Driving to Paradise—From San Francisco to Puerto Morelos—Are We There Yet?
Chapter 25: Our new life awaits—only 3,391 miles to go
Hola Amigos! The car was packed, Max was nestled into his corner with all his amenities, and we had a nice coffee buzz going. Along the way we planned a couple stops to see family and friends—in Phoenix, Santa Fe—and then through Texas and southward. After crossing the border it would be uncharted territory. We were beyond ready. (And Happy Solstice to you all)!
Once in Brownsville, Texas, we should have been able to loosen up but we’d heard so many horror stories about this border town, we couldn’t relax. After renting a hotel room and moving most of our luggage inside, we went out for dinner. On arriving back at the hotel we noticed a group of shady looking guys hanging around two parked cars at the far end of the parking lot—we figured either for drug deals or illegal crossings.
The next morning we were up at 4 a.m. so we could arrive early at la frontera, the best way to cross. Our efforts paid off and we made it across with little hassle. Soon the sun was peeking at us from far distant mountains in the east and we were driving towards our new home in Mexico.
For the first hundred miles, Joshua trees on a flat lifeless landscape were all we would see. Occasionally we overtook an overloaded big rig, but other than that, little traffic.
Tuxpan, a city of 100,000 on a river, was our first stop. We’d driven 10 hours and covered no more than five hundred miles. Mexican roads lived up to their reputation. Many had serious ruts and had to be driven at slow speeds. We carried an extra tire, just in case we got a flat in the middle of nowhere.
The next night we stayed at Catemaco, just past Veracruz, near the Gulf. Catemaco is known for its witches’ festival every spring. The city, tucked into the mountains in the heart of tobacco country, was situated on a lake. It was a pretty spot, but from the reaction of the townspeople, they hadn’t seen many foreigners. I felt like an oddity. I was approached by a bruja, who promised me she was a good witch and would help me.
Why me? I thought as I looked at this diminutive sorceress who wanted to alter my life. I just quit my corporate job after 15 years. We built our dream house in the Yucatán and now we’re moving there to relax on the beach. Plus I’d already checked my chart and tarot. All good. I didn’t need a reading, a spell or a potion. I wanted no flotsam and jetsam corroding my future.
I gave her a big smile and walked across the square at a rapid gait with Paul at my side. I'd save sorcery for another time.
Back on the road we pushed towards the Yucatán. Past Villahermosa we came upon the one town everyone told us to avoid, Escarcega.
“No matter what,” Joe Marino had implored, “Do not stop in Escarcega. They will rip you off. Escarcega is notorious.”
Unfortunately, we needed fuel, and right past that dreaded city we faced a lonely two hundred mile stretch before arriving in Chetumal. Glumly we pulled into a mega Pemex station filled with trucks and big rigs and 15 gas pumps.
I climbed out of the car to watch the pump while we were getting gas, to make sure we got what we paid for. Paul got out on his side.
“Señora,” I heard. I turned around. About knee-height I gazed down at a shabbily dressed young man with no legs, sitting on a low, four-wheeled scooter.
He held his hand out, a pitiful gesture. Just then a child of six ran up to me, bumping the lame boy’s scooter shouting, “Chiclets, chiclets.”
Still trying to watch the gas gauge, I rummaged in my coin purse and found a few pesos, gingerly dropping them in the lame boy’s hand, meanwhile shushing the chiclet boy with, “No gracias.”
Coming round my other side was a small woman carrying a tin tray of sweets. Flies buzzed lazily over wax paper carelessly wrapped around sugary dough balls. Before she cornered me between the chiclet boy and the car, I warded her off with a stern, “No gracias, señora.”
“Paul, how’s it going over there?”
Paul was busy fending for himself in this bizarre Fellini moment. The gas pump had just clicked off and I saw him grab his wallet and narrowly open it while the pump attendant watched closely, hoping to get a display of the interior. Paul pulled out two bills, a hundred peso note and twenty pesos. Perfect, I thought, as I checked the pump.
Total, 115 pesos. We always tried to give exact amounts rather than large bills at gas stations to inhibit short changing. The tactic kept everyone honest.
“Ready?” he asked, a slight grimace on his face.
“Yep,” I said, wondering what expression I wore after enduring this three-ring circus. I climbed back inside the safety of the station wagon. Now the chiclet boy was in front of the car, talking to the pump attendant. When Paul started the engine, he lept aside.
“Well, that was a bad movie. No wonder Joe told us to avoid Escarcega. I could have done without it.”
