Roger

The Great Escape without Triple J-LOs

Habana-Cancún Saturday, July 25, 2009

Just leveled off, and this, the third and final leg of my escape is all thanks to the 100$ CUC = $133 I borrowed from Johan, from Belgium, yesterday.

"Dirty Diana", by MJ plays. Apropos, I just sat commiserating with Peruvian Diana Chusperasqui (spelled phonetically as she's Peruvian-Quechuan, through born in Mexico or something ), was also waiting on La Lista de Espera-the Waiting or Standy-by List, for her return flight to Mexico City. “I overslept and missed my morning flight,” she said, munching on the hunk of bread I’d been fasting on since Thursday. We stood outside the Mexicana Airlines office in some back hallway in José Martí International Airport, in Habana, Cuba. We were concerned about getting onto our respective return flights to Mexico. This was the last leg, I was hoping, of my great escape from begging the streets of Cuba. I'd taken a 3-hour bus from Trinidad, convinced one cabbie to take me to the airport for a few CUCs less, and had it calculated to the penny; paying the 25$ Departure tax and arriving in Cancún with about 30 cents, but two-count 'em- TWO credit cards to draw from. My first problem occurred when I had el taxista to drop me at the wrong terminal. This meant begging another cabbie to get me the 5-minute drive to Terminal 3 for a chance at squeezing onto whatever Mexicana flight was leaving next.

Strange how those birds of Mexicana ran me ragged, "That flight's full, but you'll be the first on La Lista de Espera."

Diana and I met again in the cafe lounge closest to or lines, talking about stupid moves, Peru, other travels and trying to reassure each other that we would truly get on our respective flights.

"I overslept and missed my flight, which was 9 a.m. this morning," she said taking more of my bread. "Now I'm trying to squeeze onto this 5 p.m. flight."

"I know how you feel, I ran out of money and I'm trying to get onto this earlier flight. If I can't get on, I'll sleep here till the 7 a.m. flight tomorrow." That was more than 14 hours away, and I was dreading that possibility.

"Will the let you sleep here?"

I hadn't thought of that.

"I would think so. People sometimes have hours of lay-overs and I can't imagine them kicking people out. I hope not, I have just enough to pay the Departure Tax, so I can't even afford a taxi, let along another night in a Casa Particular."

She offered to buy me a sandwich with the little money she had left, but I declined, accepting an apple instead.

"My family's from Peru," she said, returning to our uncomfortable metal table with the standard uneven leg that caused you to instinctively reach for your water bottle every time the weight distribution shifted. She handed me an apple.

"I thought your name sounded Quechuan."

"You know about the Quechua?" she looked up from her yummy-looking grilled ham and cheese sammich. She offered some, but I was still weary of anything more solid or greasy than dry bread, fruit and water. My bouts with the Bacon Bits Pizza, still fresh on my mind. [refer to ---http://chedays.tumblr.com/---for more Cuba tales]

"Yeah, some of my favorite people are living outside of Cusco, in a smaller Incan Ruins area called Ollantaytambo," I recalled nostalgically.

"Wow, I was actually born in Mexico, and I've only been to Peru once years ago."

"Oh, you have to get back there. There are so many amazing places and people. My favorite "city" in the world, outside of New York, is Cusco. And not far from there is where I met Washington Gabaja Tapia, or Wasi as he was called, a young boy who befriended the Tour Leaders [TLs] of this travel company I was working for. His family were subsistence farmers right below the Ollantaytambo Ruins, and Wasi had learned enough English from years of watching TLs from dozens of companies. He followed us along the 4-day treks to Machu Picchu and learned everything he could, even adding some local lore or his own family's historical background. I wanted to reward his initiative and support his goals of going to college to get licensed as a local guide, so I set up a "scholarship" bank account for him. Later, as I knew I'd be leaving that continent, I convinced other TLs from my company to continue to employ him and donate to the scholarship I'd set months before."

"Where is he now?"

"You know, I'm sure he's guiding. That was January 1997, almost 13 years ago when I met him. He was very determined and many of my friends kept supporting him with jobs and depositing money into his account."

