We continue our motor trek (we are actually traveling north and finally east) along the Yucatán peninsula, we pass through Campeche and beyond Mérida, finally ending at Progreso. We find Progreso uninteresting and drive back to Mérida, where we find a hotel for the night. Although we are having a good time the driving is starting to wear on us, we agree that it's time to find a place to spend some time. Perhaps a nice campsite along the beach somewhere, we resolve to put in at the first acceptable place and do just that. Before we leave Mérida we go shopping, buying hamacas, (hammocks) mosquito netting, a machete, some rope, and various other items we think will be needed for camping.

Traveling Mexico 180 through Yucatán and into Quintana Roo, we reach the small town of Puerto Juarez, from there is a ferry across to Isla Mujeres. We park the Caddie, feeling almost compelled to cross, we've come so far. It turns out to be a good decision. Isla Mujeres is a very small finger- shaped island about seven miles long, but less than a mile across, it is a beautiful spot. As far as the name, (Island of Women) one story tells that the island received its name from the 'fact' that early day pirates used the island to hold females captive while they raided and pillaged. However, a more likely version attributes the name to the large number of female shaped clay idols found on the island by the Spaniards upon their arrival in the 16th century. Although today, (1996) the overflow of tourists from Cozumel and Cancún keeps the island very busy, (the ferry service from Cozumel is hourly) in 1974 there was only a daily ferry from Puerto Juarez and the island was quite sleepy and isolated. We spent the remainder of the day on this enchanting island and decided not to take the evening ferry back to Puerto Juarez. We would spend the night on the island and return to the mainland the following day. The island is small, and although there are interesting sights to see, and many things to do, we, ensconced in our myopia, missed them all, save walking around town, eating, and drinking. That night we stayed at a youth hostel where we met several other Americans and a couple of Canadians, Huey and Jim.

It was our first night sleeping in hammocks and it took a bit of getting used to, I had a hard time getting comfortable and did not sleep well at all. About three in the morning, while adjusting my sleeping position (easier said than done) in the hamaca, I heard a noise. In this particular hostel there was a cafeteria and, of course, a small kitchen. In the kitchen was a refrigerator where sodas and various foodstuffs were stored and subsequently sold to the guests at very modest prices. One of the guests, (American) had slipped into the kitchen and was in the process, under cover of darkness, of pilfering food and drink from the refrigerator. It was possible that he was going to pay in the morning, but by his manner and stealth I was certain he was not. I made not a sound, just watching. I felt sorry for him, he must be either broke or very low on money, . . . but, then again, another side of me suggests that maybe he was just a thieving bastard. In any case, I resolved not to allow myself into that position. I was beginning to seriously doubt that I had enough money to travel to South America and still get back home without going broke in the meantime. Had the first bit of paranoia (reality?) crept into this "life's adventure?". . . Our thief finished his pilfered meal and slipped back to his hammock apparently unaware that he had been observed. The next morning, while the rest of us ate breakfast, he left quietly, without eating, and without paying for his nocturnal snack.

After our breakfast, while sitting on a curb in the street as we waited for the ferry to depart, I sadly announced to my compadres that due to financial considerations, I would not be traveling all the way to South America. It was an emotional moment, at least for me, however they said nothing. I guess it was okay, I think it was okay, I hope it was okay, hell, it had to be okay, I had no choice. As it turned out, they never went to South America either, perhaps they felt the same way. In retrospect, (in retrospect everything seems easier) I now think that I had suffered a severe, well disguised, attack of culture shock. That, coupled with fact that according to the Caddie's odometer we had already traveled over four thousand miles, made it hard for me to deny that I was just too far from home to feel comfortable on short bucks. In the long run, I guess whether or not Joseph and Ed went on to South America or not was their call.

The ferry ride back to Puerto Juarez took about an hour and a half. During this time the Canadians, Huey and Jim, whom we had met the night before at the Poc-Na hostel, struck up a conversation with us. They were fishermen, Huey owned a fishing boat and fished out of Vancouver Island, Canada. Jim fished with him, their fishing season was now over and they were spending the off time here in Mexico, pretty much doing the same thing we were. They originally had driven to Mexico in a new car purchased out of the profits of the past fishing season, but decided to put it into storage at Vera Cruz and were now using public transportation. We asked why, it seemed Huey had become suspicious of the women that had been traveling with them when it appeared they were more enamored with their car than with them. Sure enough, when the car went into storage, the women went into oblivion, never to be seen again. We, of course had no way of knowing the truth of the matter, but we really didn't care. The upshot was they wondered if we could give them a ride down toward Tulum. We were heading that way and said that we would. Although we took Huey and Jim at their word, Huey, at least to me, did not represent the picture that came to my mind when I thought of the owner of one of those ocean going commercial boats in Vancouver Island's fishing fleet. I think Joseph was a little dubious also, and Joseph had first hand knowledge, he had done some serious deep sea fishing and, although in Southern California waters, had skippered fishing boats as well.

We all settled into the Caddie, their stuff stored in the trunk along with ours, filling it nicely. Huey was forty or so, big beard, missing a front tooth, wearing a big hat, about five ten and a stout two ten, maybe two twenty. Along with Jim, he younger at about twenty-five, a rangy six footer going a lean one eighty, both Canadians larger than Ed's five eight, maybe one fifty, they brimmed out the back seat as well. The Caddie sat just a little lower and I think the exhaust noise was just a little louder, over all, we must have been quite a sight. I tried to imagine what kind of picture we presented to a local Maya, five large Caucasians in that Caddie. I shudder at the thought.

