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. 

An Ode to Stolen Stamps

Just the realization that I was on a plane carrying me away from my Cuban airport prison back to the US made me giddy. The Argentinian was right: the nightmare was over. For now. It was a short flight to Miami, and then a relatively brief layover before I my next flight to Cancun booked for me by my amazing friend back home. I was not ready to throw in the towel on this trip. I would not be defeated by a "simple hiccup" in Cuba. 

I figured returning to Cancun was logical. I knew someone there, and wouldn't be isolated and penniless while planning for the next leg of my trip. There was still Guatemala to look forward to, and who knows where else?

 

 

One of the most beautiful landings I've ever seen. 

My flight arrived in Cancun in the evening, and since Joel was staying in Tulum, which is about two hours away by bus, he and I decided it would be best for me to stay in Cancun overnight and leave the next day to meet him. I found a nice hotel at a low price. It was relaxing, close to the bus station and had free breakfast and a gym (both essential hotel perks). I spent the evening on the treadmill and then watching The Simpsons in Spanish in my room. Unfortunately, the air conditioning in the gym didn't work so I was sweating bullets like a wrestler trying to go down a weight class. I couldn't last long in there. 

Upon waking the next morning and scarfing down a scrumptious breakfast, I was anxious to get moving to Tulum. The hotel was nice, but I was ready to see the beach again and try and even out my splotchy lobster looking skin that was already beginning to peel. I went down to the bus station to see what my options were as far as venturing from Cancun to Tulum. There was one direct bus, but it wasn’t scheduled to leave until a little after one, and it was only about 10:30. My other option was to go to Playa del Carmen first, and then transfer buses to head to Tulum. I decided to go with option two. Looking back, if I hadn’t… oh right, I decided earlier to stop it with the “ifs”. There really is no point. 

So, I boarded the bus to Playa del Carmen. A random Mexican woman sat beside me. Writing about this now makes me want to go back there, furiously shake myself, and beg myself to get off that bus and wait for the direct one to Tulum. At the very least, I would give my past self a cup of coffee to keep me from falling asleep, or do something to convince myself to sit anywhere else possible on the bus. Yet alas, as they say, hindsight is 20/20. I’m sure you can all see where this is going. Or, at least can tell from my ominous foreshadowing that it’s not going in a good direction for me. 

I put my little security purse containing all of my money, my passport, my driver’s license and my credit and debit cards in the top part of my backpack, zipped it up, and had it in my lap. I held it there with a bit more of a death grip than was necessary until I couldn’t stay awake anymore. The gentle rocking back and forth of the bus put me right to sleep. Upon waking, my seat neighbor was gone. We had made a stop on the way to Playa del Carmen and I am sure she got off there; I didn't see her anywhere on the bus. The top of my backpack was open. My purse containing my money, diver's license, passport, credit cards and my full punch card to get a free lunch buffet at my favorite Indian restaurant was gone. I searched my backpack in vain. I tore it apart. Then the panic set in. My robber had left. As we pulled into the bus terminal in Playa del Carmen, I told the bus driver.  But what were we to do? Ask the passengers which one of them stole my belongings? Because, naturally they would fess up right away. Plus, I was 99.999% sure that it was me seat neighbor and she had long since departed the bus. 

The bus emptied out, and I continued to search madly through my backpack, between the seats, under the seats, in the overhead storage bins, and gave up. The bus employees gave a half-assed attempt at a search but basically just glanced around, and one even had the gall to tell me that I probably just lost it somewhere before getting on the bus. No. I. Did. Not!

I departed the bus in a panic. I told the lady in charge of security for the busses. She was of little help; all she did was take down my name and told me to go talk to the tourist police. I told them what happened, and all the officer did was write down an address in the least caring manner, passed it to me, and told me to go file a police report. I asked him how I was supposed to get there by cab if I had zero money, and he just shrugged and gave me that damned "look." 