[writer's update: since returning Wasi has contacted me through FB and he is, indeed, working in Peru as a Tour Guide. Look for him when you go to Cusco, Peru or other outlining areas]

"I'd love to travel more," Diana said, tearing another piece from her ham and cheese.

"You know more about my country, my heritage than I do," she admitted. "It's amazing how you've traveled so much."

Time was drawing near, as we noticed the new lines for our planes starting to form. We promised to stay in touch and I threatened to visit Mexico City as she vowed to visit me in NYC. We went to our respective lines and wished each other luck getting on

I waited in line over an hour just for a DIFFERENT supervisor to hear me, "You told me I could pay for this on the other side."

"Me? You talked with me? I just got here."

"Oh, well EXCUSE ME, (you all look alike) I talked to another young woman. I ran out of money, my cards are useless here, which is precisely why I'm forced to leave this most phenomenal country four days sooner than anyone would ever dream of! I mean, I came here primarily for the art, music and the annual, week-long Carnival in Santiago de Cuba which culminates today and tomorrow, July 25-26. Who, in their right mind would dream of leaving Cuba on their most raucous days of celebration?"

Of course I didn't say half of that, though I had mentioned at least twice about paying the difference in flight charge, if any, in Cancún.

"I'll make a note that you'll be paying 100$ when you get to Cancún, and tell the girls at the Check-in counter it's OK for them to give you a Boarding Pass."

"Wait, the other woman told me it would only be 50$ when I get to Cancún."

"Well, she was mistaken. It's 100$. The flight is booked. You'll only get on if there is a cancellation. It's the standard Change in Ticketing fee. Can you pay that?"

"Sure," I said, thinking how come the other woman didn't know this standard fee? I've always understood, prices change according to three key elements: the buyer's desperation, his/her ignorance as to local customs and the greed of those in power at that particular moment. "Once I get there, my cards will work and I'll have plenty to pay for it then."

"OK, then simply tell the women at the counter to it's OK for you to get a Boarding Pass."

You can imagine how f***in' well THAT went! Especially since the two Black Bottom Babes with Triple J-LOs were NOWHERE to be found. Of course, while one was boarding passengers, the other far cuter one was probably getting or giving that dude waiting for her her own brand of VIP service.

"She didn't put you on the flight," another counter ‘lovely and talented service assistant’ replied.

"Yeah, she said it was OK to give me a Boarding Pass," sweat now beginning to drench my face. Yet this wouldn't be the last of my sprints. "I saw her type something in the computer and she told me to tell you it was OK."

"I can't give you a Boarding Pass if you're not in the system."

"The flight is leaving in less than 10 minutes."

"Go back to her and have her put you on the flight," the ‘lovely and talented service assistant’ said with even less emotion.

"Can't you call her, the flight is leaving?"

"With what?” she was enjoying this too much. “There are no phones here."

Right, smart. In case of emergencies SCREAM BLOODY MURDER, maybe someone will come.

So, running "Perdoname(s)" and "Mí vuelo ya sale, por favor, disculpa!" I cut the line of 10 or so crammed in that narrow hallway outsider the offices.

“Did you tell her what I said?” The ‘talented and effervescent Commander-in-Chief service official’ asked as if I was a moron.

"I told her twice already, exactly what you told me,” I’d given up on Spanish by now, because she had. You typed something in the computer, but she says I’m still not on the flight.”

“Tell her I said it’s OK.”

“Can you write it down, please?" And, in her defense, she must have thought the same Triple J-Los who’d been servicing me before. Yet, she had no idea that they had gone off to service others boarding or being boarded.

Still, she looks at me like, ‘You are more trouble than it’s worth.’ I hand her the back of a receipt that looks as used as some old Kleenex I’m prone to have for those “just-in-case” moments. Disgruntled, she scribbles her approval scrawl on my little "toilet paper".

As I’m leaving the growing-overpopulated little Mexicana Office, the effervescent and non-committal service woman I was talking to came to get word directly from la hefa's mouth. More like, take another walk-about leaving 15 others in line diligently waiting to be Checked-in to the same flight Diana was trying to board.

Of course, she's not there when I get back with this "official" scribbled confirmation. I gave it one of the other effervescent and talented workers who wished I'd come to them so they could have a leisurely walk-about. Yet, I'm sure they'll MAKE a chance, ANY mutha fl***in one, to walk calmly around for at least one 10-minute break before Diana’s line is finished.

