Dear Friends,
I had some sense I was in for a big surprise at the end. But I hadn't a clue and stopped projecting outcomes. Afterall, to be a surprise is to be unpredictable.
I got on the road north bound from Akumal early enough to beat the heat of the day into Playa del Carmen roughly 20 miles up the road. Easy, fast going on a flat wide shoulder, ear plugs jammed in to deaden the worsts of the noise from speeding traffic. This two lane divided highway along the Riviera Maya is one busy thoroughfare but not too bad for biking with ample shoulders, in most places. Still, you need to pay attention.
I had arranged to meet a friend and stay the night with him in Playa. Fine it seemed, I would call him, never mind I had no cell phone, from our prearranged rendezvous point at an OXXO mini-mart near where he lived. I get there about noon after asking directions multiple time,. Local information can be problamatical. In general the trend was north of where I asked although one woman pointed me back in the direction I had come. On top of that there was more than one OXXO store along the route.
I finally locate the place where I'm supposed to rendezvous with no cell phone and no time left on my Ladatel calling card. I ask several folks if they would make a cell call for me. They kindly oblige. But I get no answer. I know my friend works irregularly as a guide and may have gotten a call for work. I ask again and make a call to his house. No answer. I leave a message. I decide to wait, eat a boiled egg, a tangerine and tortillas with a peanut butter spread and honey. Time passes. I'm in no hurry. I sit next to Mario. He's from Chiapas and looking for chamo (local expression) he tells me.. He makes a call for me but nada. Nada on work for him also. He's been here a week and rented a place, adequate for a $100 a month. The afternoons slips away. By 3:00 I decide to go to my friend's house and wait there. I have the address and ask directions. Pretty straight forward except I don't see the house numbers at first. They're on a stone slab out front. The place turned out to be in a row of interconnected small condos. I park my bike in the shade of a nearby overhang, spread out my tarp and lie down, peso coins fall out of my pockets onto the side walk. Later I ask a resident to make a call for me but still no answer. No one shows up. I decide at this point I need to leave by 1630 to reach Puerto Morelos before dark or camp short or there. From PM it's under 10 miles to the airport, a piece-of-cake. I stayed at Renatto's place in PM when I first arrived and left a note saying I would try to stop by later. I first met him after the People's Climate Summit in 2010. He's a sculptor.
I stay in Playa beyond my leaving time. The curtain falls at 18:00. I get to the main highway, fortunately I'm already on the north side of town. A passing sign says 18 miles to Puerto Morelos. No way I can make it before dark now. I recall stopping for lunch on the way south at a place that was a possible camp for the night. It was a chained driveway with a way around, no house nearby. I don't recall exactly where it is but keep an eye out. Is it the place I'm meant to camp, I wonder? I usually get off the road and camp before dark for piece of mind and safety.
I don't get far and I see the place I'm looking for on the opposite side of the highway. I cross, park my bike and walk back a ways looking for a camp site. There's still some daylight left.. Nothing leaps out at me and says YES, It's brushy and hard ground to stake in. I walk back to my bike, another 15 minutes or so of daylight gone. I say to hell with it. I'm going to Puerto Morelos and Renatto's place knowing I'll have to bike in the dark. I feel easy about it, this is not a lonely stretch of road in the middle of nowhere. People are still waiting at road side for a bus or mini-van to take them home. There's a wide shoulder.
Most of this stretch of road to PM is Luxury Hotel alley. Near dark the overhead street lights down the median strip pop on. How about that for help!. I hadn't noticed them before. My helmet and bike have reflective tape. I set my handle bar light to flash. I stay well right except to pass the occasional stopped vehicle. It's cool and pleasant after sunset except for the traffic. Hotel alley comes to an ends and with it my overhead lighting. I'm only five miles or so out of PM at this point, another half hour and I'm there.
I get to PM about 8:00, hungry and thirsty. A beer then bike doesn't work, I've tried that already. I buy a Fanta in a can hoping it will get recycled rather than the ubiquitous plastic bottle. A nearby street vendor has tamales for sale. Do I want one with mole, a black sauce or green she asks. I try green.. It comes wrapped in a banana leaf then corn husk. It's good, with a little chicken inside. She puts it on a Styrofoam plate with plastic fork. Where's that going to end up? No need to ask, it's unlikely to get recycled and may end up dumped off the road somewhere. I don't feel good about it. Why are we compelled to make choices that "suck (undesirable)?" We've allowed a monster to be created by companies with products that won't biodegrade into harmless substances or get appropriately recycled? Another soap box tirade but we can't keep doing this to ourselves with sucky things like this. Plastic crap litters the planet everywhere.
Renatto's place is a mile or so west on the outskirts of this small town. There's street lighting but some dark spots in between lights. I turn my light on steady. There's a short strech of unpaved potholes to dodge in the dark nearing his place. He's created a charming and enchanting mixture of garden and sculpture in the midst of low forest cleared of under brush. Near his house is a cenote but its waters are not clear like some I've visited. Small black fishes live in it like the others. A large plaster sculpture of a brown skinned warrior holding what looks like a green serpent over his shoulder sits in the drive, mostly finished now. It was being reworked when I was here nearly a month earlier. In a nearby building a group is singing. Harry, who works for Renatto, greets me in the dark. He remembers me and says welcome. He asks if I'm thirsty and brings me some water. We both stand outside and look in on a small group of mostly women. Renatto is sitting on floor mats singing with the rest. Harry tells me they're getting ready for a mas cal or sweat lodge ceremony. The mas cal he tells me is to honor these volunteers helping Renatto.