I asked a nearby cab driver if he would accept my pathetic ten peso coin and he simply laughed at me. I asked another if the address the cop had handed me was within walking distance. He simply laughed at me. So there I stood. Hopeless, helpless, penniless, passport-less. 

Let me say that losing a passport is something over which I grieve intensely. I lost one in Los Angeles once and am STILL trying to get over the loss of all of those glorious stamps and my visa from studying in Spain. Now, I had lost another, containing stamps from over 20 countries as well as my visas from Ghana, India and Japan. I am not sure if I will ever truly get over the loss. 

I didn't know what to do. All I knew was I had to get to Tulum. I put on my best sad puppy-dog face and walked up to the lady at the bus ticket counter. I started to cry, and she gave me a gentle look and a free bus ticket to Tulum. With my head hung low and tears welling up behind my eyes, I boarded the bus, wondering what kind of trouble was still ahead of me....

The Good, the Bad, and the Cubans

So there I was, feeling alienated on the planet Cuba. I was starting to feel hopeless, but I was nowhere near my breaking point. I refused to believe that Interjet had no way of charging my credit card, so I decided to go wait in the ominously long line to check in with Interjet. I figured that surely, someone up there at one of the check-in counters would take pity on me. After almost an hour standing in line, I explained my situation to the lady at the counter. She started shaking her head and giving me the "look" before I could even get out my whole story. She pointed right back at the customer service counter from which I had just come, and said to talk to the agent there. I furiously wheeled around and walked back to the man. I whipped out my best Spanish, and told him that there had to be a way for him to call the international Interjet number and have them charge my card. At this point, he wasn't even trying to give me a look that said he was attempting to care. It had degraded to a blank stare. He just said no and told me to try asking a US or Canada based airline. 

I was willing to try anything at that point. If he had told me to perform some crazy Aboriginal dance to the travel gods while holding a black widow and eating maggots I'd have done it. I sprinted over to the office for Air Canada, who told me that the only way was for me to go to their offices in downtown Havana. Wow, real helpful. Thanks for that, Air Canada. The office next to them was some Russian airline, but the angry shouting coming from within made me think otherwise about asking them for help.

American Airlines and Spirit didn't even have offices, so I wandered back out to the main part of the airport to try and figure out another option I could try. In vain, I attempted the ATMs again, and then went to the lady manning the desk at the VIP money exchange, hoping to skip the massive line of ordinary, non-VIP folk. She said she had no idea what I was talking about and to get into the normal line. I waited another 30 or 45 minutes, which was staring to feel like the new normal. I explained to the dude at the counter that none of my cards worked at any of the stupid cajero machines and begged him to help. He reached down, opened a drawer and pulled out a credit card machine. I almost freaked out on him. Was everyone behind a desk secretly hiding a credit card machine?! I didn't freak out though, because it seemed like this time someone was actually going to help me. I still held on to a shred of hope. He ran my first card, and the machine printed a tiny piece of paper that said "no aceptar." I handed him the next card. No aceptar. Finally, my last card. No aceptar. The man looked at the cards, then at me, then back at the cards. It looked like something clicked in his brain. He asked me if the cards were from the United States. When I confirmed that they were, he gave me the "look" and explained that as of rather recently, no place in Cuba will accept any card coming from the US. 

My head started spinning from the gravity of that statement. It meant that even if I managed to find a way out of the airport, I'd never be able to pay for anything out there on Planet Cuba. I walked away slowly, and I'm amazed I managed to keep my jaw from hanging ajar. 

I found a sign saying that there was a place where I could buy an internet access card outside. I walked out and to the little shop. A burly Cuban stood in front of the door and asked what I wanted. I told him I needed internet access and he did this weird jazz hands thing and said "ooooh the internet! You must be from the States!" I was in no mood for mockery, so I just started walking away. He apologized and opened the door for me. I went in and told the lady I needed the smallest time frame I could pay for and that I only had a few dollars. She informed me that the smallest dose of internet they sold cost exactly one dollar more than I had. I believed that for a hot second. Then she and her colleague gave me the damn "look." 