The first one returns, types me in and gives me the Holy Grail Boarding Pass.

"You understand, I couldn't just GIVE you one!" the one who’d passed me leaving the office that last time said.

"Yeah, I thought it was kinda strange," though the other Triple J-LOs knew my situation inside and out and Ms. Supervisor- talented and effervescent Commander-in-Chief service official’ never realized they weren't the ones who initiated the transaction nearly 30 minutes before.

Then not-quite the strip search and, of course just as the migration babe (there were like seven and I saw four were women), she holds up an overly decorated hand, STOP.

"Por favor, mi vuelo se va ahora misma!"

I wait maybe 30 seconds and she waves me on. I think she was just fishing for compliments on those damned long and finely painted nails! You know the kind, where you wonder how they wipe or type or anything with nails that unnecessarily long! Here she looks at me, the passport pix, the photo from when I'd arrived and back to me again. Have I changed that much in nine days? She does this maybe three times, and I think, a compliment on her nails just may get me through a bit faster.

She finally agrees, 'yup, you are the same in all three,' and I'm free...

I run to my gate, noticing one of the original Triple J-Los taking tickets. I get on the “booked” flight which I had been sweating bullets on Stand-by only to realize there are 15 other empty seats!

I highly doubt 16 people cancelled their flights at the last minute!

* * * * * * *

Still, Click Mexicana Flight 7579 is less than 15 minutes from landing!!!

I'm sure Diana got on her "booked" flight as well.

If all goes well, I'll be on Isla Mujeres in about two hours!

My portrait as done by sidewalk "artist"?

Loaded Nachos! Notice the spicy green aji to the top right.

Praying for CASH!!!

Floor mat for my daily stretching routine.

Digs in Tulum.

The calm before the Newport Storm!

Leaving Isla Mujeres, Tues. July 28, 2009

My "wife"!

Playa Norte, last memories...

Kiki and the view from Poc-na before my massage.

Down and Out in Tulum-Don't Talk to Strangers?

Wednesday, July 29, 2009, 1:38 PM

It all started like any other day at the beach. Well, not if you consider spending an hour at an Internet Cafe updating friends and family before checking out of the Poc-na Hostal two blocks from Isla Mujeres´s Playa Norte. ¨Are you staying for the volleyball,¨ Kiki, from Germany, asked. ¨Sorry, but I was planning on leaving by three.¨ ¨Common, stay one more night,¨ Raj, the Brit said. ¨We´re all heading to Tulum tomorrow.¨ ¨Sorry, don´t think that´s in the cards,¨ I said. Oh, did I mention the hour full-body massage? Then a short nap in the air-con dormitory I´d just checked out of. I couldn´t let this beach go by without one last dip in the longest, greenest sea I´d ever seen. Playa Norte, aside from the islands ultra-touristy atmosphere, remains the perfect ¨family¨beach, as the shallow green waters go out for about 300 yards before dropping off. There are, however, little pockets of darker deepness here and there in the shallow area. That´s why we have so many kids, right, in case one or two don´t make it? That woman in this picture is my wife, did I mention I got married? After a half hour swim, I returned to the café to send these last pix off. The reason for all this Internet time, I don’t have a Flash Card for my camera and I can’t erase those Cuba photos until I can save them more permanently. Also, I´d been trying to reserve a room at The Weary Traveler in Tulum, or the slightly more costly Zai-zin Kin Cabañas, which claimed to be right there on the beach. This came as a recommendation from my Ozzie friends sharing the dorm there at the Poc-na Hostal. I´d attempted to call several times the night before, however, the woman behind the counter assured me that there was NO NEED to dial 01, even though the directions in the tele booth said to for National Long Distance. Regardless, I never got through any of their e-dresses nor their numbers. The plan was to grab a shower, say goodbye and get a few e-dresses--still NOT on Facebook! However, as I pass I hear that distinctive pup---pup of the volleyball games in full swing. It can´t already be three? It was four. I had to stay for a few games as Kiki and many of the newer kids were, like me, re-learning the game. Don´t Talk to Strangers OK, so it´s 6 p.m. and I´m on the 15-min ferry back to Cancún. As always there´s this crush to get on the top deck and this family of four is split up. Sure I could´ve given up my end seat for the little tyke so he would be closer to his Mamita and infant sister, but my big black ass was already wedged into the end metal seat with my huge black backpack literally stuck between my legs and the hard metal backing of the seat in front of me. As we set off I start taking pictures, deleting most and taking a few more. ¨¿Puedes tomar una foto?¨ I asked little Mario. He never once spoke to me so I´m giving him this name. He only shook his head. ¨Do you know how?¨ Another shake, no. ¨Here, all you do is press this silver....¨ but he´s already shaking, vehemently. ¨It´s really easy, try it.¨ ¨I can do it,¨ a woman next to him on the end says. So there you have that one of me seemingly floating in the air. A little while later, Mario´s sister starts wailing as if Mamita was pulling out all her fingernails. You´ve seen this cry, angry red face, trembling flailing body and tears streaming like the Nile. Still, all she was doing was restraining her from climbing all over the back of the dirty, metal seat in front of them. Yet, the tears ran so much some were reaching for their "floatation devices securely fastened beneath" their seats. ¨Ella quiere subir, como un mono,¨ I tell the kid whose tongue can´t be found. He nods. ¨Were you like that when you were little?¨ He´s nodding, yes, before I even finished. ¨¿Really, en serio?¨ He nods more adamantly. What is this kid some kind of BoBblE Head? The girl finally settles down and we are only a few minutes from docking. This has been a long 15 minutes. ¨Mama, can I get something when we get off?¨ Mario asked. So he DOES have a tongue! ¨You had a chance to get something on the island,¨ Mamita scolds. ¨She´s cranky and we have to get going.¨ ¨¿Vas a llorar como ella?¨ I said, letting out a winning short-lived whine. ¨Waa, waa, waaaaaaa. ¡Yo quiero algo!¨ He smiled.

