Isla de Pasión

Posted on by
Reply

On a tangled northern corridor of Cozumel, you can slip a boatman $200 pesos to motor you to your own private island … your island of passion!

I swear that’s really the name: Isla de Pasión. During the weekday, Passion Island is overrun with tourists and cruise shippers who’ve overpaid fancy tours to be carried alongside drunk strangers to this wild, tucked away world. But on the weekends, Isla de Pasión is a local’s secret. (Traveler’s tip: Go on a Sunday, when there’s no cruise ships in port.)

Getting to the island involves a bit of struggle, but it’s worth it. You’ll navigate seemingly endless gravel roads teeming with potholes. Mexican potholes. Kill-your-tires potholes. And in the middle of nowhere, with shoddy cell reception, you’ll want to go slow or you’ll be camping out in the jungle until morning’s first turistas come claim you.

But the inconvenience, the tinge of danger, slows you down. And on my jungle ride to Isla de Pasión, there was surprisingly good radio reception, and so I basked in the schmaltzy 80s jams I so love. Hungry eyes, anyone?

Cozumel is largely jungle, though you wouldn’t know it unless you’re looking down at the island from an airplane. But the path to Passion Island is a thick maze of gnarled brush. I wondered aloud if trekking through the wilderness might turn up some long lost Maya artifacts; Cozumel was one of the Maya’s most sacred pilgrimage sites, after all. But once at the water’s edge, one thing I wasn’t expecting was the sudden arrival of this critter, the Cozumel raccoon, also known as the pygmy raccoon, or Procyon pygmaeus. They’re endemic to the island and critically endangered by the island’s development, and just about the cutest thing ever.

Though nocturnal, this guy just couldn’t refuse my daylight photoshoot.

Boatman lounge around the docks in the heat, waiting for a fare. Once we settled on a price, we set forth into the dizzying afternoon for about a 10-minute ride, slowly pulling in to the isle’s beautiful clear green bay and driftwood-speckled shore. The boatman would return for me in, oh, about three hours.

Other than a family barbecuing in the distance, the island was totally deserted. Growing up, one of my favorite films was the 1960 classic Swiss Family Robinson. Watching this movie and reading books like The Boxcar Children — which features orphaned kids looking out for themselves in abandoned train cars — I desperately dreamed of being cast away, living on a remote island. Walking the shore, I felt like I was fulfilling some of these younger dreams.

In mid-July, the water felt like a jacuzzi. But Passion island is so beautiful, you’ll feel like you’re in a Corona commercial. It’s worth a go at least once.

Checklist for Passion Island:
1. Sheet, or large picnic blanket
2. Oxxo cooler full of beer or white wine
3. Snacks, cheeses, and miscellaneous goodies from Guido’s Tienda
4. A hot Sexican to oil you up (duh)

Stranded in Punta Sur

Posted on by
4

What is it about Mexico?

Disaster of some sort is to always be expected, but magical wonderment seems to trail me whenever I’m there. Case in point: I had a premonition about renting a car in Cozumel. The premonition told me that something was going to go down; yet my feelings weren’t entirely too grave to halt my plans, so I pressed forward with the rental arrangements.

The man at the rental agency zipped up in my shiny automatic car: “Perfect for a woman,” he joked. I rolled my eyes.

So I can’t drive stick. Sue me.

Our car came furnished with a t-shirt wrapped around the driver’s seat. Mexico!

Off Stacy and I went, headed to the ecological park of Punta Sur, at the southernmost tip of the island. I’d been wanting to visit this park, which is home to Faro Celerain, one of the island’s three (I think) faros, or lighthouses. The man at the gate warned me sternly that the park closes at 4 p.m., and that we must be out in time, or else we’re locked in. I nodded, and headed down the long gravel stretch to the beach.

The water was calm. I was newly thirty. Thirty.

A few couples pranced on the beach, but mostly the place was deserted. Some haphazard docks drifted in the water for swimmers to latch onto, but the water was pretty shallow even far out. Perhaps it was the desolation, of the calm at hitting a milestone age — but while the landscape was without a doubt beautiful, it all felt a tad peculiar. Not the first time I’ve felt this eerie sensation in Mexico.