As we continue driving down Mexico 30 south to Tulum, we talk about future plans, they have none!!!!! Our plans will work well for them too, they ask if they can camp with us . . . hey we'll all camp together. Yeah, great idea. Now, I've spent a lot of time with Joseph over the years, and in a lot of different situations, and although he can be difficult at times, to know him is to love him. With an almost uncanny half step on the rest of the pack, he casually mentions to Huey and Jim.

"Hey listen you guys, nothing personal, but five guys is too many for very long in one car, so after we get through camping, we're all back on our own again, aay?" (Joseph was born in Sault Ste. Marie on Michigan's upper peninsula, so of course, he spoke fluent Canadian). Everyone agreed, and we all enjoyed ourselves with a somewhat overdone, hearty laugh. I was immensely relieved, and almost all the color returned back into Ed's face.

We found a spot down the beach from the ruins at Tulum. The ideal campsite, it was off the water up above the beach in sort of a transitional area, actually an old coconut plantation, which separated beach from jungle. But well short of any insect laden jungle vegetation. We made some inquiries and learned that the coconut plantation was now abandoned, the land had been sold and would soon be developed into a modern resort. It would be all right to camp there. We were very happy, this was paradise. The Caribbean is particularly beautiful here with its turquoise waters and pure white sandy beaches, and all totally isolated, we are miles from town. We feel completely secure, this is as much as we had ever hoped for, it was just plain 'bitchen.' The five of us went to work setting up a nice camp, each person had all the gear necessary to set himself up, so everything worked out nicely. There was plenty of room for each to have privacy but also a common area so everything was easy for meals, drinking, and other social activities. The Canadians turn out to be really nice guys and we all get along wonderfully. Of course, why wouldn't we? We're living in fuckin' paradise.

Mornings, we're up early and right into the 80+ degree water armed with Hawaiian slings trying to spear breakfast. The truth is we don't have much luck with swimming fish, it's almost impossible (for us anyway) to hit anything with a Hawaiian sling, but we are able to capture caracol, (sea snails) and Joseph has figured a way to get the little bastards out of their shells. We then soak them in lime juice (Joseph's recipe) and eat them, ceviche style. To this day Joseph loves sushi, I have often wondered if this is where that love was born. There are some hippies camping further down the beach in a very isolated area, who, for some reason, don't have a machete, they borrow ours and procure coconuts from the abandoned groves. They climb the trees with great dexterity and retrieve the nuts, they give some to us in exchange for using the machete, a great deal for everyone. I notice that they are very slim (skinny) and very tan, they appear to have been camped there for a long time. They speak little as they return our machete along with our share of the coconuts. These, along with our daily ceviche, and whatever other food we have on hand, constitute breakfast. A little later in the day we go into town for a real meal, various foodstuffs, supplies, and of course plenty of beer.

So, with everything going perfect and thinking it couldn't be any better, the impossible happens, things do get better. After three or four days, our coconut gathering hippie friends make us an offer we can't refuse. They have no money, but they do have pot, they ask if we would be interested in buying some, they have four ounces for sale. We accept, and they sell it to us for a whopping sixteen bucks worth of pesos. Now we descend (or ascend) into a really completely totally non-productive life style, and after a couple of weeks, paradise begins to take its toll. One night after dinner, while sitting around the old campfire drinking tequila and smoking pot, a disagreement (about what, I don't remember) breaks out between Joseph and Jim. An argument ensues, it then escalates to bitter words, hard looks, and winds up in a place where neither can back down. Before anyone can slow things down, they are eyeball to eyeball, you could cut the tension with a knife, but Huey calms Jim down, I step forward in the same role with Joseph and disaster is averted. Everything is forgiven in the morning, but not forgotten. The next day, after Ed, Joseph, and I have had a chance to talk privately, we announce that we will be heading out the morning of the following day. We all, somewhat self-consciously, decide that our last night together will be one of celebration. We do just that, saying our goodbyes later that same night. They will be staying on in paradise, and we will be leaving at dawn the next morning. We pack everything that night so all we have to do in the morning is take down our hamacas and get into the Caddie.

I am the first to awaken, I look to the east and see a faint gray light on the horizon. It is time, I nudge Joseph, he wakes up and Ed does as well. Ed asks the time, no one knows, let's just go. We pack up our hamacas, blankets, and mosquito netting, and walk to the car, Huey and Jim don't even wake up. We start the Caddie and we are on our way down Mexico 307 toward Chetumal. We attribute our tiredness not only to the early hour, but our farewell party with Huey and Jim the night before. Joseph is driving, I am in the front and Ed is in the backseat going back to sleep. It starts to rain a little, the first we've seen, it is very refreshing. I fiddle with the radio and to our surprise, I am able to tune in an AM station from home, well, Brownsville Texas, with perfect clarity. It is nice to hear something from home, even from Texas. We are enjoying top forty radio as it becomes evident that something is strange, the sun is not coming up. Just as we are getting very suspicious, the radio gives the time, five past three in the morning. Folsom, you are a f---ing idiot, . . . but just as well, it really starts raining hard now, it's pouring. We just laugh it off, fire up a joint and continue through the jungle, trimming back the trees as we go.

MEXICO CHRONICLES ( Return to Contents)

Copyright 1996 by R.P. Folsom. All rights reserved.