I don't know why I kept going back to the Interjet guy. He certainly wasn't sympathetic or helpful. Part of me thinks it's because he never had a line or was helping anyone else. I decided to plead to him one more time. I begged him to please call the international line that I knew existed. I told him I needed to get on the flight. The whole time I stood there groveling, he simply shook his head at me. He then informed me that the flight was full and I would have to wait until the next day anyway. It was right around then, when I realized that literally no one would help me, that I almost broke. I put my back against the wall and slowly slid down to a seat as I began to cry. My mind went blank for a few moments and I almost gave up. But human resiliency is a beautiful thing, and we often underestimate it. I knew I had to escape my new prison cell, the Havana airport. 

I walked over to the American Airlines counters. I stood in the business class line because it was nice and short, and I figured the customer service person at every counter would reject me anyway so I might as well get the rejection sooner. The person at the counter apparently had some major issue that took a good 30 minutes to solve, so it turns out I would have actually been better off in the regular line. Go figure. When it finally came to be my turn, I realized that I didn't yet have a specific story or request. I walked up to the man at the counter who asked me how I was. For whatever reason, I blurted out that I was terrible and trapped in Cuba and just needed to get on a flight, any flight, out of there. I looked at him. He looked at me. But it wasn't the "look" that I had learned to expect. It was a different look altogether; one of compassion and caring. I told him I was on the verge of tears and he asked that I please not cry in front of him because he would get me taken care of. He quickly reserved me a seat on the upcoming flight to Miami and called the American Airlines international line from his cell phone. He handed me his phone and told me to tell whomever answered that I needed them to process my credit card right away so I could get on the flight leaving in an hour. While I was on hold, he helped a girl who was behind me and in a similar predicament, but since she had cash she was in luck and skipped off happily to make the flight while I was still on hold. 

As the elevator music droned on the phone and it felt like the last bits of sand were trickling out of my hourglass, the man helping me asked if I had to check my backpack. I said yes (because when I arrived in Cuba, I realized that my mace and knife were in my carry on and managed to get through Colombian security. Whoops). He asked why and I pulled out the mace and knife and placed them on the counter. "Woah," he said, taken aback, "remind me not to go on a date with you! But really, can you throw them away if it means you make this flight?" I nodded furiously and finally a lady on the other end of the phone answered. I incoherently blubbered my story out to her and I could tell she was giving me the "look" over the phone. She informed me that she simply couldn't process a payment so close to the flight. I hung my head and ended the call. I told the man what happened. He said he wasn't surprised and had also booked me a seat on a flight to Miami the next morning. He then handed me his cell phone again and told me to use it to call anyone in the US I needed to as many times as I needed to. He gave me the confirmation number and said to tell whomever I got ahold of that they just needed to call American Airlines, give them the confirmation and have them charge a credit card. After a number of calls that probably cost the poor guy a fortune, my friend answered and agreed to finish booking the flight. I had never felt so thankful to have those two in my life at that moment.

At that point, it looked like the airport was closing down. No one stood in line for any airline or to change money, and the employees were starting to trickle out and head home. The man at the counter motioned for me to come a bit closer. He looked around a bit to make sure no one was watching and then slid something to me under his hand. It was the equivalent to about $200 USD in Cuban currency. He told me to use it for cabs and food and a place to stay. He then told a couple of other American Airlines employees sitting nearby that I had just found some money in a secret pocket and needed a place to stay and asked if they knew where I could go. I asked him what they were talking about because they were saying a bunch of words unfamiliar to me and he shrugged and said he didn't know because they were speaking Cuban. I asked where he was from and he said Argentina and that, like me, he couldn't wait to get out of there. 

I almost cried again, this time not from sadness but from sheer relief at his unbelievable kindness. I didn't know what else to do besides thank him profusely and he simply waved it off and said he could just as easily be in my position. One of the other American Airlines employees asked me if having some internet access would be helpful and I said yes and he jetted off saying he'd be right back with some internet time. The other employee then told my Argentinian savior man where I should stay, and they arranged it for me and gave me the address. I gave the Argentinian one of the biggest hugs of which I was physically capable and he said to be at the airport the following morning around 6:30 and that he'd see me then. 