Punta Sur is now a turtle sanctuary, with a resonating stillness that’s far away in location and in contrast from the scooter-laden bustle of San Miguel and the cruise ship terminals of the northern coast. I don’t think I’ve visited any place like it in my multiple trips to the island.

But until I decided to tour the lighthouse, I couldn’t quite name what exactly I was feeling.

“This place is haunted, you know,” said a man behind me. “Call me Jorge,” he said, extending a hand. He wore an official parks workshirt and his English was flawless.

Haunted? My ears perked up. “Tell me more!”

“Oh, I couldn’t begin to tell you all the phenomenon that happens here,” he said, leading me around the site.

The official tour de Jorge had begun. There was no going back as he whisked us down the sandy aisles to the Tumba del Caracol, a Maya site dedicated to the ancient goddess IxChel, and there would be no hard answers about the so-called hauntings. Jorge was exhilarated to finally have an audience, and so we indulged him, listening to his colorful renditions of the park’s history and commissioning his energy to orchestrate a full-on Punta Sur photoshoot.

We were momentarily lost in our frothy fun, but the afternoon was winding. Echoes of the park ranger’s warnings about closing time hung overhead. So we bid Jorge adieu and pitstopped at the famous crocodile zone before making our way home.

Entering the zone, I said hello to an older gentleman lingering around the site. I thought nothing of it and readied my camera for some crocodile footage.

But when we returned to the rental car — it was deadsville. Not a sound cranking from the motor. In the two-minute ride from the lighthouse to the crocodile zone, we’d unknowingly participated in the death of the rental car. And I realized that my premonition, it turns out, wasn’t a false alarm.

“Señor! Señor!” I called to the man I’d seen by the crocodile zone. He was waiting for the employee bus to come claim him. The park was closing. It was nearing 4 o’clock.

“Mi carro está muerto!”

He tried to turn the car over — nothing. He radioed the ranger that we were stuck. “Call the rental agency,” he told us, as the employee bus arrived, taking him with it, and leaving Stacy and I alone, to fend for ourselves.

The last thing the man had told us before leaving? “Be careful of the crocodiles; they come on shore at night to eat.”

Not to mention the wild boar in the area. Stacy and I took stock of what we had. Two iPhones with no reception in the wilderness; half a bottle of water; one Cosmopolitan magazine.

I took a chance and phoned the rental agency. The phone worked, and someone answered! Qué milagro!

The anonymous rental car agency voice promised to rescue us in 30 minutes, but in Mexico time, 30 minutes sometimes means never.

The shadows grew long, and the sun began to fade. A norte was brewing, a cold wind that sweeps down from the north, and it was actually turning chilly. It sunk in that we were alone, truly alone.

After an hour spent entertaining ourselves, and rationing our water supplies, a man from the rental car agency finally pulled up. Thankfully, with another automatic car to hand over.

We hightailed it out of the park and back toward town, just in time to hit La Hach for the sunset, which was glorious.

I may be a girl who can’t drive stick, but our Punta Sur stranding proved that my intuition is strong. And in Mexico, sometimes that’s the only tool you need.

Travelers in Hiding

Posted on by
Reply

On Tuesday I went on assignment for the Harvard Gazette to the Radcliffe Institute, where I heard MacArthur Award-winning journalist for The New Yorker and The New York Review of Books Alma Guillermoprieto speak about her establishment of 72migrantes.com, an online Día de los Muertos-style altar to honor the lives of 72 migrant workers massacred in Mexico in the summer of 2010.

It was a dark day in Mexican history, but the altar brought together worldwide voices to commemorate the men and women who had risked their life along the treacherous train ride through Mexico known as la bestia — the beast.

The still-unsolved mass murder is believed to be connected to Mexico’s ongoing drug war, which has claimed more than 50,000 lives.

It was an honor to hear Alma Guillermoprieto speak, and it was moving to hear about what people will risk for even a chance at a better life. Visit the online altar.

An excerpt:

The online altar has multiplied in many ways, Guillermoprieto said. It’s inspired theater productions, books, and, last year, on the first anniversary of the massacre, Radio UNAM, the station of Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, presented a dramatic reading by famous actors of the site’s testimonials.

