Musings from the end of the road

A gem among the garbage

Plancher Beach, about 20 km north of Malahual, Saturday afternoon

This should be the most romantic place to write: I'm sitting under a palm tree, its fronds interwoven with those of its neighbour, white sand forming a thin crust on my tanned feet and legs, the surf a constant ebb and flow in the background.

It would be the most romantic place indeed if there weren't some alarming accoutrements: the ruins of a house on the beach right beside me, wires and pieces of rusty, broken mortar, a few small piles of smoldering garbage, so close that the acrid smell fills my nostrils, the long stretch of beach – free of people, admittedly, but no more attractive because of it – lined with a seam of seaweed that's the ideal resting place for all kinds of refuse. Medicine and pop bottles, milk crates and plastic containers, light bulbs and things I'd rather not stoop down and investigate too closely happily share space with shoes bleached from long travels in sea water: on our half-hour walk along the beach I could have assembled at least five pairs, though they wouldn't necessarily have been matching.

Where am I? I am at the end of the road – literally. This place, Mahahual (or Majahual), is the last beach where we could stop on the way to Chetumal, and our hostess in Tulum had suggested we'd go there if we wanted to enjoy the ocean one more time. We drove most of the day yesterday, even though the distance was not so great, only about 180 km from Chichen Itza. Most of the time seemingly impenetrable jungle was on both sides of the road, a sea of green leaves and vines dotted with yellow, red and pink blossoms.

We stopped once in Tepich, a small Mayan town along the way, looking for a supermercado, but finding only mini-mercados, places where you can buy the very essentials, but often not even fruit (though most often several kinds of beer). We were looking for bread (which we found) and cheese (which we didn't), water and, yes, some cold Corona or Sol, hoping for a few bananas or avocados (in vain). Gerda and I attracted a lot of attention when we walked down the street a bit to check out a second mini-mercado: two women of considerable size and such light skin. The Maya are a very short people, and I have seen women who reached no higher than my chest, very few men are as tall as I am. Everybody greeted us with a friendly smile, and especially the women and children are always happy to interact, even without many words.

Looking for a spot to eat our meal we had some trouble to find a place to stop: no picnic areas at all, no open places on the side of the road. We decided on a small dirt road disappearing in the trees. It led to a few beehives and a field of newly planted bushes that looked like something to be cultivated, but which we could not identify.

As everywhere garbage of all manner was strewn on the road and in the surrounding area: people don't even consider to pick up the leftovers of their meals and take them with them. This is probably my biggest, or rather the only big complaint I have so far. It didn't smell like garbage, however, but the sweet scent of flowers filled the air, and I counted six different kinds of butterflies, among them two spectacular specimens, one big and orange, the colour of calendula, the other dark grey with a green or khaki pattern, depending on where it came to rest – perfect camouflage.

We turned off the main highway at a town called Cafetal and drove for about fifty kilometres through swampy no-man's land. Strange little trees as far as the eye could see, their roots growing a couple of feet out of the water so that the trees looked as if they walked on stilts. To me, it felt like crocodile habitat, and I briefly imagined what it might have been like to walk through this swamp when there was no paved road yet. Traffic was very sparse, and when we finally arrived at Mahahual we were quite surprised: it looked like a work in progress, with more hovels and half-finished hotels and houses - many of them long since abandoned - than finished and attractive places to stay. There were lots of advertisements for beach front lots, some newer, some almost overgrown by trees and hardly readable. Which boom was responsible for this mess? When had all this been conceived, and when would it ever come to fruition?

The beach, too, lacks the Carribean charm of the one at Tulum. It is a lot narrower and by far not as beautiful. We drove along the beach and finally decided on the Cabanas del Doctor for our temporary living quarters. The palapa is comfortable, nice and cool during the night and right across from the beach: the surf sings me to sleep at night, and I have to walk not fifty steps until I can let the waves lick my feet.




Sunrise at Malahual



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Meanwhile it is Sunday night, we are in Chetumal, very close to the border to Belize, and will take the bus to Flores, Guatemala, tomorrow morning at seven. What will we see on the way, and what will expect us there?