The man who'd run off to get the internet access card returned and then handed it to me and walked with me outside to get a cab at the request of the Argentinian. On my way out, the Interjet employee from earlier walked past me and recognized me. He winked at me and said "remember next time, on the Planet Cuba, bring plenty of cash." I wanted to slug him hard in the face. 

My Cuban cab driver confused me as he literally would hear me say something clear as day in Spanish and say he couldn't understand me, and I would repeat it in the exact same manner and he would then all of a sudden understand me. It got annoying rather quickly. But then, it had been a very, very long day. 

Another quick side note- in Cuba, the main and most popular places to stay are spare rooms in the homes of Cubans. So that's where I went to stay. At a home about 10 minutes from the airport. All of the homes we had driven past were vibrantly colored but well protected by tall metal fences and gates as well as multiple locks. The cars would be the dream of any collector. People mingled on their neighbors' porches and simply talked. 

My home stay was at a mint green abode on the street corner belonging to an older couple and their two dogs, a bulldog named Ron (Spanish for rum) and a basset hound named Irene. My room was rather spectacular considering it was around $25 a night. The couple with whom I stayed were so loving and welcoming. They simply told me to be careful and not leave the premises but told me to feel free to walk around in their little garden. The lady and I bonded over her gnome- I told her that I once collected them. I wandered the garden for a short while and watched the picturesque sunset. 

 

 

 

At one point, we were all seated around the kitchen table, just talking. They seemed excited and curious about Colorado, and asked me if that's where all Westerns are filmed. I showed them pictures of snow and of my guinea pigs, and every single one delighted them. The lady informed me that their dog Irene was pregnant and probably going to have puppies that night. I said no way- she wasn't nearly fat enough yet. 

 

I went to bed early and got up early. I wasn't going to miss that flight, no matter what. I hopped in a cab, my host parents gave me kisses and hugs and I was off. At one point, the cab driver pulled over and let five other people pile into the back seat, saying they were all going to the airport too. They all clearly had no idea I spoke Spanish because they kept talking about how crazy I was to let them ride along. Whatever, people, crazy was starting to take on a whole new meaning to me.

I got to the airport a little after six. The check-in counters weren't even open yet. I waited anxiously as the American Airlines employees began to filter in and set up shop. I wondered if the Argentinian would be there. I saw him walk in and couldn't help but smile. I was there because of him, and my friend who had completed the transaction in the US. While I waited in line, he caught my eye and waved, motioning for me to make sure to go to his counter. I had to let a couple of people go ahead of me to make that happen, but of course I did. He asked me how I slept. "Marisa, your nightmare has ended," he said as he handed me my boarding pass. I wanted to cry, laugh and smile all at once. I was feeling a bit crazed. He told me to give him a hug, so I did, and I also gave him my favorite collection of Oscar Wilde short stories, inside of which I had scrawled a thank you note. 

I couldn't believe it. I was getting out. I can't imagine how people who are seriously trapped in much worse situations  feel upon finding freedom. Relief washed over me as I made my way through immigration and security and to my gate. My nightmare had ended. Or, so I thought…

La Planeta Cuba (The Planet Cuba)

There is no way in which to reader's digest this next part of my story, and yes, I did just make reader's digest a verb. So get really comfortable before you read this. I mean, throw on your favorite slippers and grab a cup of coffee. Get your game face ON. Is it on? Make your game face at the computer! Come on, no one is looking. Or are they?!

I awoke multiple times during my first night abroad, mostly due to insanely loud animal sounds, some of which may have actually been people. Eventually I threw in the towel on the concept of sleep, went for a brief run and then ate breakfast on the beach. Afterwards, Joel went off to get a massage and I fell asleep in the sun in the sand. Yes, I got burned with weird tan lines so now I look like a splotchy lobster. Big whoop, wanna fight about it? 