“Perhaps this is the main reason why the altar in its various manifestations has lasted so long,” said Guillermoprieto, “because they’re proof that Mexico still is a country where, against all the odds, acts of generosity and decency and solidarity and inspiration remain not only possible but constant, so the altar has become a place of encouragement, and not just of mourning.”

Read the full story here.

Alma Guillermoprieto. Photo by Scott Eisen

Día de los Muertos

Posted on by
1

When I was in Mexico, a friend asked me what I was most afraid of, and I replied, with not even a breath in between: “Death.”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “Aren’t you afraid to die?” I asked.

No, he said, unblinkingly. “When it’s my time, it’s my time.”

I don’t share his attitude, but I love the idea of Día de los Muertos, the Mexican holiday dedicated to celebrating life by remembering those who’ve passed.

[Painting by Aunia Kuhn.]

In his classic treatise on Mexican life, The Labyrinth of Solitude, Octavio Paz wrote:

The word death is not pronounced in New York, in Paris, in London, because it burns the lips. The Mexican, in contrast, is familiar with death, jokes about it, caresses it, sleeps with it, celebrates it; it is one of his toys and his most steadfast love. True, there is perhaps as much fear in his attitude as in that of others, but at least death is not hidden away: he looks at it face to face, with impatience, disdain, or irony …The Mexican’s indifference toward death is fostered by his indifference toward life … It is natural, even desirable, to die, and the sooner the better. We kill because life — our own or another’s — is of no value. Life and death are inseparable, and when the former lacks meaning, the latter becomes equally meaningless. Mexican death is a mirror of Mexican life. And the Mexican shuts himself away and ignores both of them. Our contempt for death is not at odds with the cult we have made of it.

I don’t think we can prescribe one homogenous view of death to every citizen of Mexico, but it’s a romantic notion, and certainly applicable to some people.

When I started Loose Gringa this year, I felt spiritually dead. You’ve heard the story: I was in a depleted relationship; I was bored, spent, exhausted creatively and physically; I needed rejuvenation. I had been living like a dead person. Carefully, routinely. I was living in fear of change as though it were death itself. I was backed myself into a weird little nest of familiarity and comfort, and I suddenly wanted OUT.

So I ended my relationship and went to Mexico.

Admittedly, I took a while to loosen up. Even with all the tequila readily available.

Did I want to learn to scuba dive? Honestly, I didn’t. I was scared shitless. I didn’t want to die. And on my first dive, on the way down, mid-panic attack, I forced myself to continue to descend. And I completed two dives that day.

Did I want to climb the Coba pyramid? No. I had visions of falling and cracking my skull along its treacherous steps. But I forced myself to haul it to the top, and it was worth it.

Swimming with the whale sharks? My first thought when I get in the water was, “I know they’re not dangerous, but will I die somehow anyway?” You’re being ridiculous, Sarah, I said. I even grabbed one’s fin and went for a ride.

But sometimes, I felt as though death was even trailing me. There was the fieldworker I helped usher to (hopeful) safety after he’d been bitten by a viper! Remember?

So much death. Death at every turn.

Pushing myself was difficult, but eventually I learned to let go of trying to control the outcome of everything. The release came in a Coba cenote, when I volunteered to jump from a ledge into an icy blue underground pool without even a second look, or an appraisal of how high-up I was.

I threw myself into death.

And I survived.

Now, on the eve of my 30th birthday, I commemorate my near-death pre-Mexico life. Now, I can’t imagine going back to the static world I’d been living in. Being in Boston is hard enough! Now it’s hard for me to stay in one place. I am constantly looking up places I want to visit: Colombia, Australia, Thailand … checking airline prices and struggling to keep my imagination, and wallet, in check. Now I daydream about quitting my day job and just fleeing. Teaching English somewhere, scraping by, and loving it.

And I will!

Life has opened up, and these are all things I’m working toward. When the world refuses to end on Dec. 21, 2012, big changes are in store for Loose Gringa and 2013. I wish my dreams were happening now, and that I could update this blog everyday with tales from the road … but, patience, dear reader. Soon.

I return to Mexico on Nov. 3 — my 30th birthday! — with ever more hijinks to report, I’m sure. So I promise more Loose Gringa posts. That, I can deliver.

But tonight I’m going to Ole, in Cambridge, to drink tequila with friends and celebrate my coming of age and Día de los Muertos in one rich, margarita-drenched, mole fiesta.

