I Hope Someone Up There is Having a Good Laugh

So where was I? Oh yes, puking out my guts and my hostel bathroom. Now, the situation wouldn't have been quite so bad had the blaring music come back and lasted from about 8 PM until 4 AM. It's unpleasant enough to puke up the sandwich you ate for dinner, especially when it includes entire chunks of mushrooms (I need to chew my food better), but somehow even more unpleasant when you're listening to really, really crappy techno on repeat. Then, just to add insult to injury, my air conditioner decided to stop working and it was probably the hottest night I'd stayed there. So, I got out of bed every couple hours to go puke my guts out, and then in between those puking segments I was lying under just a single sheet in the hottest room you can imagine. OK OK-I admit I'm being slightly dramatic, but when you're trying to sleep and you can't because you're sweating profusely, 80+ degrees with humidity makes any room starts to feel like a Bikram yoga studio.

 

Needless to say, (but I'm going to say it [or rather write it] anyway) I didn't get much, if any sleep. I texted Joel right away because we were supposed to meet for breakfast in town before leaving on the bus (he was heading to the airport and I to Cancun to figure out my passport situation) and I told him I wasn't sure if I would be able to muster my strength to get out of bed. Now naturally, the day that I began my vomiting streak, Joel finally felt better. Because, of course. 

So Joel came to meet me at the hostel and had breakfast (just looking at it made me want to hurl). We finished packing up my stuff and checked out, then dreaded to the station to catch our 10:30 ADO bus to Cancun. The ride back was bittersweet; we chatted idly along the way while Erin Brockovich played in Spanis on the TV screens. He and I went through a lot and I'd certainly consider him a good friend. Even though our relationship kicked off with my threat to mace and/or stab him. 

In Cancun, we had our emotional, but not over-the-top emotional (I mean, we'd see each other again in Boulder so big deal). Then he nabbed a cab to the airport, and I to the Ramada. 

Now, before Joel left, we made a major mistake by not checking the amount of cash I had left. A mistake that would come to haunt me more than once over the next few days. 

My friend in the States had booked me a three night stay at the Ramada in Cancun and thought it had been paid for. His card was on file with them, but for God knows what reason, they needed the PHYSICAL card in spite of having ALL of the details for it when the reservation was made. People are idiots. 

 

I told them I didn't have enough cash for three nights, food, cabs and a passport, and guess what look I got? Yes the "I don't give two shits" look. I paid her for one night in cash and decided to figure out the rest later. I then asked the receptionist where I could get passport photos taken because I had an appointment with the consul of the next morning. She gave me these very vague directions and I asked if the place was in walking distance and she said yes. however, since I could barely understand her muddled Spanish and I still had no idea where I was going, I decided to take a cab and just tell the cab driver to take me to a place where I can get passport photos taken. 

It was actually a lady cabdriver, which was my first one in Mexico, but whatever I'm not sexist. She seemed to know where she was going. I walked into the sketchy looking little photo shop where they take graduation photos and quincinera ones and all that good BS. I asked them for passport photos, they told me to take a seat, and so I did. They said they would be with me im just a moment and that it shouldn't take longer than 10 minutes.

Now, remember that I had been puking my guts out all night day, I looked like total shit, and I hadn't been able to shower. So keep that in mind as you listen to the next part of the story. I walked into the photo area, where this old man took one look at me give me a concerned expression and asked me if I wanted to "fix my face" or at the very least "comb my hair." Wow, what a compliment! Take me now, sailor!

                                                         

I told him no, I did not want to fix my face, I'd rather remember this horror of a trip with a picture to match. He took the photos, handed them to me, and I returned to the hotel where I began yet another puking session the onset of which came from half a Gatorade. 

I spent the rest of the evening watching Coraline, which if you haven't seen it is creepy as all hell, and fell in and out of sleep and delirium, ready for my appointment with the consulate the next morning. Or, at least I thought I was... 

Mexican Maladies

I was starting to believe that I had a curse upon me, seeing as how right when I arrived Joel got sick. The kind of food poisoning you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. We called it an early night and he headed to his hostel and I to mine. I had this nutty idea that I would somehow get good sleep at Humble Bumble. Not the case. Music began blasting around 9 pm and didn't stop until 2 or 3 in the morning. I don't mean the kind of loud music you can block out with ear plugs, by the the way.

It made me look back at my late teens and early twenties and wonder how on Earth I had the energy to do that while traveling- stay up until the wee hours and dancing and chatting and drinking. I am so, so over it. 

The next morning, Joel met me at Humble Bumble because mine had free breakfast, but he decided his stomach was still too wonky to try and eat at the moment. So I scarfed down my omelette and we headed to the beach. Joel was beginning to get weak from the food poisoning, so we took a cab. Then we spent essentially the entire day on the beach, lying in the sun and alternating between reading and napping and, in my case, journaling. It was so relaxing for me but I felt horrible for Joel. He just seemed to feel worse and worse as the day progressed. Finally, after having been on the beach for like 9 hours, we headed to a nearby restaurant where I ordered him s side of white rice to try and get something in him. I had beans and rice and friend plantains, as well as some of the best guac I've ever had.

