Lightning may not strike twice but it seems stupidity does: Finally home

Views from dinner on the last night. Photo by Wendell Williams

When we last left Wendell, he and his friend were bussed through the area around Cancun, which could turn into a nightmare with the approach of Hurricane Milton. They had just hit a turn and were about to find out if they were on the highway to heaven or hell. 

As we zigged and zagged, avoiding those vehicle-eating potholes, just bouncing along on what we thought was a never-ending road, I said “No, it can’t be.” Like the mythical mirage waterhole in the desert, I could see a clearing up ahead, and I thought WTF. We were literally in the middle of “nowhere” to two gringos, but apparently, this was “somewhere” to locals, and our latest destination.

I can only now describe it as some sort of Indigenous people’s ancient Six Flags. It seems the long-gone Mayans had figured out the recreational angle of the area and its importance to their people’s emotional well-being in a way that was in sync with Mother Nature. These people were so far ahead of their time, one wonders how they vanished. 

We pulled into this large bald spot of grass and gravel with many buses and vans. They were parked everywhere possible, kind of like any amusement park in America, except there was no organization whatsoever to the parking pattern. We were thinking “Where in the hell did all these people and buses come from?” because we sure didn’t pass any traffic along the way, but the lot was full. It had that four-day weekend buzz. It could have been Memorial Day, July 4th, or Labor Day here, because the groups were made up of families. I looked around, and before I could start with the “OK, why are we stopping here” attitude I saw what appeared to be outside eateries and souvenir shops. But I still didn’t see why or what brought us to this strange place. All along the roads during the last hours, there was nothing, no signs at all of any park or recreational areas, let alone something akin to an amusement park. So what was the main attraction causing that buzz in Spanish we couldn’t understand? Why all this damn excitement?

I quickly discovered why. Off ahead about 50 meters to my right (I’ve been dying to use meters in a story), my eyes caught a large group of people encircling a thin wooden fence. I wondered what weird attraction does this have on these people? They were cheering at the top of their lungs, hooting and hollering as if at a sporting event cheering their favorite professional team. I heard them calling out messages of encouragement, but to who? It seemed they were talking to the ground, I couldn’t see anyone it was directed at. 

I watched their faces as older family members beamed with pride at their offspring, taking part in more than just the thrill ride we’ve come expect as part of a family getaway at one of the many generic amusement parks in America. Here, these people were passing something along, the history and culture of how their ancestors had fun down through the generations. I moved closer to the fence and looked down, and I now heard loud laughing and playing going on like on any school playground during recess.

The crowd surrounded a huge hole in the ground. It was a natural opening to a cave below, with an underground waterway flowing through about 50 feet down from the surface where we were standing. There were men, women, and children of all ages floating, paddling, or just tied off to one another in vests or tubes. Yes, tubes. The destination of the bus trip was this ancient Mayan Underground Amusement Park that we never got the name of, probably because we didn’t understand Spanish and Sergio forgot to tell us. 

People enjoying the underground waterway. Photo by Wendell Williams

Now, this beautiful happening was starting to make some real sense to me. Now I understood the build-up and excitement along the journey and the long narrations in Spanish, which had left me clueless. 

I remembered our tour included a buffet, so I wanted to eat. But my friend wasn’t interested at all and continued to sleep as I walked through the area. There were several large dining halls connected together. The halls were decorated in the most colorful fabrics and artworks, both simple and stylish at the same time, highlighting the Mayan Culture. In the halls, you could just walk through and try various dishes and drinks. There was even a bar for “drinks.” I wasn’t familiar with any of the dishes on the buffet so I didn’t eat or drink. Plus, I had already eaten in the village prior and I was well aware of the tale of traveler’s illness. So I spent the remaining part of our hour there as a cultural vouyer, soaking it all in while not understanding a word being said.

At the bar, I saw our guide and others from our tour group talking amongst themselves. When the guide looked up at me and said we were leaving in 10 minutes, I ended my wandering and headed back towards the buses. Thank God for the sign they put in the window, because with that many buses, I could have missed mine and no one would have said a word.

View from dinner on the last night. Photo by Wendell Williams

And just like that, we were off again on our ride back to Cancun via everywhere. We were barely down the road before the sky opened up and it poured. And in a few seconds, it was like a monsoon. All of a sudden it was not about those craters in the road, but the slip-sliding from one side to another. We started to worry a little, but the other passengers maintained their cool like it was just another day on the roads, which for them it was, but we were going WTF. The driver was obviously a pro in these conditions and never slowed down. When I think about it, he probably didn’t want to get stuck, so he kept it moving, which looked foolish to us but was self-preservation to him. To add to our concerns, all around us were other vehicles, all trying to beat the muddy surface this road was turning into. Somehow, we made it out to some paved surface as the rain let up a little. Once again I could hear another of my favorite songs, “Road to Nowhere,” by The Talking Heads, because that’s what it seemed like. We literally had no idea where we were going and when we were stopping because all announcements were in Spanish. And we had grown tired of constantly reminding people we didn’t speak Spanish. We had paid for a bilingual experience. 

Just to recap, my friend had met Sergio at the deserted designer mall and bought a tour we used to escape a category 5 hurricane named Milton barreling towards the Yucatan. And now we had been wandering about in what seemed like an endless series of stops. I don’t know where on the way back to Cancun we were. And that’s because we just were so tired and worn out, we slept through each stop and I can’t tell you how many there were between the destinations we got off at. But I do remember the last one. 