By Saturday, this is where I’ll be. Home, sweet Cozumel. For one week, you’ll have me.

Now a lingering cough is threatening to thwart my scuba diving plans. My, how life — and death — can change in not even a year.

The gringa rides again!

Loose Gringa Outtakes

Posted on by
1

It’s nearly September.

Can you believe it? Of course I’m still grieving for my two-month Mexican sabbatical, still grieving the landscape, the heat, the tacos, the blue.

You know that blue, that Mexican color omnipresent in everything from paints to walls to cars to sky to sea. Sherwin Williams calls these shades aquarium, marina, spa – but I call it Cozumel blue. See what I mean?

The students have returned to Boston, and I’m at my office desk most days, dreaming of faraway places and remembering the segments of the trip that made an impact, but that I didn’t necessarily get to blog about. Like, for instance, having a lovers’ spat in public.

Never a good thing, but all the more dramatic that it was in Mexico. I can check international romance off my bucket list.

Then there was the dreary Saturday afternoon I got a mani/pedi and the shop owner recognized me from my blog!

Or how I sneaked into an all-inclusive over a period of multiple days and used their facilities, all day, without detection. Stealth was always my strong suit. Maybe because my teenage years were spent stalking teachers and rock stars, but I digress …

I witnessed and lived through the Mexican national election.

I learned a lot about the role of sexuality in Mexico, even a went on research visit to Cozumel’s only sex shop. But this blog strives for a PG rating …

But most obscene of all? This. I ate at Domino’s Pizza. In Mexico.

There’s a story behind everyone of these events, and whose memories I’ll preserve for my Mexican memoir. Until then, I’m knee-deep in my Mexican period poetry-wise, and the verse is coming fast and furious, full of bougainvillea and that blue I talked about and triumph but not without a good amount of sadness and sexuality, too.

Most of all, I learned a lot about myself on this trip.

I follow my heart and I live full-on, unafraid of risk. I laugh louder and longer than the rest, and I’m not for the faint of heart.

I fell in love.

And then I had my heart broken. But I won’t let heartache thwart all that was good about my sojourn. And all was good, even when it was less than perfect.

On my last week in Cozumel, someone snatched my purse. I heaved my flip-flops at the guy as he fled via scooter, and shouted English obscenities. I lost everything except my passport.

But that’s living. And that was the purpose of this trip. I did it.

Sobbing through two international airports on my return trip home, I did it.

And more: I became a scuba diver. I climbed Coba. I swam with the whale sharks in Isla Mujeres. I wrote a blog about Cozumel for a hotel in Playa Del Carmen, and made new friends along the way. Hell, I almost took a job and moved to Playa Del Carmen!

Too bad I never got around to:
Tanning my tetas
Getting a tattoo
Skydiving!!

But good things are in the works. I’m:
applying for a Fulbright for an independent research/creative project in the Yucatan;
working on several writing projects at once, for work and for me;
… undertaking multiple freelance gigs;

and

I have two months until I turn the big 3-0!

Can you guess where I’ll be?

That’s right. I’m going back.

Did I mention I’m unsinkable?

Thank you to everyone for following the first phase of LooseGringa, for sending me emails, comments, and Tweets!

The ride is far from over.

Soul Food

Posted on by
1

To my surprise, I actually did cook a lot in Cozumel, even with all the amazing tacos and glorious street foods that entered my life.

I foraged hard-to-find ingredients at each of the island’s markets and whipped up a not-too-shabby Thai shrimp curry. Finding basil proved the most difficult task of all, and even then, the herb was another variety, slightly anise-tinged. The curry was still good, all things considered.

And I made my famous stuffed poblanos, modified from this recipe. A true crowd-pleaser, I always make it extra spicy and add fresh shucked corn to the stuffing.

Then there was the night I grilled skirt steaks, slicing it thin for tacos warmed on the grill. Earlier, I’d roasted tomatillos, onions, chiles in the oven, then pureed in a blender for a chunky, tart salsa.

But on my last week, I enrolled in a traditional Mexican cooking class: Josefina’s Cocina Con Alma!

