Yonder is the Yucatan

I fly into Cancun.
Fast forward.
I get out of Cancun.
The bus towers over a bumpy green forest vista, seemingly unbroken but for the occasional flash of a palm frond-roofed hut. At first glance, the crop plots look like just another type of forest but the yellow of maize gives them away. Kurt and I discuss whether or not the other plants we see mixed in with the non-linear rows of maize are weeds or other crop types.
We have eight days of vacation-adventure ahead of us. Both Kurt and I will be giving oral presentations on our research at an international conference in Merida. I still need to practice that at some point, time myself and perfect my scientific poise. But for now, we have whale-sharks, ruins, fresh-water underground caverns, Spanish, street food, and forest-jungle.
And buses. There are many buses in our future. They’re our main mode of transit for our Yucatan adventure. We’ve already determined that in the future, after this first one that we barely caught in time, Kurt will handle tickets and I will handle the talking. My Spanish springs more easily from my tongue and…I’m a girl. That can often really help when you’re asking people favors such as “Hold the bus! We don’t have tickets yet. My friend is in the ticket line. Really!”
Our first stop is Isla Holbox, chosen purely because of whale-shark swimming opportunities. It’s on a spit that curves along eastward along the northwestern portion of the Yucatan peninsula. We take the ferry, timed perfectly to coincide with bus arrivals and departures, over to the Isla and I immediately take off my flip-flops. The streets are solidly packed grey-white sand and the main vehicle is a golf cart. We follow a hand-drawn cartoon map I printed from our hostel’s website and easily find our colorful flag of a hostel. Tree-house style with split levels rising easily upward, wooden walkways, spiral stairs bathed in yellow light, swinging hammocks, primary colors rioting across every large wall expanse, carved light-fixture insets. A Mayan serpent slides down a column in the bar. Rivulets of inlaid stones flow across a walkway. It’s a backpacker’s delight with its enormous shared kitchen, own bar, sunset patio, communal BBQ space. AND we’re a three minute walk from the beach!
The ocean is flat here. I mean, there are no waves! Each passing motorboat casts ripples that spread all the way back to shore. I wade out to 60 m (~200 ft) or so before my head is covered. Covered in turquoise, aqua, cerulean, sky blue, seafoam green. I play with the sound and texture of colors in trying to imprint the gentle but deeply alluring shades of this Caribbean and Gulf of Mexico juncture. The sand is so fine and feels like roughened clay or powder that solidified. Kurt and I spread it all over ourselves and each other like a mud bath.
Palms all over the coastline, blending in with the thatched roof houses. Invasive Australian pine (NOT a true pine actually as Kurt shows me, the “needles” are actually scale-like leaves jointed together) and bushes with bright flowers mix in. Clouds to the west of us darken and hang, a gentle admonition that is the rainy season, but they never release. The water is refreshing and a continual soft breeze pushes away the ever-present humidity. Along the tourist part of the beach, wooden lounge chairs stake out each hotel’s beachfront claim. I fall in love with the faddish but fun tiki-hut bars with swings for chairs. Brown pelicans skim smoothly over the water’s surface or plop down like a bag of garbage onto the water’s surface. I squeal and gasp as I see frigatebirds for the first time in my life. Large black seabirds with white throats or heads, depending on sex and age, that are finely-tuned flying machines. I can’t get enough of watching them, the sharp angle of their wings, the hooked beak.
Each Yucatan town, large and small, has a centro (center), a square plaza around which a good portion of the nightlife and even day-life revolves around. Holbox’s centro throbs on a Saturday night. Every restaurant is open with an array of outside tables, a small enclave of carnival rides and blow-up playgrounds blinks and flashes with color and sound, and street food vendors call out their offerings in high-pitched nasal whines (“Marquesitas! Marquesitas! Helado! Helado! ”). I love this kind of scene. So much people-watching to be done.
And I am already thrilled with street food. I get tamarind-infused drinks every chance I get. Kurt and I intently watch a street vendor make Yucatan crepes (“marquesitas”) which are crispy (yes, crispy!) crepes filled with either the classic Nutella or jam or more savory cheese. I decide I’m going to choose to each chicken when I have a choice instead of other meats since it is more sustainable in this jungle habitat than something like beef. To raise cattle in this country, you have to clear a lot of area, a practice I do not support. Pork would also be sustainable and Kurt revels in the slow-cooked savory meat.
There are more photos at the bottom of this page

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