Coba

Saturday, July 05, 2008


At seven o’clock the alarm screamed obnoxiously from its resting place on the wooden nightstand. This is the second morning of my weekend with Cherylie and Joe and so far I have learned one thing. Joe likes to pick one song to sing each morning over, and over, and over, and did I mention over again. Yesterday was a particularly good rendition of a song by Oliver Mtukudzi. Today, we were blessed with a performance of the lime in the coconut verse followed by another particular fruity number, the banana boat song. Just wait until tomorrow! Once again we enjoyed breakfast in our peaceful courtyard before beginning our tour to Coba. It was quite a shock as we climbed into the back of a taxi with a Spanish speaking driver for our short journey to the ruins. The taxi was like an ancient, dilapidated relic, which left me shocked that a travel agency would provide such a lousy means of transportation. The seats were covered in a worn, threadbare, dirty material, juxtaposed against the comfortable interior of the grand marquis that had taken us to Chichen Itza yesterday. I am sure that the three of us were all wondering what kind of travel agency we were dealing with here in Mexico. Our ride and driver to Chichen was extremely nice, so I was confused by the presence of a Spanish driver, as if they were not really prepared for our arrival. When we specified a private car and English speaking driver we never had this in mind. It certainly felt as if we had been misled. Regardless, we still had to get to Coba somehow, so we took the dingy taxi and sat in semi-silence as our driver did not speak English.

When we arrived at Coba an English speaking guide joined us for a forty five minute tour of the site. There were only a handful of structures restored in the main group, so we stood in the shade of a tree listening to the tour guide ramble off the most basic facts about Maya life, art, and architecture. A group of vultures were perched at the zenith of the principal pyramid, their wings opened in a strange dance with the sun silhouetting their strange profiles against the gray and black ruins. I felt as if our guide talked far too long and was only too happy to duck into an interior chamber with the sun pouring in through a small opening in the roof. I gave Joe my camera to take a picture of me in the small chamber. “The pictures all black,” he said. Only then did I realize I had given him the camera with the lens cap attached and so we had to repeat the process with tourists pushing their way in impatiently.

The Nojoch Múul, or big mound in Maya, was located quite a distance from the main group, thus we decided to pay for two rickshaws to the pyramid instead of walking the distance in the blazing heat. Joe’s rickshaw started with a lurch and soon was so far in front of us that he was a small dot in the landscape of green trees and brown dirt path winding through the overgrowth. Though my own rickshaw began at a much slower pace, we gradually picked up speed and even came within arms distance of Joe on his rickshaw like a royal throne carrying the king to the temple. We were even more satisfied when we reached the Nojoch Múul with our decision to purchase the rickshaws given the distance and the time allotted for our small excursion. I know that we would never have made it to the mound in time to climb the forty two meters to the top and return to the entrance in time for our departure.

As I changed from my worn black flip flops, thanks to small, sharp stones piercing through the sole at Chichen, into my sassy Privo shoes for climbing, Cherylie darted for the base of the mound and began her ascent placing each step carefully one after the other. And while her climb was not speedy, in any way imaginable, I did manage to switch views rather quickly from her backside as she ascended to her face in heavy concentration as I watched from the top. I wanted to laugh when she said, “If you’re waiting for me, you should go on ahead.” Well, in all fairness, I am younger and have climbed my fair share of pyramids. Joking aside, she made it to the top, both of us out of breath and sore from the climb. We waved to our official photographer at the bottom who had captured our arrival at the summit, since he had decided, based on our labored progress to wait at the bottom. We both spent several minutes catching our breath and rehydrating while appreciating the vista of green with occasional temples peaking a glimpse through the canopy of trees. I knew we had overstayed our welcome when a large dragon beetle flew out from the nearest treetop and hovered over our heads. It was perhaps the largest bug I have ever seen in my life! Fortunately m y prayers were answered and the beetle did not land on my head as I imagined it would, so we began our descent, which was more exhausting given our already weakened limbs.

Of course, once we had reached the bottom, feeling much like a bowl of jello, we had lost Joe and so we began our search for the third member of our party while wiping sweat from our faces with biodegradable wipes and drinking as much water as possible. Near the end of the plaza we found our photographer resting under a thatched roof and so we soon began our ride back to the main gate in our hired rickshaws. The breeze was extremely pleasant as we soared past tourists on foot making the long walk to Nojoch Múul. And our driver wasn’t about to let Joe win the race back either.

Upon our return to the Meson in Valladolid, Joe exited the taxi, tipped the driver, and began a marching band parade with his cane held high, raising his knees higher and higher with each step. Of course this talented display came to a screeching halt with the highly astounded sing-song “Jo-ey,” echoing from Cherylie directly over my shoulder, followed by laughter from all three of us. After a delicious lunch in our courtyard we decided to browse the nearby shops, visit the Yalat gallery where I would soon make my most expensive purchase, and try, being the key word, to pick a huipil from the hundred displayed along the square.

I began my search for the perfect huipil by pointing to one that showcased bright pink, yellow, and turquoise hues. “Mas grande,” said the vendor. “No, ma,” I replied. Both Cherylie and I motioned with our hands to represent a smaller huipil, at which point every lady lining the street began to present us with the smallest huipils. They must have been eager to make a sale, and so after debating over colors and patterns I finally settled on the very first small huipil that had been presented to me. In fact, it actually fits me quite perfectly. The rest of the evening was spent in quiet relaxation, no songs from Joe, and a wonderful shower in the largest shower I have ever seen. Dinner was equally as wonderful, at least until I was threatened bodily injury if I did not stop scratching my seventy mosquito bites. So far, four mosquito repellant brands later, and I am still too sweet for any of them to actually work. But we knew that already.