Josefina has lived on Cozumel for the past 25 years, though she was born in the mountains of Veracruz. She operated a vegetarian restaurant before switching things up and starting her own cooking class, which has become a favorite among tourists. (She boasts a 5-star rating on TripAdvisor!)

A short walk from my condo, I showed up to Josefina’s pad just before noon, and met two married couples who’d I’d be sharing the class with. Two were biologists from Corpus Christi, and the other couple was a nurse and a gynecologist. I was the single gringa among them, the lone soul craving cochinita pibil.

Sigh. That succulent, shredded pork dish, cochinita pibil, would merge the unforgettable North Carolina pulled pork of my youth with Mexican flair. Nothing sounded better in my life. But, what was I thinking? It was 100 degrees out, and pibil would require Josefina to jumpstart the stove. No way.

Andy, the gynecologist of the group, suggested fish, and Josefina agreed. Of course the island has an amazing fish selection, so off to the mercado municipal we went.

Josefina negotiated with the fishmonger about what was freshest, what looked good. He recommended the red snapper, and it was lifted to our nose for a freshness check before being sliced into perfectly-sized fillets.

The market was small but plentiful, Josefina told us; and I couldn’t help imagining the sights and smells of what must be available in a Mexico City market. Visiting one is on my to-do list on my next Mexican sojourn.

But the Cozumel mercado was worthy, to say the least. Among the stalls of meat,  seafood, and vegetable vendors, you could buy anything from a traditional guayabera to bird cages to cowboy boots to school supplies.

And you could order breakfast or lunch at one of the many food stalls.

Or simply pop in for this guy. You bet your ass I tipped this man my pesos.

My favorite part of touring the market with Josefina was sampling the selection of tropical fruits, many of which I’d never seen. The group was amazed to see beautiful pitaya — dragonfruit — which I’d tried outside Coba, and which converted me forever. Later, back at Josefina’s, we’d slice and blend the pitaya for a refreshing agua fresca.

But, what is a nispero or mamey or cherimoya? I couldn’t try them all, but Josefina fed us each a nispero, or loquat. Seedy, but good.

We headed back to Josefina’s to create our goods. Josefina showed us achiote seeds, used to make achiote paste, a widely-used Mexican ingredient, which comprised the base of our fish marinade.

Achiote sauce, from Josefina’s cookbook Cocina Con Alma
This is the base of the famous Mayan dishes: Tikin’xic (fish), Poc Chuk (pork), Cochinita pibil (barbeque), and Pollo Pibil (chicken). Now you can find achiote cubes in the Mexican food section of the supermarket.

For every pound of pork, chicken, or fish:
1/2 cube of premade achiote OR a teaspoon of achiote seeds
1 sour orange, OR juice from 1/2 orange and juice from 1/2 lime and a bit of vinegar
1 large garlic clove
salt and pepper to taste
a teaspoon of cumin

Mix ingredients in a blender or mortar and pestle
Remember: if you use achiote seeds, soak them in hot water before mixing!

While chugging jamaica, the eponymous Mexican drink made from hibiscus leaves, we skinned cactus leaves, or nopales, careful to remove all the tiny blisters on the skin. Then we diced it and made a fresh nopal salad with cheese and lime juice.

When it came to tortillas, Josefina was strict. No nonsense. Just water, and corn flour. Mix until it seems right, then roll a small ball of the dough in your hands, and flatten into a circle lightly with your fingers, and then with the palm of your hand.

We carried our tortillas to a hot skillet, where they were cooked in lard, and which we used for papadzules, made with pumpkin seeds.

Papadzules, from Josefina’s cookbook Cocina Con Alma
Pumpkin seeds are widely used in the Mayan part of my country. This is a colorful dish, nutritious and easy to prepare.

Red Mexican sauce (recipe follows)
2 pounds of tortillas, freshly made
1 pound of red tomatoes
1 pound of pumpkin seeds
10 hard-boiled eggs, chopped
1 handful of epazote
Oil
Salt

Make red sauce.
Toast the pumpkin seeds for 5 minutes and put them in a blender.
Boil the tomatoes with the epazote leaves and salt. Let them cool.
Add the tomatoes to the blender and blend together. You will get a sauce.
Soak the tortillas in the tomato and pumpkin seed sauce. Place a hard boiled egg in the tortilla and roll them.
Place in a serving dish and top with the rest of the sauce. Serve immediately.