Down and Out in Tulum-pt 2

Down and Out in Tulum—part 2

I committed the cardinal sin of overland travel, never travel at night, especially when it´s a shorter trip. Still, gettting to ADO bus terminal was only a quick over-packed mini-van ride from the docks and the next bus was less than half an hour away. I used this time to try calling and making resis at the cabanas or The Weary Traveler. Once again, with a booth, I was having trouble with my sausage appendages.

¨Umm, for some reason I can´t seem to dial any numbers correct in this country!¨ Yeah I was getting a little annoyed. I´d asked for the telephones, but they were outside the terminal, then they were cards only, then when I crossed to the OXXO, like a 7-11, the woman NOT working saw me come in with larger than a 10-year-old backpack, and she ignored me. You know the deal, I´ve got three years seniority over this Little girl at the register and I´ve earned the right to look through customers, or simply walk away like the joint´s on fire.

I get this. I don´t get upset until she tries to be helpful after the other girl was helping me. Yet, like many who only observe and never really plunge in until it´s fun, she was screwing everything up.

¨All I want is a card to use in one of those booths over there. I told her it was a Long Distance call, to Tulum, yet you (Ms. Congeniality) keep showing me cards for International Long Distance.¨

¨If you want to call Tulum, there are cabinas over there,¨ the first young lady finally told me. Yet, she did one of those vague, ¨por allá¨s. That glib backward wave of the hand which could be left, across the street or next door.

After crossing back toward the terminal, another taxi driver told me it was literally next door to the OXXO girls.

Regardless, no answer at either place, so once I arrived, wouldn´t you know it, The Weary Traveler is full to capacity, ¨but we have a single a few blocks from here at triple the price...oh and there´s no AC, only a fan.¨

¨Thanks, I tried calling last night and e-mailing but I couldn´t get through on either site.¨

"Did you dial 01?"

The long walk passed all these lighter tourists eating pizza, sucking down iced drinks and cold Dos XX with those beads of sweat on the side. It´s funny how the senses really kick in when you have no idea how you´re going to eat if you´re going to spend every cent on an over-priced, hotter cell....I mean room.

Every place I get to is either full or like 500 Pesos, or $39. That´s $14 more than I paid at the most expensive place in Cuba!

¨Where´s the park,¨ I asked the attendant at the Internet Café after e-mailing for some emergency cash, yet again.

