Ohhhh Mexico

Down on the Yucatan things are a bit different. Bus stops are where ever people happen to be. Houses are huts. Iguanas are pests. And boobies enjoy the nice cool Mexican air while bouncing along the beaches.

Yes the land of the Mayan. Hot, humid and holy cow was it humid. Havyn's hair, due to the dense air moisture was bathed in curls. Everyone else was bathed in sweat.

The Mayan are a humble people. Happy to help, eager to assist and more than willing to be tipped. In fact tipping is the hottest thing in the Yucatan, next to the sand. Tipping is so popular that if you don't participate you get that old why-are-they-pointing-and-whispering-about-me high school sensation. And every situation is a tipping opportunity.

"Do you want to see where the jaguar sleeps?" says a young Mayan at Chitzen Itza. Before I know it, I'm whipping tree branches and vines off my face and hastily trying to keep up with my new amigo in the middle of the jungle. "It is very close," he says as he turns to me, stops and reaches out his hand. "50 Pesos to see it." Okay fine, five bucks, no big deal right. I give it to him and wait for our excursion to head within the belly of the dense jungle. He takes the money and within the next five seconds points to the nearest tree says "aqui" and vanishes back up the path where we came from. Stupid white American I say to myself as I run to catch up.

Not all Mayans are money grubbing opportunists, okay I take that back, they are. At the ruins they line the walkways and follow you like shadows. In the cities, they beg and bark and suffocate with their intrusive haggling techniques. But one thing’s for sure – in their minds all Americans are endless money pits. They see us parading around their shops pointing, grabbing and taking like we’re at a buffet line. Sergio, a bellhop at the resort asked if I would give him some money so he could follow his dream and come to America. Sure I said, how much, as I reached in my pocket to grab a couple pesos. “500 dollars,” he says with a smile. A genuine smile too, no trace of even the faintest ‘gotcha’ smirk. I imagine we created each other. Their low-balling tip grubbing and our haughty little bargaining games are the product of the other. We talk ‘em down to a two for one special then pull out a wad of cash and expect exact change. We must seem so arrogant. They want more ‘cause they believe we have more and in endless supply. It’s a match made in heaven.

Now there were some amazing sights and some amazing ruins. But, the entire Yucatan experience is all about the dinero (and I don’t mean Robert). Even the best of the people we met have the color of money burned in the back of their minds.

On one particular day we hitched a 45 minute bus ride to Playa del Carmen and lapped up the scenery in the little beach town for a few hours. Just before dinner at Senor Frogs we checked out one of the many trinket/jewelry/souvenir shops the city had to offer. The merchant spoke awesome English and dressed slick and sharp. He talked me into trying on an authentic Guatemalan tunic. I plopped my backpack on a chair and tried on several of the surprisingly comfortable shirts. We browsed some more; Ty purchased two toe rings and to dinner we went. On the bus ride home, my sandwiched position between a couple of uncommonly large Mexicans seemed a bit airy. I actually had a few inches to move my legs. I soon discovered the reason. In between my legs, the very place my backpack sat on previous rides, was empty. I had left my passport/plane ticket carrying backpack in some tourist-luring-shamble. Immediately I recalled a conversation with the slick shop owner. After telling him I had no money for the tunic, he offered to trade for my backpack. “This thing cost me 200 bucks man. No way am I trading it.” For some reason, in the course of my life, my little anecdotes and vignettes seem to always end stinging with irony. And now, in this very unfunny situation I imagined my wife, 16-month-daughter and myself learning to make ends meet in a country where its citizens were famously and illegally escaping.

My brother-in-law and I broken-spanished our way out of the bus, crossed the highway and attempted to wave down a bus heading back to the city. Once we got there we were like rats in maze with no wind of cheese in any direction. We would have retraced our footsteps had we been able to locate them. We spent two hours trekking the endless identical streets to no avail. Finally, I saw the slick and sharp merchant hounding some passerbys. I slipped past him and entered his shop. Sitting on the chair in the back of the shop, next to the Guatemalan tunics, was my pack. Everything was still in it. I snagged it and b-lined it to the street. The shop owner smiled, “you didn’t think I sold it did you?” I honestly didn’t no what to say. It was like all my money-grubbing and tip-hungry generalizations I’d so recently formed during the week were being bludgeoned to death by a man I thought to be the used-car-salesman of Mexican hagglers. I mean my whole life was in that pack and he held on to for four hours. I was saddened by my sudden epiphany. What was it about me that made me judge people so quickly? Was I really that cold? How could I so easily doubt the goodness in others?

I put the pack on and motioned to my brother-in-law to follow me back up the street. As we were leaving, our new friend stopped us cold and pushed his hand aggressively toward us.

“Hey man, where’s my tip?”