned

out to be the most spontaneous and warmest of my entire holiday.  I excused myself shortly after they broke out the karaoke, and at 4.30am I retired for a long beer infused sleep.  The next day I sought out a reggae bar that I had clocked on my epic adventure around the island, and decided to nest there for the day soaking up the sun, reading, and eating nachos, the perfect hangover cure.  That evening, my new friend and I had made a plan to drop off some gifts to our hosts from the night before. We learned that they had partied on til 6am.  I wouldn’t have been awake long enough to join them.  My second, and final, night on Cozumel was quiet and relaxing in the garden of my hostel, where the music lulled me to sleep on my terrifyingly high top bunk.  I worried about rolling onto the floor below, a plummet that would have left me in a sorry state, so I hugged the wall for the entire night.  The fact that I slept soundly was testament to my tiredness.  After breakfast of the best Chilaquiles in the world, I set off for the ferry back to Playa Del Carmen, where I was to meet my fellow New Year’s Eve adventurer.  He had kindly offered to drive me back to Cancun, where he was catching his return flight to Munich.  While he looked forward to proper Bavarian beer, I longed for the blue sea of Cancun.  It was nice to have the company for the trip rather than another cramped van journey, and I arrived at the door of my hostel relaxed and ready to let Cancun show me it’s magic. 

I was too early for check in so I went to the roof where there was a bar, Jacuzzi, and plenty of places to lounge and I read in a hammock for a couple of hours.  I had booked this specific hostel, called Mundo Joven, purely because it boasted a rooftop Jacuzzi, but unfortunately in the three days I stayed there I never saw the remnants of a party cleaned out of it so I decided to steer clear of the murky water, with sand sunken to the bottom, and a floating party hat left there God knows how long before.  Disappointing, but the place turned out to be a pretty good hostel, scuzzy Jacuzzi aside. 

I had read an article a week before about an underwater sculpture gallery off the coast of Cancun, but with no specific location.  I thought if I could find out where it was I would definitely visit, it sounded incredible.  Whilst reading up on Isla Mujeres, an island just a short ferry ride from Cancun, and recommended by several people, I found it.  There it was in black and white, the MUSA underwater museum.  I was so excited, I planned a trip for the next day, but I still had a whole day before that so I checked into my dorm and was quite impressed by the set up they had.  Each bed had it’s own locker right beside it, with a power point inside so you could charge your gadgets while they were safely locked away, pretty clever. 

After packing a beach bag I caught the bus to the beach area, which was just a ten minute journey.  I got off at the very first of the many beaches and found myself amongst countless Mexican holidaymakers, and despite being the only white person on the beach, I mean Irish white, almost transparent, I managed to blend into the background and whiled away the afternoon reading in a hammock and enjoying a giant Michelada, for which the bar relieved me of 150 pesos, a pretty cheeky price considering a Michelada not enjoyed in a hammock on a beach might cost around 45.  However it had two beers in it, and it kept me occupied for the afternoon.  I stayed in my hammock until my eyes could read no more and I went looking for some dinner.  I thought against eating on the beach incase I would have to take out a mortgage on a fish taco, so I stopped in a place that looked like it had a decent vibe and some good local food.  I was right about the food, the Burrito I ate was delicious, but there was something fishy about the vibe.  I was too hungry at first to take anything in apart from the menu so I sat and ordered, and pulled out my book while I waited.  It wasn’t until I was a few mouthfuls into my dinner that I noticed all the eyes on me.  The place was filled with men.  Shite.  I had blindly decided once again, since Myanmar, to dine in an establishment not frequented by women or tourists, and as a blonde female foreigner I stood out like a baboon’s arse.  I was too hungry to care so I finished my dinner and took off.  There was nothing to be alarmed at, people are always interested in someone who is different and sometimes that involved the odd stare here and there.  At no point was I ever in any danger, and to think that would have been naïve and paranoid.  I prefer to think the best of people, I like to people-watch myself, and have probably been guilty once or twice of making someone uncomfortable by mindlessly staring at them whilst thinking something along the lines of, “I wonder where she comes from?”, or more likely, “Should I have chicken or fish for dinner?” because sometimes people just stare thoughtlessly and are of no threat whatsoever. 

