The Yucatan - Merida and Chichen Itza

It was hot and sticky even at 0715 as we hurriedly downed huevos revueltos (scrambled eggs) and made our way to Palenque bus station for the 0800 departure to Merida. Once again we were the only whities to be seen causing us to ask ourselves again; just how is everyone else getting around? Private jet? Teleport? Osmosis? Though the journey ahead was just over 8 hours in length we weren't fazed at all. Our previous journey had been 15 hours of course so this would seem like a walk in the park in comparison, plus, after the rather gruelling and sweaty visit to the ruins yesterday we were appreciative of the opportunity to just sit and vegetate. In preparation for the journey I had downloaded a few podcasts, some episodes of Desert Island Discs no less, and to add to the picture I was painting of middle aged and middle class respectability I was wearing trousers courtesy of Marks & Sparks and my grey hair was framing a face on which were perched my recently acquired spectacles. Short of sporting a brown cardigan and sucking on a St Bernard stuffed pipe I couldn't have looked more 40 something. (note to self: invest in a black sports car when back in Blighty, it is after all a sure fire way to regain your youth and virility). Switching from my book to podcasts halfway through the journey I removed the bins and stashed them in the mesh bungey on the back of the seat in front. I remember looking at them on a couple of occasions and thinking how easy it would be to leave them there and how frustrating and idiotic it would be if I did so. We arrived at Merida at just after 1600 and walked a few blocks to the hotel Maria Del Carmen, a more Hispanic sounding accommodation, I'm sure you'd agree, you couldn't wish for. I wonder what the equivalent would be for visitors to our fair isle? The Ted Smith Hotel or perhaps the Marge Thompson Suites? English names just have no panache do they? I'd take a Xavier, a Pablo or maybe even a Diego at a push over a Bill, an 'Arold or an 'Enery any day. First impressions of the town, selected merely as a convenient way point en route to Cancun, were less than favourable. The few blocks we walked to our hotel were a bit grotty and down at heel, rubbish was strewn about, pavements were cracked and the putrid stench of Meridianos ablutions permeated the air via the drains. Her lady ship had a face on her so I figured our stay here would be a very short one. The rain pelted down at about 1700 and lasted for about an hour but it was still warm enough for us to make use of the rather murky looking pool before we went for dinner. After showering we collected ourselves and brought together a few things we'd need for the evening: iPhone to get online or maybe have a crafty game of scrabble, iPad ditto, money, our little pad on which Kerry religiously jots down every aspect of our expenditure so we can keep on budget, the Mexico Lonely Planet to see what might be worth a look-see in Merida and glasses so that I can read it. Glasses. Shit! I knew immediately that I'd left them on the bus in the bungey, that thing that I'd looked at and thought "hoo hoo, you don't want to be leaving your glasses in there Andy old son". After letting out a holler and briefly considering if there was anyone else to blame so that I could rant about them we set off for the bus station in the hope that some kind-hearted soul had found them and handed them in. Yes, they'd be in lost property and I'd gleefully hand over a few pesos before being reunited with them. At the bus station there was no sign of a lost property office so we went to "left luggage". Here I explained as best I could what had happened and asked where I should go to retrieve them. The chap rattled off some quick-fire indiscernibles and gestured me towards one of the sourest looking old boots I ever clapped eyes on. She had the look of someone who had just been told that she was being transferred to Damascus and would have to make her own way there by 2nd class bus. I repeated my question about lost property and explained which bus we'd been on and she immediately replied that nothing had been found. I showed her our tickets to ensure she knew exactly which bus I was talking about but it was to no avail, my specs were lost. Any other myopians will understand that this presented me with a serious situation to resolve. Though I'd not had the foresight to bring my spare pair of glasses with us I had at least brought my prescription. Next morning at 0900 we were looking for an optica and after a fruitless 10 minute search we went into a shop to ask the chap in there if he could point us in the direction of the nearest one. "Si señor, it's right there" pointing to a shop opposite. I needed glasses more than I realised! Inside, my first question of "do you speak English?" was met with an emphatic "no" so there then ensued a pained attempt on my part to explain what I wanted, something made exceptionally difficult by virtue of the fact that I didn't even know the Spanish for 'glasses'. We eventually made some progress and given that it would take 3 days to manufacture some bespoke specs she offered me some of those ready-made reading glasses that fold up and come in a little cylindrical case. It was hopeless. My prescription is 0.75 and these were 1.5 for starters and they also made me look like a cross between Harry Potter and my grandmother. Tempting though it was to resolve the eyewear issue by only parting with £10 I knew it would be folly so we thanked her for her time and sought another optica. The giggling young ladies in the next shop confirmed that I could have new glasses by 1800 that day and offered me a rather limited selection of frames to choose from. Unlike in the average optician in England where you are presented with a quite mesmerising