Cancun-Celestun–Touring With the Wind at Your Back
There is one direct route across the Yucatan, shared by a wide, modern toll road and the narrow old road connecting all the towns and villages. The previous year I had ridden this road on the last leg back to Cancun on a short tour down the Caribbean coast to Tulum, returning via the interior. I had found riding through this flat, featureless country to be challenging, and had gratefully taken time off the bike to visit the highest of the Mayan pyramids at Coba and a nature preserve with wild spider monkeys.
I saw no reason to spend any more time on the main drag, so this time I put the bike on a bus going west to Nuevo Xcan, the junction where I had turned east last time. I guess this was the first successful hitch for the mountain bike, which took up almost all the second baggage hold under the bus. (I usually do a quick fold of the Bike Friday before loading it onto a bus.) Regardless of the size of the bike, you need to have some change available to placate conductors or baggage handlers who decide there is an extra charge to pay.
I rode north away from the highway and soon crossed over the practically empty toll road. (Perhaps I should have tried riding on its shoulder, but I later saw the signs that bicycles were prohibited, and a run-in with the police could have been pretty negative.) For the next week I followed a circuitous route out to the north coast of the peninsula that in took some unusual sights. This was the first time I used the internet in a cafe–in Tizimin– to actually determine my route. I typed in “Rio Lagartos,” found a site with some English, and decided I could try to ride 52 kilometers north into the wind to visit the flamingo reserve. Thanks to my aero-bars, I managed this in reasonable time, and found a sleepy waterfront town that seemed entirely dependent on tourists who came on package tours from the big resorts on the east shore.
I patiently spent the afternoon wandering around the uninspiring streets trying to join up with a small group, but business was slim that day. The next morning I brought my book and sat in the shade until some real tourists arrived in a rental car. Their boat was full, but eventually I teamed up with a couple of Canadians, although I still paid an exorbitant $20, to ride a small launch for an hour through the mangroves to reach the feeding grounds. It was worth it, because this fabulous bird is unlike any other with its outrageously long legs and feathers so luminously pink it seems like it must have been spray-painted for greater visibility!
I didn’t start riding until 3PM, but that was fine since it was only 15 kms to the next town–San Felipe. I had learned on the web that there was camping available here and was anxious to make use of my one-man tent and save a few dollars. There was a minor but interesting complication–the campsite was on one of the small islands that form a protective barrier along the coast. At the end of the malecon there was a big open-walled building where a group of men were relaxing. According to the sign, this was the ferry point, and one of the boatmen pointed out a gleaming sandy beach a couple of miles across the bay and assured me this was a safe place to camp. I was quoted a fare of $5 per round trip for me and my bike, which sounded reasonable.
I went away to get some more water and food for the night. Then I took off the panniers, rolled the bike out along a rickety pier, and lowered it down to the ferryman standing in the bow of the boat. As we raced across the bay with the 40 HP outboard humming, I watched the island grow bigger and wondered what lay ahead. Soon enough we had arrived, my bike and gear were handed up to me, and I was on my own. I pitched my tent under a palapa, the moon came out, the waves lapped gently on the beach, and I settled in for an evening of contemplation.
It cooled down and the insects came out, so I finally retreated into my tent. With the top rolled back, there was just a net between me and the “ambiente.” The sand didn’t make as comfortable a base for my thin air mattress as I had hoped, but the insects couldn’t get to me, so life was pretty good. I understood that the poor people of Mexico live a semi-outdoor existence their whole lives, so they are curious as to why a wealthy gringo would choose to live this way voluntarily. There is no way I could explain to them that this site was as good as it gets.
In the morning I sat by the channel watching the ferry boats arrive and deliver chairs and tables, and not just crates of soft drinks but an entire Coca Cola booth for some event that I later learned was a big wedding. I was looking for the man who driven me over, but he didn’t seem to be in the morning’s rotation and eventually I took the offer from another boat, and was ready to explain that I had already paid for a round trip. However, he didn’t mention a fare, which was a pleasant surprise.
I followed the coast road east for three more days passing crumbling houses and a major wash-out where a hurricane had struck the shore, small salt-evaporation ponds, and finally an endless line of exotic vacation houses leading to the shipping port of Progresso. The road ended at a small bay
called Chuburna. There was a fishing fleet, but no ferry, and no sign of a track on the other shore, so I turned south for another long spin across a back road of the Yucatan. I hooked up with the main highway again in the state capitol Merida for the final day to the west side of the peninsula at Celestun. I took a day off here, got my hair cut, and did some trail riding on the old dirt road to the tip of a small peninsula where stood the ruins of a salt works.
I had no intention of riding east against the trade winds that had given me such a good push for much of the last 500 kilometers, so I rode out of town and tried hitch-hiking. That was a total blow-out, so I went back to the square and waited for a bus. Alas, it was a local service and was too small to take my bike (or even a Bike Friday) in the hold. I moved down to the edge of town where a group of workers was gathered. Their van or “colectivo” arrived and it had no roof rack. Hmmmmm …… I was feeling pretty glum when I got back to the square. There was no where else I could think of to wait so I just hung out on the corner for a while.