 

Soon after, I headed to the airport and Joel to Tulum. I assumed we had parted ways forever. I gave him one of the "last looks" that I've given to so many over the years.

 

So, I mentioned in the last blog that part of my journey included an upgrade to first class (it was a side note in parentheses- if you are skipping my parentheses notes stop doing that. Although if you still are, you won't see this plea to stop). So herein lies that part of the story- my first class flights with Avianca to Cuba via Colombia. First class is pretty great, except when it's your first time in first class and you look like a total Buffon for not knowing that the TV is hidden in the armrest and that you have to open the armrest, push down on the TV, pull it up, turn it slightly to the left and then do the hokey pokey to get it to the right place. At least I wasn't alone in my confusion; it was clearly my seat neighbor's first time in first class too. 

Right when I sat down the flight attendant asked me if I wanted some champagne or orange juice. I felt all cool asking for champagne, and then felt like an alcoholic because all of my other first class comrades got OJ. Oh well. I watched Snowden, and it was seriously awesome. That had always been a movie that I've told myself to see over and over and then never got around to actually doing. I'm glad I finally ran out of excuses and watched it.

 

I landed in Colombia rather late, so I just asked the cab driver to take me somewhere close. He seemed like a nice dude but I was a little creeped out when he kept calling me his queen. So another nice night's sleep, and I awoke at the butt crack of dawn for my flight to Cuba. 

Right about now is when my problems really start.

Let me back track a moment, because without background info I will sound like an idiot in later parts of this story. So, I knew months in advance that I would need a tourist visa to travel to Cuba. I tried to obtain one in the States and never heard back from the Cuban embassy. I finally found out via my airline that you just buy them at airplane ticket counters. I tried to buy one in Mexico without luck, as they just told me to get it in Colombia. At my gate for my flight to Havana, they were selling the tourist visas for cash only and I felt hesitant to use any of my remaining cash, but had no other choice. I went to a Colombian ATM and couldn't get my cards to work before it was time to board.

The reason I didn't have a complete meltdown freak out right then and there over not bringing enough cash with me to the airport was that I had read in multiple reputable sources including my Lonely Planet guidebook to Cuba that all American debit and credit cards work at the ATMS in Cuba. You can probably see where this is going, and it's not somewhere good. 

So I boarded the plane (little did I know it was the plane to hell) and enjoyed first class service again to Havana. I remember how jittery with excitement I felt when I arrived in Cuba. I felt like a little kid. I peered out the window our entire descent and marveled at how tiny the airport was. We didn't have a gate, so we descended a flight of stairs to the tarmac and followed some airport employee inside. I knew going to Cuba would feel like going back in time, and it really was. 

Immigration was a breeze, but of course my checked bag was lost in transit (I guess I shouldn't be saying "of course" yet- it was far too early in the trip for me to start expecting things to go wrong. That time will come further into my series). Unfortunately for me, that meant the loss of a bit more cash as I had left some in a coat pocket and forgot and packed it. I was about to find out just how desperately I needed that cash. 

I figured out my lost checked bag situation with the lost checked bag situation people and then moved on. 

I had also read online and in reputable sources that Verizon works in Cuba, though the service is still a bit spotty. However, even with roaming on and all those lovely expensive options for getting service abroad enabled, I still kept getting the words "no service" at the top left corner of my screen. 

This presented a problem in that the people at the home where I was planning to stay told me to contact them once I arrived and they could come get me (another reason I hadn't worried much about getting cash- I wouldn't need to fret over paying for transportation). Alas, without internet for email and without a working cell, I had no idea how I was supposed to contact them. Because the country has remained unchanged for so many decades, there are still heaps of phone booths in existence. There were no instructions on the booths; just the phones themselves with a slot to insert your credit card. Cash wasn't an option, and my cards weren't working. Great.