In years to come, Escarcega got such bad press, travelers would fill up in Villahermosa and drive on fumes to Chetumal. No one stopped in Escarcega. Mexico travel guides wrote warnings to tourists to count their change at the gas station and only stop in an emergency.
Years later while driving through that dingy pit stop of a town, we noticed a newly painted sign hanging over a wood frame bodega. “Bienvenidos, Welcome Tourists.”
A tourist center? On seeing it, Paul and I laughed. For Escarcega, it was a case of too little and way too late.
Just outside town the road narrowed and pastures appeared on either side. I settled into the drive, knowing Chetumal was a ways off. This would be a day of driving. We’d decided, however, if we got to a stretch of little known pyramids at the halfway point, we’d take a short break, have a sandwich and let Max walk around.
I'd read about this quartet of pyramids—Kohunlich, Becan, Chicanna, and Xpuyil—near the ceremonial center Calakmul. These sites didn't have the star power of Chichen Itza or Tulum, but Kohunlich was known for its Temple of the Masks because in 1971 looters tried to sell one of them to New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art.
We saw no other cars and around 3 p.m. we passed Chicanna. Soon after, I spotted the towers of Xpuyil. "Want to stop?" I asked Paul.
He nodded and we drove down a deserted sascab lane through an open chainlink gate into an empty parking lot. I pulled myself from the car while Paul saw to Max. I stretched, went to the car’s back end to find the cooler, and brought out pre-made sandwiches. I called to Paul.
He'd put Max back inside the car. We leaned against the door, ready for our snack. After eating I wanted to have a quick look around. Just as I bit into my lunch a white, older model International pulling a sizable tarp-covered trailer drove into the parking lot, leaving dust in its wake. Two men sat inside; an older man was driving.
The vehicle was 300 feet away when the guy riding shotgun jumped out. He was young and lanky and moved quickly across the lot. The truck had Canadian plates and the driver kept the engine idling.
"Weird. Why'd just one guy get out and why didn’t the driver turn off the engine?"
"It is weird," Paul said. We both watched the younger man dart through an opening in the fence and run along the path that led to the site.
With the truck still idling, we viewed the scene warily. "I don't feel good about this."
"Me neither. What are they doing?”
Paul started pushing things into the way-back. I followed his lead and closed the cooler, holding my sandwich in one hand as I tossed things into the car.
"Let's get out of here. Something’s not right. Are they scouting for artifacts? Why the trailer?”
"Not good,” Paul agreed. “And that tarp? Max is inside. Let's go."
The International had parked at just the right angle so we couldn't see the driver, as though that outcome was planned. If these guys were grave looters, we didn't want to be around when INAH (National Institute of Anthropology and History) discovered them, or worse, the federales. Stealing artifacts is a serious crime.
Paul started the car and headed down the narrow driveway that led to the highway. The International was still idling when I turned around to give it one last look.
"Grave looters?"
"We don't want to know," Paul said as he eased onto the uneven asphalt, revved the engine and headed towards Chetumal, not waiting to find out.
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Backstory—Puerto Morelos sits within 100 miles of four major pyramid sites: Chichen Itza, Coba, Tulum and Ek Balam. By living in close proximity to this Maya wonderland we pyramid hopped on our days off from Alma Libre Libros, the bookstore we founded in 1997. Owning a bookstore made it easy to order every possible book I could find on the Maya and their culture, the pyramids, the archeologists who dug at these sites and the scholars who wrote about them, not to mention meeting archeologists, tour guides, and local Maya who popped into the store. I became a self-taught Mayaphile and eventually website publishers, Mexican newspapers and magazines, even guidebooks asked me to write for them about the Maya and Mexico. I’ll never stop being enthralled by the culture and history and glad there’s always new news emerging for me to report on right here in Mexico Soul. Please share this post if you know others interested in the Maya. Thank you!
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I don't know if I'm more shocked by the lack of traffic or the 115 peso tank fill!
A fascinating and travel story, Jeanine! You were wise to be wary of situations along the way. When I drove to Guadalajara from San Diego in May of 2012 in my SUV packed with all my belongings, I had lunch in Tucson with a Secret Service officer who warned me not to drive at night and try to avoid staying overnight in Hermosilla because of drug smugglers. But it was almost dark when I arrived at Hermosilla so I had no option but to stop for the night. Fortunately, I found a decent motel with a locked gate for the parking area. Nobody bothered my SUV and I was up and on the road at sunrise. Best regards, amiga.