Time passed in the Mexican style and along came a rusty colectivo with a full-length roof rack. He was past me before I could make myself seen, but a Mexican driver knows no fear. He jammed on his brakes, leaped out and beckoned me over. Within a minute, the panniers were off, the bike up on top, and we were off. The passengers inside eyed me curiously, but as I have come to expect, no one was curious enough to speak, so I took the hint and settled in for the ride. We zoomed around the back streets of little towns to drop people off and still covered the 100 kilometers in an hour and a half. The fare was less than the bus charged and I was back in Merida in time for the last day of the free Festival of Short Films or “corto metraje.”
After another cultural evening, I set off east riding into the wind for a day, at first on the busy road, but then on back roads to reach Izamal, the town that I consider “the colonial jewel of the Yucatan.” I had difficulty getting a long-distance bus to stop for me, but I doubt having my BF would have helped. That got me back to Valladolid where I stayed three days in the beautiful hostel. I decided to take a detour to Tulum, the last town on the east coast of the Yucatan, and arrived in Cancun with three days to spare. So I mounted up at the bus station, and being pretty familiar with the city’s layout by now, easily found my way to the ferry landing for Isla Mujeres. This time the ferry was not a fishing panga, it was a sleek catamaran at least 65 feet long. The fare was only $3 for me and the bike and it all seemed light years from San Felipe. I waited until all the passengers in line were on board before dragging my bike along the gangplank and down onto the aft deck.
On Isla Mujeres, you can rent a bike or a golf cart, but the favorite vehicle is a moped that makes enough noise you can get out of its way easily. This was my second year here too, and as I biked around the island again, I felt it was really too small to pretend I was doing anything worthwhile. There was also the fact that there were no Americans in the hostel, and none to be seen anywhere off the beaten track come to that, so all the European hostelers (yes, I mean everyone) chain-smoked their way through these beautiful tropical days.
I decided it was time to distinguish myself from the masses and RUN a few miles. Anyway, I had to start getting my legs in shape for the NW multisport season! The next morning I jogged out the door and along the seawall with the tradewinds on my left and the holiday homes on my right. After a mile and a half, I emerged onto the undeveloped center of the island, where I followed a trail about 30 feet above the breakers. This continued past a few trophy homes until there was nothing between me and the big tower at the south end. It was then, I decided I could (probably) run the island from end-to-end. I figured it was about six miles and I was feeling fine. Overall, it had been another memorable journey and now it was time to go home.
Part 3: So I returned to the Mayan Hostel, where my bike box still sat safely on top of the shower room. I pondered selling the bike to a traveler or offering it to the hostel to rent out –but I was definitely taking all the accessories home with me; and there was the broken spoke in the back wheel that I couldn’t replace. I guess I was just getting addicted to dragging that box around, because I took the coward’s way out and boxed it up to take home. Another “slow drag” to the bus station, (13) get on the right bus of course, and there I was for my fifth visit to the airport!
As I worked my way through the line, I was trying not to think about what I would say if I was asked for a “bicycle fee” for the return journey, but I reckoned the Mexicans wouldn’t care so much about this, since it wasn’t going in their pocket! So when I heard the clerk say in clear English that he needed another $84, I didn’t falter, I just said “No thanks, I’ll take it back.” He suggested I use my credit card, I just kept smiling and turned away………
I stood outside in the hot Mexican day again, it looked like the bike and me were finally about to get a divorce–Mexican style! As I pulled the bike out of the box, I realized I had packed the adjustable stem, and pedals in my backpack to cut down on the weight I had to drag. I felt foolish not to have sold the bike the previous evening, surely I could have found a customer? But it was too late for sentiment. I had an hour to spare–I needed to find someone who could invest a few pesos to replace these items, then he’d have a great bike.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it seems I decided that if I just gave it away, it might never get fixed and end up on a dump, so I’d ask for a nominal sum to prove the new owner was motivated to get it running. No takers, they just pointed out what was missing. I needed to find someone who recognized the value of what was there, not what was missing.
I wheeled the bike along the airport concourse, wondering what to do. To the right, though was the maintenance area. I figured, what the heck, the bike has seen me this far, I’ll give it one more chance! I asked for the mechanic’s shop and was directed around to the back. There I saw a well-equipped workbench, I called out and a man in a boiler suit appeared. I told him I was leaving the bike here, the cost was too high, did he want it? He looked doubtful. “Really, it’s yours,” I said. A broad smile appeared on his face.
I shook his hand and left the bike in its new home. I picked up a small cardboard box, stuffed the rack in it, and returned to the check-in counter, making sure I got the same clerk. I plunked the small box down on the scale and told him I wanted to check it please……………. when I strolled out of Portland Airport with a pack on my back and a rack under my arm, I was still smiling.