It was about that time when I figured I should probably hit up an ATM and get some cash. I approached the first of many cajeros automáticos and inserted my debit card. I entered the pin and selected my withdrawal amount. A message began blinking on the screen. My transaction had been denied. I tried again with a different pin. Same message. I then tried all three cards, each of which with every single possible pin I would use. No luck. I then went to the ATM right next to it. Same situation. 

Anxiety began to swell within me, and I decided to go downstairs to see if by some magic my host family was waiting for me. They weren't. I was being hassled left and right by cab drivers, and finally I snapped at one and said I didn't have cash. He pointed at another cajero automático and told me to try it. I did, once again, with no luck no matter what card/pin combo I used. I told the cab driver who was anxiously waiting that it didn't work. He gave me the first of many "looks" that I was to receive in Cuba.

The "look" that I am talking about is very specific. It's the look that says "man, I really want to look like I care about your plight, but I don't want to actually put in the effort to pretend I care, and you are pathetic, and your sad little problems just don't matter to me." The "look" is usually accompanied by a shrug or the cocking of one's head to the side. You can also imagine the looker saying something like "bless your heart" sarcastically or "I wish I could help you but..." 

 

 

So the cab driver gave me the "look" and walked away to pester someone else. Things were starting to look grim for me. I asked two people at two different information booths if they would let me use their phone to make a local call. What did I get in response? You got it, the "look." Around this time, I was fed up. I decided I needed to get out of there immediately, to somewhere where I could figure out the rest of my trip.

 

I glanced at the upcoming flights and noticed that there was one in two hours to Cancun. I knew Joel was there, and I knew it was a short flight, so I decided that would be best. I was in no way ready to throw in the towel on my entire trip and head back to the US. I hustled over to the Interjet counter and asked if there was space on the flight. "Of course," said the agent, "it will be $150." Instinctively, I handed him my credit card. I got the "look" as the agent responded that it was cash only. I laid my head on the counter and asked if he was serious. "Bienvenidos a la planeta Cuba" was all he said. 

He was right. It was a planet. And on it, I was completely alone.

Intuition

There are some moments when I wish I had a time machine. I think after many of you read my next series of blogs, you'll assume now is one of those moments. I figure the general consensus will be that if I could, I would go back to right before I left for the airport to fly to Cancun and give myself a furious shake while telling my past self not to get on that plane. Putting aside the impossible elements of that scenario and the fact that I would freak out about seeing my future self, I still would not go back. After everything that's happened, I wouldn't change it if I could. 

Chronologically is often the order in which stories are told. Sometimes it's a boring way to tell stories. Sometimes it makes the most sense. While I tried to think of a more interesting way to tell my story, it's the way I'm going to do it. If that doesn't sound interesting to you then you can move on to another blog.

I arrived at the airport with high hopes for my trip. What could be more exciting than that which was before me- a trip to Mexico, Colombia, Cuba and Guatemala? Throw in something like a leg of my trip being upgraded to first class (oh wait, that actually did happen) and it pretty much couldn't get any more exciting. 

I had very few concrete plans; only general ideas of where I'd be staying and when, as well as my flights. That's how I like to travel- laid back without solid ideas about what to do day by day, hour by hour. 

Everything worked out just fine the first full day of my trip. The journey from Denver consisted of a flight on Frontier and a slight surprise when they charged me for a checked bag as well as a carry on, tiny seats, an insignificantly chatty seat neighbor and some turbulence. I do recall complaining to one of my friends about the annoyance of having to pay for a carry on, but looking back now it seems almost comical that I ever whined about something so insignificant. 

 

When I landed in Mexico, I was greeted by a line at immigration that easily rivaled any at a Disney theme park. Although all of the lines seemed equal in length, something urged me to follow the guy in front of me to a different one than that in which we stood. Call it intuition, call it a hunch, call it whatever name it will answer to. 

"Can you believe this line?"

I wasn't really sure to whom he was speaking- me or the man in front of him, or maybe he was just thinking out loud. Either way, the man in front of him started talking about high season and tourists and how each time he comes to Cancun the lines get worse and worse.