Red Mexican Sauce
2 red or green tomatoes (tomatillos)
1 serrano or jalapeno chile (to taste)
handful of fresh cilantro
1 tbsp. onion
1 clove of garlic
salt and pepper to taste

Boil the tomatoes and chili for 5 minutes and let cool.
Add the cooled tomatoes and chili to a blender. Add the rest of the ingredients and blend.
To keep this sauce for more than 2 days, fry it in 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil for 10 minutes. It will keep for 10 days in the refrigerator.

When all was said and done, we’d made so much food. No one could finish everything, not even Josefina’s famous guacamole. Her margaritas were equally amazing.

One of my favorite recipes of Josefina’s was a quick, simple summer salad (to the left of the guac), made on the fly with the juiciest and tastiest of all Mexican mangoes, chopped cucumber, dash of chili powder, and lime juice. Perfect poolside, with a Corona.

And the slab of beans there? Yeah, I helped make ‘em.

They’ve got chorizo, for extra flavor. And of course, lard. Smashed to all hell and delicious and nutritious as can be.

I walked home a bit drunk, and so full I didn’t eat for the rest of the day!

Gracias a Josefina y su hijo Geronimo por una tarde marvailloso de comida y diversión!

If you’re in Cozumel, and want to take a class with Josefina, information is available here.

Ruin Nation

Posted on by
Reply

Some members of my family are entirely convinced that the world really is going to end in 2012. Even my North Carolinian grandfather relentlessly tells me that the end times are coming, and that I’m not safe in Yankee-land of Boston, and that I’m certainly not secure in shaky Mexico. To me, though, if the world does indeed end on Dec. 21, 2012, I’d rather be in Mexico than any place else.

(Enter: one fateful, yet extraneous YouTube video of Echo & The Bunnymen. I swear this song comes into play later. Keep reading.)

My family is predisposed to this kind of thinking. Like most Southerners, we lead with our idiosyncrasies. For example, my father thought he was abducted my aliens. (Story here.)

But back to Mexico.

One of the many reasons I’m so drawn to the country is its brand of eccentricity, so singular and yet it somehow closely resembles the South, where the weather dictates our moods more than anything, and where we’re keenly shaped by the food and oral tradition of our families.

Spiritually, I feel right at home in Mexico with all its inherent mysticism of gods and goddesses, dark art, Mayan shamans, cleansing rituals, belief in ghosts, celebrations of life and death (hello, Día de los Muertos!), and extensive symbolism — the Mayan calendar, for one.

I grew up believing in ghosts, conducting seances with my brothers and friends; and at night, I worried about the sky opening up, the mysterious world of UFOs who’d struck my father and who might, at any time, want me, too. For a time, my mother even read Tarot cards; and on a fourth-grade trip to the Outer Banks, I scoured the isles looking for the ghost of Blackbeard the Pirate, who’s purported to still wander — lit candles tucked in his beard — when the tide or moon is just so.

Ancient Mayans believed in the alux — and contemporary Mexicans still do, too. And there’s the fabled Chupacabra, of course.

Mexico is intensely superstitious. Black cats, evil eyes, dropped tortillas, and walking beneath ladders all have consequences. As does, you guessed it, broken mirrors.

I broke two mirrors in Mexico.

Well, the housecleaner at my condo broke one, but it was due to my kooky placement of it. And then that mirror’s replacement was shattered out of nowhere when I arrived home one afternoon.

I decided to stop buying mirrors.

But the eeriness of Mexico persisted. My lover and I had been talking about skydiving in Playa del Carmen — it was one of the main things we wanted to do. My friend Stacy had warned me not to do it — a skydiving fatality had occurred to someone close to her, and she had obvious concerns.

Talking about all this one day, I turned to my lover and said, “There’s risks, but the risk of an accident is less than a plane falling from the sky and hitting you.”

That night, we randomly watched Donnie Darko (featuring aforementioned fateful Echo & The Bunnymen song), where in the film a plane falls from the sky onto the main character, played by Jake Gyllenhaal.

Coincidence? See, this is what I’m talking about.