I returned to my hostel for a shower and a trip to the rooftop bar to check out the evening atmosphere.  I met some friendly girls who all showed an interest in joining me in my plan to visit Isla Mujeres so we arranged to meet after breakfast and set off for a daytrip. 

Isla Mujeres was as beautiful as it had been described, and the weather was perfect.  We caught a taxi to the side of the island where the underwater museum was pin pointed on the map only to learn that the only boats with licenses to go there set off from the downtown area, where we had just come from.  There was an overwater sculpture museum on the peninsula which offered glorious views and some interesting pieces of modern sculpture.  One of the girls in our group was fluent in Spanish and had a great talent for polite negotiation.  She managed to get hold of the number of a local guy who ran tours so we haggled his price down in exchange for a trip to the MUSA museum only.  There were other stops on offer, but this was our one and only priority.  We got a great price and arranged to go over to him after lunch.  We had spotted a cute little café from our taxi further back on the road so we, confused by the difference between walking and driving, thought it was only a little jaunt away and that we could walk it.  We ended up dragging ourselves limply along the road as hired golf carts and taxis whizzed by, with every turn in the road revealing not the café, but another bleedin’ turn in the road.  We gave up, one of us having fallen victim to a foot blister, and hitch hiked.  An American couple in a golf cart stopped to our rescue and drove us to the café, apologising all the way for their slow cart.  I assured them that, compared to our walk, it felt like flying with Concord.  The air flowing through our hair cooled us down and we arrived with a thirst for a cold drink and a hunger for some great local food.  The fish tacos did not disappoint.  I even tried the chef’s own hot sauce, which comes with a spice warning.  I carefully dabbed the tacos with a suggestion of the sauce which was enough, I am still building my tolerance but it’s a work in progress.  When I first arrived in Mexico, just having the sauce in the vicinity was too much spice for me.

 After lunch we went in search for our boatman, not quite sure of whom we were to be met with, or what his credentials were.  When he brought us to his business we were relieved to see he was the real deal, a professional boat tour company, with clean equipment and knowledgeable staff.  We were kitted out with snorkels, fins, and life jackets and were escorted to a nice boat, in which we sped out to view the sculptures.  We stopped in open water, and were each helped to jump into the sea where a guide swam ahead for us to follow.  As we approached a piece of sculpture he pointed down and we marvelled at the view below.  I had read about each piece so it was fascinating to see them with my own eyes, particularly the VW Beetle which offers a home to marine life, and the Banker, a tongue in cheek piece which comments on the recent financial crisis.  Each of the sculptures depicts man’s affect on the planet, and in turn helps counteract the damage to the marine life by nurturing the growth of coral on the pieces.  What’s beautiful and fascinating about this project is that it will never look the same as it does right now.  Next year, the year after that, and forever, the coral and seaweed will grow on and around it, changing the shape and the colour, the sea will eventually claim it as its own.  I was humbled to see it with my own eyes, and along with my spontaneous New Year family, it was one of the highlights of my entire trip. 

The girls headed back to a market they had heard of and I spent the evening sipping beer on the beach and watching the sun set over the horizon.  Following a massage (are you even surprised?  You should know me well by now!), I returned sleepily on the ferry to my hostel where I met the others who had picked up a few new buddies and were playing drinking games, except nobody had any alcohol.  What is it with kids these days?  I had an early night in preparation for another beach day in Cancun, but lady luck frowned on me and it flippin’ lashed all morning.  When the rain stopped, the clouds that were left behind roused little motivation to head towards the beach so I got the cracking idea to go to the cinema and eat nachos instead.  So I did.  My last day in Cancun was spent in McDonalds eating ice cream and the cinema eating nachos, and I don’t even feel any shame.  I had an adventurous two weeks so wasting a day being a sloth brought no guilt, and it was a nice relaxed ending to my vacation.  I flew back to Tuxtla sporting a smidgen of a tan, and a belly that now protrudes quite rudely over my jeans.  Bloody Gorditas. 

¡Feliz año nuevo!

Images: Sinéad Millea, Rica Wichmann, Aleksandrs Ziskins.

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