Quick side note- I should probably name "guy in front of me" because he will come up frequently in this story and I should change his name just in case. So as of this moment, guy in front of me is Joel.

He and guy in front of him (we don't really need to name guy in front of Joel- his role in this blog is rather limited) started talking about their jobs and where they were from. When I heard that Joel was from Boulder, I blurted out that I was too. Following him to that line was out of character for me. Speaking to him felt against my nature as well. But there it was, it happened, I spoke to him (intuition again?) and if I hadn't...well, I've stopped thinking about how things would be different now based on so many "ifs." If I hadn't... who knows?

Somehow, all of us got involved in a conversation. Both Joel and the guy in front of him asked me why I was going to Cancun and not venturing farther south to Playa Del Carmen or Tulum. I simply shrugged and stated that it was just a quick stop on my way to other destinations and I found a super cheap hotel in which to stay. After they're urging, I was convinced to go to Playa Del Carmen instead. I started asking them about ways to get there and they both told me how to take the bus and said they were going on the same one. I worried a little bit about finding a place to stay, but guy in front of Joel said it would be easy to do given the plethora of hotels and hostels lining the main tourist drag in Playa. 

Thus began my very first diversion from my "plans". I decided to forgo Cancun, and stay in Playa del Carmen. Joel sat beside me, and we chatted idly the entire ride, which apparently is uncharacteristic for both of us. 

When we arrived at Playa del Carmen, we lost track of guy in front of Joel, and never saw him again. See? I told you his role wasn't long-lasting. Anyhow, we wandered around a bit, found one hostel that was full except for a room that I'd be sharing with 11 others. No thank you. The next stop was some hotel whose name I almost instantly forgot except that it sort of sounds like Martinelli's, the sparking apple juice you drink as a kid on New Year's Eve because you're not 21 yet. So that's what I will call it. Martinelli's was a decent hotel for a decent price, so I went with it. Joel came with me to my room while he decided if he wanted to stick around for the evening or head to Tulum as he had initially planned. I told him to do what he wanted, but not to try to rob me or anything in the hotel because I had mace and a knife on me at all times. I'm sure it was exactly when he heard that that he decided to stick around, at least for dinner.  

The sky darkened early. We went to the beach just to check it out, but apparently no one there hits the beach at night. We walked along the main drag for awhile, past all the obvious tourist trap restaurants until we peeked around a corner at a slightly divey looking taco joint. We looked at the menu and almost moved along but the urging of another tourist and the quick onset of a deluge of rain convinced us to stay. 

Now just a little quick aspect of my story for you to note- I said this taco place was right around the corner from the main tourist street. I literally mean a street stemming directly from the main street and so close that I would still consider it a part of the hustling and bustling tourist area. Therefore, we were more than a little shocked when right beside where we were eating, a group of about three men started beating up another man. I don't mean beating up like child rough housing or even a couple of pushes and shoves. I mean like the kind of street fighting you see on TV (like, HBO, not ABC family) and hope to never see in reality. At one point he was lying on the ground while the three men took turns either gut punching him or kicking him in the head. Blood was everywhere, and quite a crowd had gathered, all of us feeling ironically helpless to help. 

I asked one of the waiters if this was normal. He nodded sadly, saying that they were all likely drunk and the three men wanted something from the guy they were mercilessly beating. He said it doesn't happen to tourists, but it's a common occurrence among Mexican locals. Eventually, the man on the ground escaped the clutches of his captors and ran off, blood still dripping down his face. Moments later he returned with a group of his own friends, determined to return the favor. But by then, those who had hurt him were long gone.

Joel and I paid the bill and took a stroll down the tourist street, looking at all the random objects we were being urged to buy, and Joel stopping at every TV to check the score of the football game. Christmas decor still filled shop windows and a large, ornately decorated tree dominated an intersection. 

