Ruins and waitings

8th July 2007

Hi guys,

Well, here I sit again under that tree and next to the little beach bar, with a view of the amazingly blue waters of the bay at Philipsburg, St Maarten. It’s a tough life sitting here waiting for my bacon and eggs and maple syrup covered pancakes, while the breeze blows in the trees and the water laps gently on the white sandy beach, but I’m willing to do it today just so that you can feel what it must be like to travel in the Caribbean. The truth is that it’s moments like these that truly do make up for the long hours and the work and everything that goes with it. While the desire to explore the new is strong there is also a side that seeks the small solidity and normality that comes from knowing that my favourite little spot will be there when I walk down the beach and that I’ll be able to park myself under that tree and open my laptop in the comfort and security of familiar surroundings. I suppose that is the true advantage of doing contracts on cruise ships like this. There is the ability to balance the desire for the unexplored and the yet to be experienced with an ability to become comfortable and, in some way, a part of a new culture before moving on. I’ve always romanticised the idea of moving to a little village in southern France or northern Italy and immersing myself in the culture and life of the locals, learning the language from doing and necessity rather than from books or, even worse, wanting those locals to speak English in an expectation that knowing two languages is standard for them while realising how difficult it is for me. Living there in a true sense means doing as the Romans do, not looking for McDonalds on the next street corner.

 

But I digress from the point of this email and, funnily enough, getting back on track comes at a time when I’ve had to move locations as well. I had just finished eating when the rain came. That sudden tropical shower that hits, soaks and leaves without really changing the humidity and probably adds to the steamy island feeling rather than reducing any sense of oppression or any feeling other than a desire to stand outside and turn around slowly while those huge drops hit your upturned face, plaster your clothes to your body and wash away any trace of the layer of home that may still be clinging to you. I have had to move from a seat at beach level up onto the terrace of the restaurant and I am now looking down and out, coffee at my side, fans turning slowly overhead and with a feeling that life could be a lot worse than it is at the moment. If I could just figure out a way to get paid for doing this€¦

 

But I digress again. The purpose of this email is to tell you about my tour to Tulum. For those who may not have been following, I am a bit of a history buff and the opportunity to visit a real Mayan city was not something to be passed up. That I got to do it for free as one of the perks of the job was just too much of a bonus to be passed up. Bookings made, I got my ticket and, despite a 4am finish, queued up at 8.30am in the Princess Theatre with all the other passengers who were doing ‘mainland tours’. Mainland tours are slightly different from others in this instance because of the extra distance involved in getting to the mainland, Cozumel being a 45 minute ferry ride away from the coast. Mainland tours have to be gathered together shipside, herded onto a ferry and then re-organised shore side into their respective tours with everyone on the correct bus and with the correct guide. Not a small undertaking and as I stared around the theatre at the 500 odd people waiting with the expectation of clockwork like efficiency that only American tourists can, I realised the scope of the project. Added to that was the announcement that the ship was behind schedule, would be late docking, pushing back the departure time of the ferry, the departure time of the tours themselves and every finely timed event from that point on. We were assured that the length of the tours would not be affected and that the ship would not leave without us. Having such a large chunk of passengers left on the dock watching the Caribbean Princess disappear over the horizon was not going to happen! I just hoped that they felt the same sense of proprietorship for a lone crewmember who may not have been considered as pulling as own weight on the job anyway. Just to complicate matters was another cruise ship following close on our heels that was to dock next to us and would need a clear dock while all the mooring lines were put in place. Our disembarkation was going to have to be done with military precision in order to get all of us out of the theatre, down to the gangway, off the ship, along the dock and onto the ferry in the narrow window between us docking and the next ship docking. With our ship still settling into place we were lined up and moved out of the theatre and down to the gangway in such an orderly way that I have renewed hope if ever an abandon ship call comes. Through the security point with the now familiar dong of the ID swipe and we moved en masse out onto the dock. This was the first time I had seen Cozumel from the gangway. That may sound strange but every other time I had left the ship there had been that other ship tied up alongside us and I had walked out into the steel lined canyon rather than into the sunshine and view across the water to the shore. It was a little disconcerting at first, a familiarity taken away from me and I probably felt like all those around me getting their first glimpses rather than the one that I expected and would have taken little notice of otherwise.

 

We poured along the dock, spreading out in a weird type of natural selection process with the young, fit and enthusiastic leading the way while the slower, creakier but no less enthusiastic trailed behind. The ferry looked small standing in the shadow of the cruise ship but the inside came as a pleasant surprise. Clean, spacious, comfortable seats and even a bar belied the expectations I had of a Mexican ferry. Once I found a seat and settled in it began to have the feeling of nothing more than a morning train commute rather than the beginning of an adventure. Unfortunately not everyone made it off our ship before the other one docked so there was a short wait while mooring lines were made fast and the Carnival ship was settled before we were joined by the last of our passengers and the ferry got underway. It wasn’t a wasted wait though because the sight of a cruise ship looming up to moor beside you with a delicacy I wouldn’t have thought possible was a sight I won’t forget in a while. Every time we dock I’ve been woken by, and sworn at, the cacophony that seems such a part of the process and seems to be happening exactly on the other side of the wall from my head but to see from a small distance the ability of such a large ship to nestle against the dock as sweetly as a pretty girl in your arms was nothing short of impressive.