array from which to choose here it was a case of do you want to look like Albert Einstein, Frank Carson or Dame Edna Everage. I opted for a pair of Franks, handed over an obscene amount of cash and thanked my lucky stars we'd taken out comprehensive travel insurance and paid the excess waiver. That left the rest of the day free to have a look at Merida and after initially thinking we had landed in a drab and grotty hovel we soon changed our opinion when we reached the old town centre. The town is the classic colonial grid with a large and quite beautiful square with laurel trees, topiary and being surrounded by various buildings of note, one of which has carvings of bearded conquistadors standing on the heads of natives. There was a lovely feel in Merida too, quite a few Caucasians so that we didn't feel too conspicuous and, joy of joys, the stall holders and shop keepers weren't on the verge of dragging you inside to see their wares like they are in many other places in Mexico. We took an open top bus tour of the city and the place went further up in our estimation when we saw the suburbs and the wonderfully ornate suburban mansions. This would have been where the spaniards lived 300-400 years ago with the indigenous population living in much much more basic accommodation in the town centre. After picking my specs up we ate and then sat in the square waiting for the nightly entertainment as promised by our guide book. 2000 hours, the specified time, came and went and then as I checked my watch to see what time it was a Mexican guy called Juan came and sat with us and had a chat for about 20 minutes, divulging during that time that live music is on every day except Tuesday! Yes, you read that correctly. After 5 weeks and more of being pointed at, roundly ignored, looked clean through and made to feel as welcome as a bacon sandwich at a Bar Mitzvah we were having a conversation with a Mexican, that he had instigated. Ok, he probably only wanted to practise the English that he was learning but this followed 3 or 4 other cheery exchanges we'd had today with people. Merida had not only won us over, it's people had shot in at number 1 in the 'Top of the Peeps' hit parade. (Oh dear! Pass me the brown cardy and the St Bernard, I just said "hit parade") The next day, Wednesday, was a bit of a mission, a grueller, though would ultimately result in squeals of delight when we were shown to our room that night. We caught a bus at 0915 which took us to Chichen Itza, one of the most famous archaeological sites in the Americas and also one of the most visited given its proximity to Cancun. We arrived at 1100 and bought our entry tickets, wondering why there was a queue approximately 50 yards long at a separate window across the way. I supposed it was probably something to do with the swathes of organised tours that come here daily from Cancun and thought no more of it until we got to the turnstile. "Tickets señor" said the lady and tore off a section leaving just the stub. We walked on 3 paces: "Tickets señor" said the man and I handed him our stubs. "No, other tickets" "I have no other tickets" "Tax" "Eh?" "You got to pay tax señor. Join other queue" The queue snaked around a hundred craft stalls outside in the blazing sun and took a full hour for us to reach its head. It was so frustrating that the dipstick at the first window hadn't mentioned tax, nor, more to the point why he couldn't have sold it to us in one simple transaction. When we did get to the tax payment window the guy looked at me enquiringly as though he was a purveyor of a myriad of wares and was waiting with bated breath about which of his goods I may be about to enquire after. All he needed to bark at me was 'how many?' and issue them pronto. For some reason, once I'd told him I wanted two, he made about 15 clicks on a mouse and then we had a slightly uncomfortable pause punctuated by uneasy smiles and a bit of nodding on both our parts before the printer kicked into life and slowly printed our tax receipts. Oh, it's enough to make you weep. I've seen some ineffectual practises in my time, I used to work for British Rail after all, but this took the biscuit. By now it was lunchtime so we ate before attempting reentry. There was a brief moment of unease when the person at the barrier saw our stubs and said "but you have used these" but I think my glower and body language told her not to pursue this any further and to let us pass. 2 hours after getting off that bus and we're finally inside the site and whilst it truly is a magnificent spectacle it is difficult to see beyond the hordes of people. In Palenque we sat on top of a pyramid and felt completely alone; here it was like the Victoria Line in rush hour, only with sweatier armpits. Another reason that it isn't so much fun is that you can no longer climb any of the buildings. This is perfectly understandable from a preservation perspective but it does prevent you getting that overview of the whole site. Oh, and the hawkers. "No, I do not want a bloody ceramic chac-mool. I'm not on holiday, I'm travelling, I'm looking to ditch things out of my pack not add to them". For those that are interested Chichen Itza is ostensibly Mayan but was subsequently populated by Toltecs from north of Mexico City in around 900. They added to the existing architecture to make it unique and the pyramid of Kukulkan was designed in such a way that when the sun set on the Spring and Autumn equinoxes the illusion of a serpent writhing down its steps was apparent. Pretty impressive for bloodthirsty savages. With this box ticked we were off again, by bus to Cancun, a 3 hour journey. Arriving at 1900 we hopped in a taxi to take us to the Salvia Suites, a room we'd booked online the previous day and one we hoped we'd like enough to stay in for a few days and relax.