Day 10: Puuc Mul to Campeche, Mexico
The beach at
CancunTuesday, July 4th, 1995
The beach at
CancunWe wake around 8:00 and quickly move on. An hour north on 307 and we enter the southern point of the island of Cancun. I am intent on finding the hotel where my family stayed eleven years ago. I want to stand on the same point on the beach where I promised myself I would return. We slowly drive north along the beach-front road, soaking up the cheese while local taxi drivers pass us at 80 kph. I search for the hotel where my family stayed, but can't recognize it among the new landscaping. The island is more ritzy now than when we visited it in 1985. We reach the northern tip of the island, "Punta Cancun", and I turn the truck around, disappointed.
Having given up on finding my hotel, I park the truck in the first available beach-access parking spot. We are right next to a municipal building backed up against the sound. We marvel at how crystal-clear the water is, even in this back-water. Taking our lives in our hands, we cross the highway and cut through a narrow empty lot to get to the beach.
As we walk out onto the sand, I look south. Things look vaguely familiar here. I turn north. Incredibly, we have stumbled onto the very same beach upon which I first conceived of this trip. My heart stops as I realize that out of more than twelve miles of resort hotels and sparkling beaches, we literally walked straight onto the very one I am looking for. Coincidence? Impossible.
I sit down under a big umbrella and, as my friend Ed says, consider the universe. I feel that a part of my life has come full circle as I squish my toes through the sand. A sign bearing the emblem of the hotel, Club International, brings back memories of swimming and playing on this beach ten years ago. This is where my father and I first sailed together, on a little Sunfish owned by the hotel. We hang out on the beach into the early afternoon, soaking up too many Caribbean rays. We even snorkel in the crystal clear waters. I chase little tropical fish in the shallows, feeling ten years old again. Local Mexican boys dive off the cabintops of tour ships docked nearby. We help ourselves to the fresh-water showers outside of the hotel.
We grab lunch at a McDonald's, do some shopping, and roll out of Cancun for Campeche, 340 km away. Long hours in the hot sun has left us both ready for a nap. The drive is long and not very interesting until the end. Driving west out of Cancun, we pay an exorbitant N$68 toll for the use of a deserted section of freeway. These roads are built and maintained privately, and are empty because your average Mexican can't afford the luxury of smooth, uninterrupted travel. Later, back on the usual two-lane roads, we pass a pair of large cattle trucks literally filled with people. They are crammed in so tightly that the people in the back have hands and arms sticking out between the horizontal wooden slats. The scene brings to mind pictures I've seen of Jews crammed into trains, traveling to Nazi concentration camps. Their eyes follow us hauntingly as we pass.
At one point, I am driving away from a small town southwest of Merida, when a motorcycle cop pulls us over for speeding. He says we were doing 120 kph in a 60 kph zone. He asks for 120 pesos. I hand him 100 and he rides off clutching my bills in his fist. La Mordida (the bribe). It's an institution in this country.
As an orange sun sets over the gulf, we arrive at the port town of Campeche. This seaside shrimping city is spread out over probably four km of shoreline. It is striking as the sunset turns from orange to red to purple. We drive all the way through town and finally locate the road to our chosen campsite. We take a wrong turn at one point, and pull into a dirt back-street that quickly turns into nothing more than piles of dirt. With all the lights on, I crawl the truck over dirt and rock, past concrete-block hovels on either side of the road. The people nearby stop what they are doing and watch as we drive past. This scene stays with me for a long time. I turn the truck around with great difficulty, and eventually we (miraculously) find our campsite in complete darkness.
We are the only costumers at this site run by an old English-speaking European woman. The campground is actually her backyard with a public restroom and shower situated near the center. The ground slopes up from a grove of orange trees to the ornate, well-landscaped house hidden in a clutch of low trees. We pay 17 of the 25 peso entrance fee, because that's all we have after our run-in with the police. We'll pay the difference manana.