By this point, we were so road weary we wished and hoped every stop was Cancun. But that last stop we really remember fondly. They shook us and let us know this time everyone had to get off, take all bags, and meet back at this spot in an hour. Of course, anyone not there would be left. By this time, I might not have been able to speak Spanish, but I was beginning to understand it very well. And it was late, and they sounded serious. As we got off the bus, we saw a place that looked bright and very interesting. It was Playa del Carmen, with bright lights and signage everywhere lit up like a Yucatan version of Las Vegas. It had to be way past 11 p.m., yet everything was open and buzzing with customers and street traffic just like on the “strip.” The streets were lined with cabs, almost like the news of Milton didn’t reach this far south. Like the other, bigger Vegas there were plenty of modern, very large duty-free types of stores. They were packed with people, including foreigners like us. So we, of course, came to our senses and started shopping too. I looked for my favorite souvenirs to gift, like a refrigerator magnet. I have such discriminating taste in selecting them, you should ask my friends about the process. Even with our relief from being on more familiar ground, we were still so paranoid about being left that we broke off the enjoyable interaction with the sales clerks and headed out, walking towards the rendezvous point early. Along the way, we stopped to enjoy the crowds and window-shopped. We even stopped at a version of their Wawa or Royal Farms to snack up for the home stretch but were still unable to fully enjoy the flow, for fear of missing that damn bus. 

At what we thought was “the spot” we stood alone for a moment, looking in both directions and at each other with a slight look of panic. We were so relieved when others, including the guide, started to trickle in. We exhaled big time, thinking, “We made it.” 

Turning the corner, out of nowhere, the bus showed up as if it was scripted that way to increase the already heart-stopping tension we’d been subjected to. The crowd gathered, with a couple of families missing. We were sure glad it wasn’t us. So did they really leave them? Well, after a few minutes of heated back and forth between parties in loud Spanish, someone shouted what sounded like “here they come” in a universal tongue and we left the liveliest place we’d stopped on the tour. All those lights quickly disappeared as we roared away, and the roads turned dark, with only lights from passing vehicles to light the way. We headed out for what we prayed was our last leg home, our resort in Cancun. 

People started to awaken after riding for what seemed like hours. You could tell we were close to our final destination when the roads became more like the interstates in the states. Each mile closer, we began thinking about all the pent-up frustration, anger, and disappointment from all the promises made by Sergio and others. We felt ripped off and couldn’t wait to get our room and share with him all that went wrong, which was basically almost everything from the very start. Surely he’d make it right with us because he was so nice with us on the phone. I mean, we do have his number, right?

When we pulled into our resort in the middle of the night, only a guard and one doorman were at the gate. We almost kissed the ground getting off that bus on familiar turf, then staggered to our room, hoping some way somehow we could get something to eat.

We barely survived the trek down to our level and fell on the bed, but we couldn’t sleep. Can you believe it? So we started thinking aloud about all that had gone amiss since touchdown and, most importantly, those visual clues even Stevie Wonder traveling with Ray Charles couldn’t have missed. We discussed how many of our misadventures we could chalk up to just the human mistakes of other people and how much of our misfortune was because we were misled or just not paying attention after going through Ian and Savannah. It seems it was the “perfect storm,” a combo of all three. You know, your burger, fries, and a drink deal. Yes, one might say we were sort of victims but we walked right into the “sales office” and bought this zany adventure by not paying attention or even leaning on our past experience with Ian. We were sleepwalking, mesmerized by “free or gratis.”

So, we thought about all of Sergio’s promises we would be ok. “We get plenty of tourists on these bilingual tours,” he had said. We called at what must have been past 3 a.m., and, to our surprise, he cheerfully answered, inquiring as to how we enjoyed ourselves on the “tour.” And we let him have it, without coming up for air. Using a tag team WWE approach, we requested a full or partial refund. He listened and assured us that he’d look into it and get back to us later in the morning. He told us, “Don’t worry, and get some rest.” And we did. We woke up so late we almost missed the breakfast buffet, which stopped at 11:30 a.m. We walked around a little bit, and there was still no one in sight but a lifeguard who came over to tell me I couldn’t be on the beach. 

Oh well. We decided to make the best of the last day by making a dinner reservation to eat by the sea and go back to the room. We fell asleep again and awoke at dusk. We’d missed the whole day resting. We got dressed and headed out to dinner, where we were the only diners. I thought it was starting to get weird again, but then we got these great seats with waves literally slashing mist all over us. It got darker, and they lit the candles on our table. The setting was unbelievable, and we were saying “All’s well that ends well.” And then we get the menu, and it seems they are trying to make up for the week’s losses on our one meal. My friend had the seafood pasta, and I just didn’t feel like anything, so I made the safe play. “I’ll have the lobster baked potato, please.” What could go wrong with that, after all we’ve been through, I was thinking, but boy, was I wrong. That simple order turned out to be a $28 microwaved baked potato on which, only after using my fork like a rake, I found nothing resembling any lobster meat I’ve ever had. So here we were back at the customer service window, requesting everyone from the cook to the manager to the president of Mexico to come show me some lobster in this potato. Then a well-dressed lady appeared, who seemed to be the closer, and listened closely to my protest. She nodded as if in agreement and said in broken but understandable English, “Well, at least you guys had a beautiful view.” Looking at my friend, I shook my head and mumbled, “Sergio couldn’t have said it better if he ever would’ve called back.” Let’s go!


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