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 5th 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.
http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g150813-d669578-Reviews-Gran_Cenote-Tulum_Yucatan_Peninsula.html
http://musaislamujeres.com/about-musa/