Bizarrely, we’d planned to skydive on Friday the 13th — for some the most superstitious day of the year. When I learned this, we rescheduled for the 14th, and headed to the Tulum ruins instead.

Potential death averted.

But the next day, my lover woke up with crazy stomach pains and was sweating profusely. He was in so much agony that he insisted we head right away to a hospital — but there are no hospitals in Tulum. So we pulled over to a team of bomberos washing their firetruck, and inquired about the nearest medical facility.

Right here, they gestured. Behind their truck was a Cruz Roja. Miraculous.

He disappeared for a few hours while I sat in a waiting room across from a young boy who stared at me the entire time. We never once spoke to each other.

Finally, my lover reemerged. It was intestinal blockage. Likely seafood, and he would be fine. We filled prescriptions and headed back to the hotel to pack up for the day. There would be no skydiving after all.

And maybe this was all for the better? Maybe there were other forces at work here?

Just sayin’.

Amor en Playa Azul

Posted on by
1

If you’ve been reading LooseGringa, then you know that I’ve featured a mysterious man in my postings: my traveling partner, my partner in crime, my lover!

I am in love. In love.

And while I won’t gush — though it’s quite easy to do — I will say that traveling with him has been the greatest experience of my life, and our trip to Tulum was just another one in a string of unforgettable experiences with him, and in my Mexican adventure. But after two days in the town, we hadn’t had the romantic beachfront moment I’d fantasized. Not yet.

We packed up from the in-town Maison Tulum after two nights and remembered a sign on the town’s beach road advertising rooms starting at $79 — a bargain on the hotel strip, where on any given day you may just bump into a celebrity. The place was Playa Azul, a funky and colorful little joint with a cabana cheap enough that we had to say yes. We plopped a credit card down and enjoyed a light breakfast on the hotel’s whimsical waterfront restaurant, watching the sun come out.

How fantastic does this place look?

Hotels on Tulum’s beachfront road are expensive, but rustic. They’re required to generate their own electricity, so in the daytime electricity in your room is turned off. At night, it’s allotted at certain times. I was fretting over the loss of my beloved air-conditioner — my life’s true soul mate — but I would have to make do with a fan. A fan.

But you can bet I had that thing blowing directly on me all night.

Yet it was all perfectly romantic. Our room was outfitted with candles. There was no door on the shower, not even a bathroom door. If there were anymore gastrointestinal meltdowns, we were shit out of luck. There’s a pun in there, you clever folks.

There’s a magic in Tulum. It’s not just those yoga-loving, granola-types, wandering around wearing kaftans and gauzy pants, sending good vibes into the air … but I felt so utterly relaxed that I absolutely transcended vacation. I was on vacation while already ON my vacation. It’s a rare feeling.

And it was in Tulum that I imagined a life here with my lover, so overtaken with the beauty of our surroundings and the irrepressible wanderlust that travel evokes. As we barefooted down Tulum’s beaches, we dreamed our life in words — opening a hotel here, chic and minimalist bungalows, a small space, but perfect. It’s always been a dream of mine to own and decorate a hotel. And even if it was just fantasy, the magic of Tulum was such that it felt like we could actually make it happen if only we kept talking about it.

And as impractical as it may sound, If he had said, Let’s stay, I would’ve stayed.

But we had one full day left ahead of us, and we would take advantage of more of this paradise’s offerings. It’s ruins, it’s indescribable beaches, and a culinary feast to remember.

As happy as I was, a sadness was churning inside me. My time in Mexico was running thin: soon I would leave this gorgeous place, this gorgeous man. My heart burned.

But we seized the day (stay tuned!). And we’ll always have Tulum.

Saving Grace

Posted on by
Reply

After our bungle in the jungle – a tour de force of mosquitoes and humidity — we followed the signs for nearby cenotes. (Read about my swim in Cenote Dos Ojos.)

I wanted to submerge my body in freezing cold water.

And that’s what I did.

I needed to be reborn after donning a pair of Levi’s cut-off shorts. LooseGringa does not wear shorts. I would gladly wear Bruce Hornsby concert t-shirts before I wore shorts.

But this was Mayan ruins, so I couldn’t show up in a dress or a skirt. I had feared this moment, the moment of wearing shorts, of exposing thighs and all sorts of unpleasantness. (Dear readers, I haven’t worn shorts since I went to Disney World in, like, 1999. The year before the world turned modern. So, may you understand my distress.)