 

All the missing passengers aboard, we set off for our 45 minute cruise across the gap between Cozumel and Mexico proper. A nice uneventful trip with an opportunity to close my eyes for a little while and listen to the man next me try and explain the concept of an island to his wife. She just couldn’t understand the idea that we had to take a boat to get to the mainland and once he started trying to explain compass directions and which side of the island the ship was docked I just tuned out and waited for the reassuring thump of the boat against the dock. I was roused before then though by the excited hum as we came within sight of shore and people started shuffling in their seats in readiness for the fast exit that they were sure would get them to their tour that much sooner. My first view of Playa del Carmen was enough to dispel any lingering feelings I might have had that Tijuana represented all there was to see in Mexico. A big resort with thatched roofs, deck chairs next to the pool, guests swimming in the roped off section of the ocean and white sand beaches stretching either side as far as I could see, couldn’t have been further from the feel of massed humanity pressed against that iron fence.

 

An orderly (as far as these things go) stampede off the boat and along the dock and we were herded into queues according to the specific tour we were doing. I must have picked the most popular because our queue took up most of one side of the dock and we were sectioned off as we passed by and put into specific buses. Good old number 12 was to have the pleasure of my company and, with a small Mexican gentleman holding aloft a sign stating the name of the tour and the number of the bus, we headed off for our walk through the town to where the bus was. The buses used to park a lot closer to the dock but as the massive and rapid growth in the town has overwhelmed the area around the dock the buses have been forced to park further and further away. It wasn’t a long walk and certainly wasn’t without things to see as we wended our way down the streets lined with, now common, souvenir stores. There was a group in front of us and a group behind, both following their own sign toting tour guides and the store touts did little more than watch us pass by, confident they would have their opportunity at us on the way back.

 

Reaching our bus we piled in and I fell into my designated seat in the back row. One of the requirements of the free tickets is last on, last off and back row, an easy requirement to fill given the number of empty seats in our large and well appointed bus.  I settled back as we pulled out and the tour guide started the commentary that he would maintain for virtually the entire journey to Tulum. This is not to say that he droned on or filled the air with the unnecessary sound of his own voice. He told us of the studying the Mexican government expects of any tour guides and the amount of knowledge they have to have to be able to do the job and he displayed that knowledge both on the drive and at Tulum itself. He was quick to point out the error of the expression ‘lost civilisation of the Mayans’ when he stood as a direct descendent of the very Mayans who built Tulum and the civilisation around it. He seemed genuinely passionate about his heritage and proud to be showing us a place I think he had a certain sense of ownership of. When I come to edit these emails down to book form I’ll be throwing a lot more facts and figures in about the Mayans, the Yucatan Peninsula and Tulum itself but for now I may gloss over the facts and try and write of my impressions while I still have them fresh in my mind. Researching the facts is something I’m going to enjoy but it will be infinitely easier when I have access to my library and a better internet connection. I do have an interesting titbit to share though from the latest issue of Archaeology Magazine that I happen to have here beside me now (I can still find my fix of geeky magazines even here), the results of a readers poll on the favourite Mayans Kings names. The winner, at a resounding 24% is ‘Smoking Squirrel’, followed at 15% by the mighty and terrifyingly named ’18 Rabbit’. I wonder if anyone was brave enough to call old 18 Rabbit ‘Warren’ to his face?

 

Before we reached Tulum we had the mandatory stop at a “local factory” with “local artisans” making “local crafts” at “special prices”. This tends to be a thing common to every tour of this type no matter where you go and the number of buses parked outside this factory and the number of people pressed inside spoke of the popularity of this particular factory. I had a quick look and actually found something I was quite taken with. A square of soft and supple leather with a Mayan design burnt into it. The price was $32 USD, a day’s wages and I was hesitant to buy it despite visions of how it would look framed and hanging on my wall. I walked around outside for a while, went back in for another look at it, walked around the store a while, had another look at it, walked around outside for a while, had another look at it and then finally decided that I would probably be able to find it cheaper somewhere else, like closer to the dock in one of the souvenir stores for instance. I should have got it though because I wasn’t able to find it any cheaper anywhere else and, in this instance at least, the “special prices” at this factory were probably true. I guess sometimes you can believe what you’re told.