 

On the way back to the hotel, I noticed up the street what appeared to be a festival. There were tents set up, balloons, and loud music. I'm pretty confident it is there that the shootings occurred, but I haven't confirmed yet. I'm glad my curiosity didn't pique me enough to lead me there. 

I slept rather well that night with mace under one pillow and my knife at the ready beside my bed. 

Climbing

Every scar, every bruise, every finger split and callus becomes a memento; a souvenir of each route conquered or problem solved. They act as constant, nagging reminders of the routes unsent and problems unsolved. Your eyes catch a glimpse of these markings spastically scattered on your body and you smile happily, or furrow your eyebrows in frustration, at the memory.

Climbing doesn’t make sense. Humans don’t need to climb, and never did for survival. When you decide to climb recreationally, you are deciding to do something that goes against your human nature. Unlike other physical activities, climbing cannot be improved by training hard every day. Climbing requires days off, and once you engage in the slightly abusive relationship with the sport, you begin to realize the difficulty associated with the necessary time away from it. Restraining yourself from climbing makes you crave it even more and require that a good friend hold your hand (metaphorically or otherwise) and tell you things will be okay.

Now that climbing has taken my life by storm and morphed it into something completely different, I cannot even comprehend how I lived without it. I think of the ways in which it challenges my mind and body and realize the growth that I have gone through as a result of these challenges.

Not a day has passed since my first day climbing that I haven’t thought about it. Walls made of rock whether in houses, restaurants or other forms of architecture make my blood boil with desire to climb them. Bricks transform from building materials to under clings and pinches. Stones in ancient ruins morph into side pulls and crimps.

Climbing is my joy and my passion. It is the thing that pulls me out of bed on days when I want to do nothing but lie in it and mope. It is my cure for sadness and the only thing that both lifts me up and, ironically, grounds me. I cannot think of any better reason to have ditched my well-manicured hands and cast off every bottle of nail polish. There is no better reason to relinquish a keen sense of touch for thick and cherished calluses. My feet no longer have a chance at appearing ladylike after hours of being wedged into climbing shoes. I would never trade what climbing does to my skin, because when I look down at every scar, every bruise, every finger split and callus I smile happily at the memory.

Trotro

Most of you are familiar with bus stops. Most of you are familiar with train stations. The same goes for underground transportation and airports. If you've ever been to countries like Thailand or India, you are well acquainted with tuk tuks or auto rickshaws. I personally thought I'd seen it all as far as modes of transportation. But then I came across the trotro. 

Trotros are THE way to get around in Ghana. There are also taxis, but for longer distances or larger groups, you always go with the tro. A trotro is a large van that can seat about 9-12 people (or more depending on how many the driver wants to squish into the rows of seats). They drive along basically every main road and pick up and drop off passengers along the way. The "first mate" of the trotro shouts out the destination of the tro out the window to people standing next to the road, and if that person wishes to go there, the trop stops and picks him or her up. The first mate also collects the fare, which can generally be negotiated but is crazy cheap by our standards.

Nice n' crammed in the back of a tro

Tros are certainly a bargain, but they can also be a bit uncomfortable. If you are in the middle squished between two sweaty strangers on a 6 hour drive, a tro ride can feel like an eternity. Gotta love having stranger sweat dripping down your arm. Sometimes you end up in the one seat that doesn't have a back (this happened to me. Not ideal.) and have to sit upright the whole time. But other times, you get the wonderful window seat and get to feel the cool breeze whip over your face. The window seats are certainly the most ideal for naps, unless you don't mind laying your head on some random person's shoulder (or if you are next to a friend who doesn't mind acting as a pillow).

Trotro stations are a sensory overload of seemingly disorganized chaos, but it actually is pretty efficient. At these stations, tros are lined up and the drivers shout out the destination of the tro. Once the tro is filled, it heads out. While you are waiting to depart, people with giant baskets on their heads approach the windows to try and sell passengers anything from ice cream to phone chargers to toothpaste. Seriously, ANYTHING you can imagine. Hard boiled eggs. Plantain chips. Fabrics. Hair brushes.