The laguna our buddy Pete took us to on our epic Yucatan road trip. Glory be...
Last camp of the trip. Please note our cinderblock table and improvised tree-shelf in the upper- right hand corner.
He´s a man of many talents...If you´re going to quit eating all animals for a few months, a Mexican fish taco is a great way to break the fast. Eat them at your campsite´s thatched hut beach joint, where the staff is always sleeping and everything, but everything comes with a lime. Delicious little cubes of fried fish and corn tortilla and salsa and FOUR alternative condiments on the table to speed your way... now this, this is living. Thank you Tulum, your grub is awesome.
I wish I could say the same about the Yucatan Peninsula in general.
This being the bell lap of the Latin American adventure, I am more broke with more miles between me and gainful employment than ere before in the life of Caitlin. We had carefully crafted a budget a few weeks ago that would get us to that June 19th flight outta Cancun without resorting to illegal vending or straying too far south of that line between backpacker and hobo.
And then we got out here, to the ¨Maya Riviera.¨ And we realized our backpacking trip had ended earlier than we anticipated. Cuz there´s no ¨budget travel¨ here.
An old man who called himself ¨Tasso Picasso¨ and sold his dubious oil pastel portraits of jungle lesbians on the beach told me the saga of Tulum. How once, long, long ago, hippies ruled this land and there was free camping on the beach and ¨lots of grass and naked girls.¨ Oh, the glory. And then the landowners got wise to the scene, and realized that while hippies had very little disposable income, yuppies had bunches. So they razed the camp grounds, put in concrete cabanas at prices the poi set could not afford and generally deprioritized public transportation.
And Tulum is still considered ¨earthy¨ by Yucatan Peninsula standards. Venture north and you hit Playa del Carmen, where Lacoste stores and your overweight uncle from upstate New York have taken the place of taquerias and fishermen. The beach is parceled out into ownerships by massive, all inclusive resorts who seem to be in a competition for who can build the most monolithic security gate. Venture further north and you hit Cancun. ´Nuff said. ¿Donde estas, Mexico? Sooo a bit of an odd place to spend the last weeks of a trip characterized for the most part by places where the McDonalds´arches don´t shine.
But don´t feel too bad for me. We went swimming in one of the cenotes that dot the Peninsula other day, the natural sinkholes that one person told me were the result of a meteroid impact on the area. We´ve managed to snag a pay-to-camp spot under some mangrove trees a few meters from the beach, where on most days the most taxing activity is stringing my hammock between the right palm trees. Yesterday we went snorkeling off a reef in our front yard and I communed with purple, orange and green parrot fish.
Oh, and did I mention that the real Tulum is right down the beach? The Mayan city, built from white stone on a sea cliff where craaaazy happenings are rumored to go down at night? Did I mention we snuck in for a midnight commune with the cosmological ancestors themselves? How did it go you ask?
I mean, I have to save some stories to tell for when I get back, guys. Buy me a beer in a few weeks and I´ll weave you the tale. ´Cause God knows I won´t be able to afford my own.
Love,
CD
I wish I could say the same about the Yucatan Peninsula in general.
This being the bell lap of the Latin American adventure, I am more broke with more miles between me and gainful employment than ere before in the life of Caitlin. We had carefully crafted a budget a few weeks ago that would get us to that June 19th flight outta Cancun without resorting to illegal vending or straying too far south of that line between backpacker and hobo.
And then we got out here, to the ¨Maya Riviera.¨ And we realized our backpacking trip had ended earlier than we anticipated. Cuz there´s no ¨budget travel¨ here.
An old man who called himself ¨Tasso Picasso¨ and sold his dubious oil pastel portraits of jungle lesbians on the beach told me the saga of Tulum. How once, long, long ago, hippies ruled this land and there was free camping on the beach and ¨lots of grass and naked girls.¨ Oh, the glory. And then the landowners got wise to the scene, and realized that while hippies had very little disposable income, yuppies had bunches. So they razed the camp grounds, put in concrete cabanas at prices the poi set could not afford and generally deprioritized public transportation.
And Tulum is still considered ¨earthy¨ by Yucatan Peninsula standards. Venture north and you hit Playa del Carmen, where Lacoste stores and your overweight uncle from upstate New York have taken the place of taquerias and fishermen. The beach is parceled out into ownerships by massive, all inclusive resorts who seem to be in a competition for who can build the most monolithic security gate. Venture further north and you hit Cancun. ´Nuff said. ¿Donde estas, Mexico? Sooo a bit of an odd place to spend the last weeks of a trip characterized for the most part by places where the McDonalds´arches don´t shine.
But don´t feel too bad for me. We went swimming in one of the cenotes that dot the Peninsula other day, the natural sinkholes that one person told me were the result of a meteroid impact on the area. We´ve managed to snag a pay-to-camp spot under some mangrove trees a few meters from the beach, where on most days the most taxing activity is stringing my hammock between the right palm trees. Yesterday we went snorkeling off a reef in our front yard and I communed with purple, orange and green parrot fish.
Oh, and did I mention that the real Tulum is right down the beach? The Mayan city, built from white stone on a sea cliff where craaaazy happenings are rumored to go down at night? Did I mention we snuck in for a midnight commune with the cosmological ancestors themselves? How did it go you ask?
I mean, I have to save some stories to tell for when I get back, guys. Buy me a beer in a few weeks and I´ll weave you the tale. ´Cause God knows I won´t be able to afford my own.
Love,
CD
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