The locals told us that cenote Tamcach-Ha was the best in the area. So with our crude map and our 4-cylinder rental car, we dodged potholes and stray dogs down dirt paths to the cenote.

But first I had to take a photo of a church we passed. This is the kind of place to get married in, if you’re into religious weddings.

It has character, no?

The cenote guide who greeted us informed us that we had to take showers before we entered the cenote. I can only imagine he understood my need for an immediate baptism from abysmal shorts-wearing.

But, in all probability, it was to wash away sunscreens and other toxins that could upset the balance of the pristine freshwater cenote.

That's my silhouette taking a shower. Glamorous

We crept down a wet and winding set of stairs to a below-ground cenote. It was almost entirely cut off from air, and a little difficult to breathe.

That photo above is what you think it is: a diving PLANK.

I couldn’t wait to jump. I am afraid of heights, but I love jumping into water. The plank was about 25-30 feet in the air, and scary as hell. Some people jumped, and others couldn’t muster the courage.

I decided not to think about it. I was that desperate that I just needed to throw myself from great heights for fashion forgiveness. And when my body hit the water, I was clean again.

After the dip, we stopped at a no-name family-run restaurant where I had one of the best meals of my stay in Mexico. The waiter whipped us up some mango water — simply, sliced mango and water, blended until smooth. I could drink this forever (and with vodka, too).

And a shared plate of cochinita pibil. Heaven!

Back in our Tulum hotel room, I balled up my wet shorts and cast them into eternal damnation forever.

But it was still a really good day.

Welcome to the Jungle

Posted on by
4

We made it to Tulum — iPhone blaring Tom Petty and delicious jamón torta downed along the route — and found Maison Tulum, an utterly charming, budget-friendly option, operated by one of Mexico’s finest wingnuts, and, being a bit psycho myself, I mean that in the best possible way.

He told us that Guantanamo Bay is just a farce, and that the USA operates a clandestine naval base underneath the island of Cozumel. He also revealed the truth about secret Mayan ruins in the area, and knew the hidden sexual proclivities of Mexico ex-president Vicente Fox, who apparently prefers the company of eunuchs.

Deliriously puzzled, we laid our beaten bones down for the night, save for the exception of a pilgrimage for delicious seafood stew and a few Coronas, natch. We needed our rest — we were headed to the jungle ruins of Coba the next day.

But of course fate — my body! — had other plans.

I confess, I had a touch of the Montezuma come morning. I had a touch of something. But navigating the uncharted waters of gastrointestinal distress while sharing a hotel room with your lover is never comfortable, and the anxiety probably added to the problem. After countless trips to the loo, I had to come clean.

“I can’t stop pooping,” I admitted. Just like that.

With a laugh we headed to the drug store, where my lover grinned to the pharmacy girl that I needed something to stop diarrhea. (Savvy ladies, behold: always carry a secret stash of Imodium while traveling in Mexico.)

Now that that’s out of the way … Coba!

We hit the road — surrounded always by thick jungle with hand-painted wooden signs poking from the brush, advertising land for sale. The area of and outside Tulum is definitely on the make, and Tulum even has plans to build an airport. With gentrification imminent, I was grateful to experience it all in glorious low season, dusty back roads and grit in my rear-view.

Not to mention the side-road vendors hawking wooden lanterns and dreamcatchers and pitaya, a fruit I’d never seen before in my life, but which is best eaten cold, with a spoon. It’s milder than kiwi, and addictive.

It's me!

The highlight of Coba was scaling the Nohoch Mul pyramid, the tallest in the Yucatan. It’s 138 feet tall with a rope threading down the center, to assist frightful climbers, like me. I climbed, knees wobbling, and mid-way looked down. Big mistake. The chicken in me wanted to turn back, but I proudly kept on.

I’m the type of girl who can get to the top, but needs a team of firefighters to get me down.

Getting down is the hardest part, for some reason. But the view was spectacular! Nothing but trees, forever.

I sat and scooted down each step of the pyramid until I was on land again. With sweat pouring from us, we hired the amazing services of a bicycle taxista to usher us out and onto the next adventure. Stay tuned!