Maybe loaning Devin that $31 was a mistake.

Maybe I could´ve forgone that $34 massage.

Maybe this country should move into the AMEX world, because everyone who wanted to take me to 300 pesos places would only take cash or Visa/Mastercard. It’s everywhere you want to be…

I was prepared to sleep out the night, guarding my valuables for a few muggy, mosquito hours before the heat became too much. Little did I know much more was in those crazy cards in this incredibly unpredictable deck I´ve been given.

So, I was walking to a few more places and I find the Kukulcan Hotel with a family of three (el niño was sleeping on the bench), watching the desk. Their lowest place is $21 and I have a little more than that.

¨No, gracías, no tengo mucho plata, necesito uno mas barato,¨ I said, apologetically walking away.

¨We have a hammock,¨ Cynthia says.

¨Outside, great. How much?¨

They look at each other over their finished dinner and try to process a fool willing to stay a night in a hammock. Hell, that´s where they´re sleeping, right?

¨It´s inside a room, with a fan,¨ Diego says.

¨There´s nothing else in there. We’re still fixing that room up.¨

¨How much?¨ I´m curious now.

¨200 pesos,¨ Cynthia says.

¨I´ll take it.¨

¨You should see it first,¨ Diego gets the key from his wife and up we go.

¨Seriously, I´ll have more money in a day or so, can you go down 170 ($13 US), por va?¨

¨OK.¨

Alone in the room I´m thankful, yet, at the same time, lonely. Wondering, if I was traveling with others this money thing would NEVER happen! Someone would´ve read the part about no AMEX, another who had actually BEEN to Cuba would´ve warned me about bringing the right amount of cash ON HAND and perhaps another would´ve talked to someone who´d just returned and advised us to BRING MEXICAN PESOS rather than dollars. Yet, you can´t make this shit up. Traveling alone also leads to some very special connections, as Pierre Henrí kept saying, ¨This is just the way this was supposed to happen.¨

It wasn´t until much later on, at the Tulum ruins that I learned Kukulcan was the God of Winds—and I was riding a bit of a high warm breeze at the moment, though it was all ¨supposed to happen¨ just the way it did. There was only one problem, the club several doors down and across the street was blasting their tunes and I remember thinking, Great, that´s gonna keep me up all night long.

Down and Out in Tulum-pt 3

Sisters of Tulum

After a shower and changing into clothes I think might´ve been clean Saturday, I head across the street to real Mexican food. I know this because Diego told me so and there was not ONE tourist in this joint. Just the way it´s gotta be.

I spent half my remaining pennies on steak tacos and guagamole, approximately two pounds of it! The Guag was as expensive as the tacos, but if I´d known it was that much, that´s ALL I´d have ordered.

Waited down with all that avocado-I´d order extra chips to snag every last bit-I needed a walk. It was cooler here, windier and I was tired, but could do for a bit of air.

Passing one loud bar with rock and another with Salsa I continued on to the Times Square—Parque Dos Aguas—another block down where the rhythmic drumming and the gleeful cries of a group of young and old partied under the brightest lights I´ve ever seen in a small town park. I mean Vegas isn´t this bright!

Three guys kept a great beat going and ended a dozen minutes later. As they walked the crowd collecting tips I wandered to the far end of this obviously newly built, work-in-progress park. One guy was throwing up a semi-inflated kickball missing the hoop miserably. Children were playiing on the Jungle Gym and I was thinking, it´s awfully late. It was Midnight! Still, I can see how anyone can get confused, the lights and all, it felt like high noon.

As I circle back around from the church, a beautiful white thing, with no door only a wrought iron fence, with a heavy rusted pad-locked Caín keeping “worshipers” out. Looking through to the alter, I heard the drums again, this time in the far corner of the park, just in front of the HSBC Bank.

This time three taller lighter tourists are clapping and one Pierre is dancing while the other Pierre, his younger brother, is sitting next to Sista Mayela, the ¨good witch¨, Sista Chely, holds her bike. She´s the therapist. And Sista Narmin, who works at a hotel and also does masajes, jaunces from side to side.