 

Back on the bus we were given our packed lunch of a ham and cheese sandwich, packet of cheetos, packet of four cookies (oh no, I’m becoming American, I meant biscuits!) and bottle of water. Probably not a meal that you should rely on to get you through the day but enough to take the edge off and certainly more than the handful of jelly beans which was all I’d had time for when I woke up. The bus ride wasn’t too long and, as I’ve said, the tour guide was knowledgeable and entertaining and his passion for the area and its history made the time go pleasantly. He did throw in an advert for a printed Mayan horoscope of any date you wished (birthday, anniversary, end of the world, the choice was yours) that he would have printed up, gift wrapped and waiting for you at the end of the tour. I passed on this one as well.

 

Arriving at Tulum our bus joined an amazing number of other buses in a large car park. This was certainly a popular place to visit and I had sudden visions of being herded through the ruins in some sort of historical conga line with brief stops for photos and explanations while small figurines passed in and out of the gaps in the crumbling walls singing ‘it’s a Mayan world after all’. There is always a danger of places like this being loved to death and the balance between being able to feel the history and simply view it through glass is a fine one. As we joined the masses streaming out of the car park and through the attached complex of souvenir stores and ‘Mayan burger’ joints I was already starting to have a few misgivings. When the tour guide explained that we would now have a walk to the entrance of the site and that all of the commercial activity had been pushed back a distance for fear of the potential damage it could do to fragile structures I was much happier and had to hold my tongue following a clichéd American family who did little the entire way except complain of the distance and wonder why things couldn’t have been in a more convenient location. I’m sure they’ll go home and comment to family and friends on the lack of giant headed Mayan characters and rollercoaster’s.

 

We reached the entrance to the site after a bit of a walk along a dirt roadway, through the ticket booth and then on a nicely compacted path lined with trees and plants and offering a temporary relief from the direct sun, certainly not what I would call a hike although the heat and humidity would have made it seem longer to those not used to it. The tour guide gathered us together, making sure that no one had been lost on the way, and we entered Tulum proper through a narrow archway in a stone wall that had appeared out of the undergrowth in a truly Indiana Jones like manner. Walking through the gap in the wall and running my hand over the roughly hewn stones I had my first direct contact with the rulers, builders and residents of the city and continued my self imposed desire to make some sort of physical contact with the peoples of as many ancient cultures as I possibly can. Museums are great and I can spend many enjoyable hours in them but there is nothing that can compare with the tactile connection with the past that comes from that sense of shared space you get when you are actually there.

 

Through the archway and the remains of the city opened up before us. The entire area had the feeling of a neatly presented city park with mown grassy areas, trees, paths and buildings holding a city library, carousels and ice-cream stores. The difference was that this was not simply a park but the remains of a once thriving city that must have been spectacular to behold in its day. Our guide immediately gathered us together off the path and began a lecture about the city and its history. It was unfortunate for him that it was so hot and that there was so little direct shade because he began to lose the attention of a great many people very quickly and the group began to spread apart as some sat under nearby palm trees and others sought picture opportunities in front of some of the nearby structures. I could appreciate that what he was telling us had greater impact as we stood in the city itself than it would have had he told us on the bus but I immediately began to wonder if he couldn’t have taken advantage of the video system in the bus to have given us a visual presentation of what to expect first. I listened to his entire talk and even resisted the temptation to answer some of his questions since he was so obviously not expecting answers and it would have thrown his whole routine out. He did a fine job and we dutifully followed him around, another little knot of tourists following a guide, from building to building as he explained the significance and the history of each and in the book I’m going to go into a lot more detail of what I saw and what he explained except to say that the group perked up significantly when he pointed out the altar that had witnessed so many human sacrifices. This seemed to be the sort of thing that so many had come to see.

 

At the end of his talk the guide pointed out the exit and gave us a time to be back at the bus. Now we were on our own and I had an entire ruined city to explore; as long as I stayed behind the ropes.

 

The city is spectacular now and would have been something special at its height. Tulum is simply the name given by archaeologists to indicate a walled city and is not the true Mayan name anyway. The location is something of a departure for the Mayans who tended to build inland, presumably to avoid the brunt of hurricanes. Tulum is built along the edge of a cliff with the Caribbean Sea on one side and walls on the other three. With this access to the sea it would have been a major trading port and, for a people living primarily in jungle on a perfectly flat plateau, it would also have been a major attraction for pilgrims in its own right for the beauty of its location. Even now “the Castle”, the largest structure and the one with the sacrificial altar at its peak, has a commanding view over the city one way and over the ocean the other. From the cliff edge, and the row of large and impressive official building arrayed along it, the ground slopes down and away and from there to the walls there are only the scattered remains of foundation stones. Some foundations are obviously still in the square shape that denotes the house or shop that stood there but others are just random rocks struggling to remain above the soil and the grass and certainly struggling to convey the significance that they would once have had to the generations of families that they had sheltered. I found myself at times just sitting on one of these solo rocks and trying to imagine that it was once the corner stone of a room and that a family had lived and loved within timber walls supported upon it. The castles and the temples and the mighty edifices that survive may awe us with the power they represent but to take the time to appreciate the ordinary person who toiled in their shadows is to appreciate your own place in history. If I could touch that half buried stone and resurrect for a moment a simple soul from the past then maybe there is a chance for a little immortality for all of us.

