Cycling in the Yucatan
Maria and I have friends who own a house on the northernmost coast of the Yucatan, MX. We were down there a few winters ago and borrowed their bikes to ride along the coast. This is one of our cycling adventures.
We cycled to Chelem yesterday, a village about 6 km from Chuburna, and about twice as large at 2k souls. I rode Ux-Pat’s dark green beach cruiser, with one gear and upright handlebars, big fat tires, two rear-view mirrors and a giant seat. Maria rode Karen’s blue 10-speed with wide tires. It was already warm when we left about 11, about 75 degrees with soft puffy clouds. We rode the main road, which has a 4 or 5 foot bike lane on each side of the highway. We cruised out of town, admiring the concrete block rental houses and homes, all empty now but filled with Meridians during July and August, when the temperature in Merida hover over a hundred degrees. We passed Snodsnifters Lane, and the Apache Building Materials.
About a half mile from Chelem, we noticed a man poking around in a garbage dump, and decided to give him some pesos. I rode over and saluted him, and he shouted back. He was shirtless, and his chest was covered with scars, perhaps from a machete fight or heart surgery. I had planned to give him the money and keep moving, but that’s not how things are done in the Yucatan. He introduced himself as Antonio, and told me that he lived and worked at the dump (a one-room concrete building with one door and two windows unencumbered by screens or glass, with a rope clothesline that ran from the front door to an almond tree in the dump), “limpiar basura.” (cleaning up garbage). I introduced myself and asked him if he would like a little money. Yes, he said. I held out the note, but he made no move to take it, and I realized that he was blind or otherwise challenged. I pressed the note into his hand, and wished him Godspeed, and we cycled into Chelem.
Our first stop was the cementerio, and it was obvious that a) Chelem is larger than Churburna and b) the Chelementines spend a LOT more money on their graves. We saw elaborate Guadelupes encased in plastic with cherubs kneeling at their feet, black Saviors standing guard over a whole family’s worth of gravestones; we saw Barbi’s grave (when did SHE die?!), decorated with an elaborate black funeral outfit accessorized with angels, halos, trumpets, crosses, Jesi, and sheep. At the entrance to the cemetery, we found a shrub whose flower smells almost just like gardenia, and we took a flower and leaf back to Pat-agonia, who has missed the gardenias from his childhood for decades.
Pat-schwal had told us about a restaurant owned by Canadians near the baseball field, and we circled downtown a few times looking for it.
A fat man in a Sol tee shirt waved us over to a Lonchera, where we dined on pork salsidos (a corn tortilla laden with fried pork, lettuce, and onions) served with three types of hot sauce, crema, and limon. Maria had an apple juice, and I had a bottle of water. There were two Mexican women at the table next to us, with cute little kids running around, so I took the kids’ pictures and showed them to the Moms, who seemed very pleased that I had just given their kids a moment of fame. When we paid up and left, the fat man told us to come back at 6:30, and we could get anything on the menu painted on the back concrete wall.
We rode off in search of fruit, vegetables, and fishing tackle, because Pat-lenche had uncovered two fishing rods and I was keen on having revenge on the fish that had been bumping into me during ocean b-ball and throwing off my shot.
We stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall hardware/general store with no door, just a counter on the sidewalk. A little toddler was running around in the back, clutching a doll. When she saw the tall, white-skinned extrano looming over the counter, she shrieked for her Mami, who came to the counter to wait on us. I asked for fishing tackle (Pat-chuli had written down the Spanish word for me but I had forgotten that I had it) by miming fishing, casting and reeling and making a very convincing hook with my index finger. The woman wondered if we would like to buy some fish? No, “pescadoro” I said, “equipe” and casted out into the street, snagging my line on a mangy cat (not a catfish). The woman’s little girl and son had gathered and he guessed hook, ran into the store and came back with a box of hooks. Yes! Then I tried to mime a bottom-fishing rig, which has a swivel, a central wire with two or three lines attached to it (each line with its own hook) and a weight at the bottom to hold the rig still while I drink beer and wait for a bite. By the time I had mimed all of this, a crowd had gathered, and someone suggested that the psychiatric facility be called.
In desperation, Gaspar, the young man, brought forth an electronic tablet with a translation feature, and I typed in “bottom-fishing rig,” and a cry went up among the crowd:
He’s not crazy; he’s an angler!
Gaspar grinned and sprinted into the depths of the store, returning with lead weights, swivels, and a green plastic cord that could be cut into lengths and bound to other things by crimping copper rivets to them. I remembered that Pat-tato had wire leaders with a swivel at one end and a metal grommet at the other, and I realized that bottom-rigs could be manufactured from this and that. By now, Maria’s husband Lupe was on the scene, and introductions were made. I bought 6 #4 hooks, 3 three-ounce weights, and a dozen swivels take could be opened and closed by hand. They hoped that we would go with God, and we cycled off in search of fruits and veggies.
We visited every veggie stand in Chelem (about 6) and bought: cilantro, platanos, avocados, a giant papaya (“tomorrow,” said the woman, and three very soft mangoes.
The ride home was tiring (how could we possibly have a headwind both directions?!) but we rolled into Pat-burna’s in plenty of time to whip up rice, salad, avocado, tomato, black beans, chips, wine and beer.
Did I mention the salt-water crocodillas?
Next time.
