I’m sitting in a cowboy beach bar overlooking the weedy Mexican Caribbean, waiting for the moon to rise, the iguana sitting in the sand in front of me to give up the staring contest, and the dodgy internet to kick in so I can watch the finals at Bells.
It kind of happens in sequence: the crescent moon pops up in a haze of velvet, the big lizard rejects my gringo presence with a sneer, and the webcast crackles down the wire just as my boy RyCal goes down to Toledo by a nano-point in pumping Bells bowl. Whoa, it’s all happening here in the wilds of Boca Paila. Francesca, dos mas margaritas, por favor!
Having been in the double-decker bus on the cliff when Hakman became the first non-Australian to win it, and having been on the rocks at Rincon sucking on a bottle of champagne and cheering when Simon Anderson won both his titles, this was a different way to celebrate the conclusion of another iconic Bells Beach Pro, but kind of appropriate in its weirdness.
But let me backtrack a little. A week ago we flew into Cancun and, hearing the bass beat of doof-doof even from the car rental pick-up, gave Mexico’s party capital a wide berth and plonked into funky little Puerto Morelos, half an hour south. Considering its proximity to the Mexican Ibiza, PM is remarkably low key, almost placid, a four-street grid with retro-cool hotels, bars and restaurants radiating from a town square, and the salty stench of kelp all around.
My kind of town. We’re back there now as I write, but we’ll get to that.
Last time we were in Mexico was a few years back for the wedding of the son of a dear family friend at the hilltop arts centre of San Miguel De Allende. It was a week-long blast with old mates from around the world, but when it was over we were heading to the Pacific Coast to go surf with Corky Carroll (more about that next week) and a bunch of younger party crew were headed east to the Yucatan. When one of that mob lobbed in Noosa a few weeks back, we discussed that trip and she advised us to sample the combo of Mayan history and relaxed Caribe beach life. So we booked.
Over dinner in Los Angeles a week or so ago, her dad, a man whose enquiring mind has led him through a stellar career, told me an interesting tale. Before his own initial trip to the Mayan ruins of the Yucatan, to research a documentary for National Geographic, he read extensively about the mythology and potential reality of elves, or the Alux, as the Mayans called the pointy-nosed spirit creatures. On a private tour of Mayan sites, led by an esteemed archaeologist who didn’t speak English, and translated by his wife, who did, my friend posed the question: “Would you ask the professor if he has ever encountered elves?”
The wife made a dismissive noise known in Europe as the flat tyre, but asked the question as directed. The professor said: “No.” But as she sneered dismissively at my friend, he added, “But I have heard them.”
Last week we went off on our own search for the unlikely and improbable in this remarkable part of Mexico. From Puerto Morelos we drove the route of cenotes, the extraordinary deep waterholes that give life to the arid Yucatan, overnighting in the beautiful town of Vallidolid, before exploring the Mayan ruin of Chichen Itza.
Now as much as I love an ancient ruin, I’ve learnt a lesson or two from the crowds of the Acropolis and the Forum: go early and go hard. We scammed some kind of VIP pass and bought a guide at the gate before it had opened to the public. Ask no questions. There are no rules in Mexico. It was fantastic. Our guide Jonathon unveiled the gory history of the Mayan culture as depicted on the remaining stone walls of this amazing fortress. Even at play, the Mayans were gnarly. In what remains of the vast ball sports court, you can feel the fear of the players who knew that some of them must be sacrificed for the harvest, win, lose or draw, and the incredible natural acoustics make it understandable that every player could hear his fate.
After a few days of ruin, I needed a hit of coast, so we made our way back to the Caribbean at Tulum, another Mexy Ibiza, but the gateway to the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve. After a slow and painful drag through eight kilometres of wall-to-wall $1K a night wellness by day badness by night resorts (pharmacies offering Viagra and hangover cures every 50 metres) we hit dirt road and improving sanity with every washout and dry gulch.
Which is how I ended up in a cowboy bar on a weedy beach watching the moon, an iguana and a computer screen. But more about that later.