To my great surprise I recognize the leader, it's Isabel. I remember her face but not her name. I have to ask. She had a deeper tan before so I was not sure at first. But she comes out briefly and I have to ask. The last time we met was equally unexpected. It was at Gabriel's place after the People's Climate Summit. I had lost track of the date until I asked Gabriel. It was 12/21/10. He then told me a group from PCS was coming later that day for a mas cal celebration he was leading. I was invited to join. Isabel was with them. I recognized some of the others as well. She's an attractive women with a strong, beautiful voice that connects people with their heart energy through singing and graceful prayers of blessing and gratitude. A very warm and unforgettable person. I'm blown away, reconnection under remarkably similar circumstances on my last day in Mexico. We are deeply connected if we only knew it. Both she and later Renatto ask if I would come to the mas cal ceremony. I say yes and think I wouldn't miss it for anything. Harry points to a blazing fire on the other side of the cenote heating rocks for the mas cal.
I set up my tent before the singing ends, put my swimming trunks on under my pants and head for the fire. Several are standing around waiting for others to join. The mosquitoes chew on us. I meet Augustine from Whistler, BC, one of the volunteers. He's set up a hammock near where I pitched my tent. After a wait of some time we stand in a line to enter. Sheila tells me I need to move back one place so it's woman, man, woman, I assume to balance the energy but I don't really know. Maria holds a smoking cup of copal, a sacred resin of the Maya. She passes the smoke over outstretched arms and legs in a ritual cleansing, first in front then in back before each person enters. We crawl in and sit on banana leaves placed around a center fire pit under a low dome roof. Isabel crouches near the oval exit, Maria opposite to my right. I'm in the back center looking out on the fire. Isabel asks for seven rocks to enter to begin. Jose takes them from the fire, dusts off the ashes and carefully passes the pitch fork one rock at a time to Isabel who lets them drop into the pit. They are welcomed as abuelos or ancestors. Someone sprinkles a powder on the rocks that sparkles like twinkling stars each time they settle in the pit.
Some carbon gets in and it turns smoky.. The wood cap on the ceiling is opened and shut to let the smoke out. The air clears and Isabel asks for the rug over the puerta to be closed. Hot steam rises from water she pours over the abuelos. She asks for each one in turn starting with Maria to say a prayer. Afterward she asks for anyone to sing who has a short song. We do this four times or puertas honoring the four ordinal points of the compass representing earth, air, fire and water. Each time the puerta opens more abuelos enter until none remain in the fire. It gets very hot. During one closing Renatto plays the didgeridoo accompanied by drums and rattles, a vibration that resonates and fits the time and circumstance. An ancient instrument of an ancient people. One woman leaves before the fourth puerta. I'm tempted but stay. Isabel asks how I'm doing. I say tired from the riding and mas cal. The heat is intense between puertas. By the fourth puerta I'm lying on my side on the leaves, others are doing the same where the air is marginally cooler. Isabel flings water inside the darkened space to give a little cooling but it's fleeting. It's a sacred ceremony of healing and purification not a sauna.
I'm ready to leave when Isabel calls for the last puerta and we crawl out. I can barely stand, feeling weak and dizzy. I grab onto a nearby tree for support. I close my eyes and see a circle of blue light with a brown finger like object in the center. I've never seen it before. What's that all about? I reach for nearby slices of pineapple still reeling. They taste soooo good, a banana follows. What really begins to set me aright is rinsing with cool water dipped from a bucket. The fire has turned to a bed of coals. I don't know what time it is but it's late. The next morning I ask Jose what time we quit. He says about midnight. I change back into cloths I laid outside and head for my tent. I'm tired but at the same time wowed by the intensity of the experience. What a way to exit Mexico, some of the best for last.
The next morning I'm off to the airport by 0800 and there before 10:00. I make a mistake thinking my flight is earlier and arrive with time to spare. I make a couple of loops around the airport until I find the right terminal. Perhaps still a bit out of it from the mas cal. I park my bike outside Terminal 3, close to the cart rack so I don't have to carry my bags inside. I start disassembling my bike. The Mexican Federal Police stop to hassle me, an odd ball tourist on a bicycle. I hand over my passport and immigration card neither of which you want to lose. Questions follow. They find nothing and leave me in peace.
After that check in and wait. At check in I notice the back pack straps on my bike bag are missing, "ripped off, stolen." I accept what is but I'm not a happy camper. No one sits in the tail section seats next to me after lift off. I lie down, miss the meager beverage service, then it's time to land. The lines to clear immigration and customs are long. We landed before 7:00 but I don't get on the metrorail to Lisa and Richard's place until nearly nine. I have a moment of panic when I only get his voice mail. But he gets back to me and we coordinate a pick up. Relief, I was expected.
So that would appear to be the end of it. But near as I can figure, a load of unwelcome hungry hitch hikers climbed aboard my pants and socks at the mas cal. It really doesn't matter where. In considerable numbers they entombed themselves in my legs and feet as little red zits that itched like hell. In partially successful stoic fashion I try to be present with the itch. Does it help, a little? I know the intellectual part. What you resist persists. These are hard lessons. On other tropical sojourns I've had similar massive infestations around the belt line and private parts, thoroughly miserable. Maybe a little less so this time, some progress. Resistance is futile. That's my story - the high and low of it.
On Monday, the 16th back to Alaska and more challenges. I'm ready. There's more to come.
Don - Peace Rider
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