I start dancing and it isn´t long before things are going off. Pierre Henrí, turns noticing me, the only other black dude in Tulum, and begins dancing even harder. Narmin and Mayela are bopping and Charles, Walter and others are clapping and swaying to the growing faster beats.

“it’s great to see another brother here!” Henrí exclaims. “My brother and I have been traveling a while and you’re the first black person we’ve seen.”

¨Ya, ya Tulum,¨ the drummers start chanting and then adding verses in between.

We party like this for another good sweat, and tipping the drummers they keep saying they´re off. Yet they stay and Mayela dives into this great conversation about how those beats and the African culture is all of us.

¨Most Mexicans don´t understand how important this music, this culture is. I´ve lived in Jamaica, Belize, the States and I´ve studied how the black roots have been denied us. They´ve buried everything that is black in our culture and that´s why it´s great to see you all here.¨

While I´m going into this debate, Pierre Olivier translates to older bro, Pierre Henrí in French, as they´re from Cameroon, though studying in Montreal. Pierre Henrí explained that Pierre Olivier, the younger, has been traveling in Mexico and Central America a few weeks longer than Henrí. The Dutch and Swiss guys have gone off to the Moloko Bar that the Swiss teacher, Rafael, knows is the happening club for a 2 X 1 Tuesday night. The two Pierres are keen on getting to that that club/bar on the roof that I´d heard coming here to Parque Dos Aguas.

“Diaspora”

¨The Diaspora is so important to all of us,¨ Mayela continues. ¨Before there were the drums there was the creator.¨

¨This music is in our...blood, ¨ Henrí says.

“Diaspora”

“Diaspora”, this was Mayela's word which immediately brought me back to other highly erudite women. Reading bellhooks, in Dr. Jaime Skye Bianco's collage courses where she emphasized technology, sci-fi, deconstructionist theories and feminist criticism through Octavia Butler and Margaret Atwood ande ven pedagogical and scientific texts.

Relax a bit, hooks! Get jaded, Ms. Independent! Smoke a fatty and laugh a bit. While I'm all for smart women of color plunging into these and other lines of discourse, I also believe in the healing power of endorphins released through laughter and sex.

This bottled seriousness reminded me of my great friend, Paola's, ability to turn whatever term or topic into something evil. We were riding back from a dinner at our boss's house-"The Hive" of this queen bee, another self-proclaimed savior of the oppressed- who has also done some incredible things to improve the villaje through example and self-empowerment. Anyway, I may have mentioned "recycling" or some other seemingly innoxious term and Paola would somehow deconstruct the word which "naturally" led her to believe those who recycled were unwittingly part of some diabolical conspiracy theory.

Needless to say, she's learned to laugh a bit more since then, taking her far from that bad place she was in, back then.

"Anyone can be a leader," Mayela continued. "You, me, him, anyone like us can stand up and lead."

"Yes, but fear blocks us all," Henrí countered. "The reason why you or I or he doesn't lead is because we all value something, someone. We're afraid and this fear controls us. If I have a niece, someone I love, they can take her away from me. This is the fear that separates us from those who lead. The only difference between these "leader" and I is he doesn't fear the consequences."

She would not be stifled.

"The only thing I know is this town is run by drug lords, corrupt people running this area and I say live life because it may not be here next year. Where we're going is not good. You watch, live and enjoy today, but come next year we may not be here!"

Both stood their ground, daring the other to stand and deliver. Yet, it starts with dialogue, intelligent conversations that are not egocentric; openly sparring without clear solutions. Which became our segue attack on tourism that is anything but eco-centric and definitely not based upon an erudite pursuit of historical, biological, arcitectual or anthropological connections. In a nutshell: The Human Element to travel.

Henrí commented a day or so later how just four or five blocks off Avenida Tulum, the main strip, there were squalid communities, deprivation and poverty that most never care to recognize.

"If you want to see the Real Mexico, go to Oaxaca the next time you come, or Chiapas and talk to the REAL MEXICAN,” Mayela attacked the fascade that Avenida Tulum represents. “Even better go to Puerto Angel or San Luís Potosí if you wish to learn about the true Mexico. This, here, is not real."

As a disclaimer, I want to quote several people, "It all depends what you're looking for."

Exactly!

That's why I'm on a quarter-filled bus to Tizimin near Río Lagartos as I write these edits to this piece originally written last Wednesday morning (7-29-09).