After eating some of his rice, Joel straight up had to lie down, which was fortunate because we were eating on a couch. We then walked slowly to find a cab that took us to a pharmacy so I could pick up some NyQuil for Joel which they didn't even have so I just got something just looked like NyQuil. We then went our separate ways. 

The next day when Joel met me for breakfast, he looked so extremely depleted. Much to both of our surprise and delight, there hadn't been any music the night prior at either of our hostels so we finally got a good night of rest. Joel was so low on energy he didn't even think he could make it to the beach. So I went for a quick jog, he lied in a lawn chair and waited for my return.

When I got back, I had sweat trickling from areas I didn't know sweat could come from. I was ready for a shower, and needed it especially after 7 days without one. I got into the shower with a head dribbling out cold water at the lowest water pressure you can imagine, soaped myself up from head to toe, and then guess what happened? The water ran out after about two minutes. I mean, I was so annoyed but based on how the trip had panned out so far, I wasn't shocked. So I put a mug under the tiny trickle of water dripping from the sink until it was full and then repeated until I got the soap off of me. It was the most magical shower of my life. 

Afterwards, I returned to Joel who was then lying in a hammock reading. I lied down on a lawn chair beside him and did the same. I told him I was going to venture into town for a bit to try and find him meds and get myself a drink from Starbucks. Town was relatively close, and it took me no more than ten minutes to find some Pepto at a pharmacy. That finally seemed to improve Joel's condition, but he was still so weak and just wanted to lie around and read, which was fine with me. At the end of the evening, he took the cab back to his hostel and I went to my room in mine. And that's where my six-seven day saga of puking and nausea began. 

 

At Least Things Can't Get Any Worse

Prior to boarding the bus to Tulum, a British girl asked me if it was the bus to Tulum. I told her it was, and she asked me what was wrong because YES I had been crying, which I guess was very apparent. I told her about my recent robbery, and she expressed how sorry she was and told me to tell her if she could do anything to help. 

While riding the bus to Tulum, my mind was blank. I am surprised that I wasn’t panicking or at least trying to formulate some plan in my mind about what to do next, how to go about getting money without any identification and without any credit or debit cards. But I just wasn’t. Maybe my brain was simply exhausted from the mental strain through which it had been in Cuba and was just over residing within my skull, finally ready to mutiny against its stupid owner. So I just rode the bus while staring out the window blankly. 

When the bus pulled into the station in Tulum, I realized that I was screwed once again unless I could magically come across enough money for a cab or if I were magically within walking distance of my hostel or a very sympathetic cabby. The latter seemed highly unlikely. Then I remembered my British bus-mate. I walked up to her after grabbing my bag and she happily obliged to loan me money, and said she would just share a cab with me. It ended up being illogical to do so since our hostels were in entirely different directions, but I appreciated it anyway. She told me her name was Lucy, and to come to her hostel if I needed anyone else. Thanks to Lucy’s generosity, I was able to make it to my hostel. I told the receptionist, a frighteningly tall and serious German woman that since I had no money, I had no way to pay unless she used the card on file that I used for the reservation. She asked if I was planning to cancel it ASAP, and I said good point, and she took pity on me and said we could figure it out later. 

I got in touch with Joel, told him I had arrived in Tulum, and asked him to meet me at the Humble Bumble Hostel. Yes, that is a real hostel, and that is its real name. 

 

Now, a lot of you may be reading this blog series and thinking “wow, it really can’t get any worse for Marisa.” Okay, go ahead and take that perspective you pessimist! While I am admittedly not the most optimistic of individuals, I just had to keep a little spark of hope. It actually turned into a running joke with one of my other friends back home with whom I was communicating and who also saved my bony ass more than once while I was away- we kept saying “well, at least it can’t get any worse."

 

At the very least, I still had my phone. And all of my limbs. The phone was a major one, since I used it to coordinate with people back home. The amazing friend to whom I continuously refer had arranged to send money directly to Joel, who then could use his ATM card to withdraw the money for me. Joel paid German receptionist woman for the first night, we rented bikes, and rode to the beach. 

Another “uplifting” aspect of being robbed was that I really only had one valuable to keep track of- my phone. So, that was slightly liberating. See? I was still a glass half full kind of gal at that point. 

 

We arrived at the beach after a rather lengthy bike ride just as the sky was beginning to darken. It really was picturesque; the sun setting and giving way to glimmering stars as day transitioned to night. We took off our shoes and strolled along, enjoying the smells of the ocean and people watching. 

Things were looking up. Plus, as my friend back home and I would joke, things couldn't get any worse, right? Just as that thought hit me, Joel announced that he wasn’t feeling well at all, and that we needed to find a bathroom right away.