 

Venturing away from the more impressive remains I followed a path that led to led to the far side of the city and an area that seemed to be in the process of being tidied up. It lacked the neatly defined paths and also lacked any large structures. Instead of being open to view and cleared of vegetation the city wall here was covered in vines and the gnarled trunks of small trees. It was crumbling in parts and by pushing through to touch the wall I had a feeling of Catherwood type excitement that may be the closest I get to discovering my own lost city. The pictures I took there seem simpler, no large temples or palaces but the feeling of jungle growth over and around the stones give a greater sense of what it must have been like to stumble upon a place like this. A little further on and I came across a mother and daughter who had obviously also been seeking an area not so thick with tourists and had taken photos of each other in front of a small structure that loomed half hidden out of the jungle. I asked the mother if she would take my picture and it will proudly go on my “me in front of” wall when I get home.

 

In the time we had on our own I followed every path that I could find and explored off the paths when I had the opportunity. I took hundreds of photos and marvelled at the carvings still apparent on a number of the buildings and I also stood looking at the ocean and imagining what the city would have looked like with the sun shining, the sea an almost iridescent blue and thousands of people thronging the streets as they went about their ordinary day. I managed to fulfil my aim of touching the reality of the place in some small way and have now left a little trace of myself at a site on yet another continent and mingled myself in the history of yet another civilisation. I did resist the temptation to buy a Mayan burger though and made my way back to the bus hot, tired, dehydrated but extremely satisfied with what I seen and done.

 

With my usual hatred of tardiness and fear of being late I made it back to the bus 10 minutes before the appointed time and was surprised to find myself the last one there. Whether it was the heat or the lack of rides, everyone else had made it back and onboard well ahead of schedule. We waited while a few Mayan horoscopes were delivered for those that had succumbed and ordered them and then we headed back to Playa del Carman and our rendezvous with the ferry back to the cruise ship. Or so we thought.

 

The bus trip back is not something I can really comment on. My eyes were closed most of the way and the heat and walking had numbed me into a pleasant kind of weariness. It wasn’t until we slowed down that I came back to some sort of consciousness and the guide began to explain how the bus would be stopping, we would be exiting as fast as possible since he wasn’t allowed to stop there and we would then be following him back to the dock and our ferry. We joined a convoy of other buses that stopped in sequence on a side street to empty passengers and tour guides. When it was our turn we all got off, made our donations to both guide and driver and then began a short walk back into the tourist area surrounding the dock. We reached the dock and were given a time and place to congregate for the ferry. We had about 45 minutes before we had to queue up so our group immediately dispersed throughout the souvenir stores and I began my fruitless search for a cheaper version of the leather artwork I’d seen at the factory outlet. At the appointed time I made my way back to the dock and our queuing area. This is where the problems began.

 

It wasn’t that I was late or that I got lost or that anyone else was late or lost, it turned out there must have been some problem with the ferry that was to take us back. Our guide reappeared and told us that we should go and keep shopping because we now had more time to kill. Exactly what the problem was never really was explained to us and as it turned out we spent quite some time standing on the dock, the hundreds of us due to return to the Caribbean Princess, and watched as other tours from other cruise ships boarded their ferries and set sail. For a tour that was due to be back on board the cruise ship at 5pm I didn’t set foot on the gangway until almost 6.30pm. We had been assured before we left in the morning that the ship would not sail without us and as I first stood in the queue and then sat on the ferry I could hear surprisingly few complaints about the lateness of our return, especially surprising given the American tourists propensity to complain about anything. The one consistent comment I heard was the desire to hit the showers as soon as we got back onboard and I had visions of the ships plumbing taking a hammering that it may well have never recovered from.

 

But my problems were not over once we got back to the gangway. As I bonged my ID in the machine the security guard looked at me and asked me to step to one side. Another one then approached me and began to question me as to where I had been, what I’d been doing and why I was late onboard. Luckily, before I had a chance to open my mouth and say something that I may have regretted later the head of security appeared and advised the security guard that I had been part of the tour and that I was right to go on my way. It turned out that my manager had been fielding calls as to where I was and had advised them that I was on a tour. The other problem I had was the fact that I now only had time to grab a shower, a handful of jelly beans and head back to work. It was a long day but certainly not one that I would have given up and one that I enjoyed thoroughly. Now I just have the 250 odd photos to sort through.

 

Greg