Still, what Mayela was saying and what Henrí experienced a few blocks off the main drag was the dichotomy of tourism.

"I can remember wanting to come here to learn more about the Maya and the Aztec when I was 10 and first learned about them,” I said agreeing with Mayela. “But now I come and there's hundreds of others. It seems more are here for diving, snorkeling and everything BUT the historical aspects from these cultures."

“This is what it's all about; people, the REAL Mexican,” Mayela said. “The food, the music, not places like this where all these tourists [come to exploit] the sites!"

A bit later, as Olivier went off talking to two other women and we strolled toward the bar where the two Cameroonians were hedging, Mayela summed up the entire night.

"What we're doing now, making connections with each other, the people, this is what you need to do in other REAL parts of Mexico."

I recall what she had joked about 30 minutes earlier when the parting began.

¨Come to us if you have any problems,¨ Mayela says.

¨You are the full package,¨ Olivier says.

¨You are the body, Narmin-the massuse. You are the mind, Chely-the therapist and you´re the spirit.¨

They didn´t seem to want to leave, though they had work and ¨husbands¨ to get home to. Near the end of that conversation, we lost Olivier, chatting it up with two younger women, with a child in tow. It had to be nearly 1 a.m. and what were they doing with a little kid out like this??

Once again I found myself yearning, craving la comunidad, la gente, la comida y los ritmos del PUEBLO. Of course I was "supposed" to be right there at that time to meet these three women, dance to African jams, with brothers from another mother, created by still more local artists and grow from each experience. These were the connections that were essential and, in a way, could only have happened in this touristy place.

This, too is not the same as all those who'd traded e-dresses with me and dozens more. Like Devin said that first night I showed him Salvador Goméz’s barrio and we found the best Mojitos in Habana Vieja, "It's strange how you can meet someone and have a deep conversation with them, be changed forever, than never see that person ever again.” For, though we made plans to see each other, those next two nights Chely, Narim and Mayela were NOT to be found.

Really, I’m Not Hungry

They didn´t join us to Moloko Bar.

¨I don´t have any money. I´ll go, but I won´t drink,¨ I told the older, Pierre Henrí.

¨Don´t worry about it. We´re in the same situation, and I don´t want to drink beer either.¨

Three rounds later, we were leaving with the European friends to get something to eat. They kept buying beers and food and round after round, the Swiss dude, Rafael, who was plugged into the scene after only ONE day, guided us to the loudest restaurant, literally three doors down from my Kukulcan Hotel.

Once again, ¨Hey, I´m NOT hungry. Really, I just had two pounds of guagamole and some tacos at the place next door. Plus I have NO money, remember?¨

¨Don´t wory about it.¨

We picked up three women throwing water at each other outside the bathrooms, and another trio of French women also staying at the Weary Traveler and they—Charles, from Holland, Pepe and Rafael from Switzerland—kept ordering rounds, two of the hugest shrimp cerviches I´ve ever seen and chicken tacos, meat and chicken quesadillas and rounds of XX! They even bought rounds for the Mexican workers, all in white, who came in an hour after us.

¨I´m not hungry,¨ I kept saying as the shrimp just sat there, calling my bloated belly....

The female DJ was putting on some great local and Old School jams which had Henrí dancing before the food arrived, though he would NOT be called away from his Happy Feet! Noticing the stacked ¡Viva Mexico! Somberos of varying sizes and decorations on the counter, I grabbed a dozen and ran around throwing them atop everyone’s head.

“It’s too bad no one has a camera,” Pierre Olivier called.

I went across the way, let myself into my room without waking Diego up—he was on the door, or rather sleeping on the bench his son slept on four hours before—to get my camera.

The Dutch guy, Charles, hooked up with the cutest of the local girls and two of the French girls refused to dance with anyone except themselves. The other was cool....

We closed the place down and I got home, across the way around 4 a.m.

I suppose in a warped way, El Mariachi Restaurant, from where I’d first worried about the blasting music, had kept me awake, dancing and laughing my first crazy night away.

!Viva Tulum!

Perhaps the largest ceviche I've ever been forced to eat!

Meeting people and making friends....

Someone send me her email...

And then again...