Since I arrived to Mexico I feel I am behind the scenes of “Cancun – the tropical paradise”. I have been learning why “Cancun is for the Tourists and Benito Juarez is for the Mexicans”. It’s like being in a massive onion of cultural layers and socio-cultural realities, where the more layers I peel off the more there is too know. Everyday I learn more, everyday I experience more of this extensive variety that Cancun has to offer, everyday my path crosses with more and more people that make this exploration of Cancun more complete in everyway.
As I walk through streets of Cancun I learn to read its people, to fall in love with their faces, with how they talk, with how they help you when you don’t ask for help. I walk through any street without any discrimination, I go wherever my feet take me and see it all, from the dirty streets where tourists don’t walk to the shinny packed streets full of tourist passing through the “mescla” in the city centre, where some tourists venture themselves, locals work and expats live or in any other order.
I hop in the bus and let this new world inspire, I try to discretely observe the faces, the clothes, the situations I encounter as if I was merely a ghost, without trying to influence anything at all as if I am trying to just take it all in without spoiling it, without changing it from what it really is… and it makes me wonder…
What is it? What is Cancun? Is it the images that we see of Zona Hotelera when we “google Cancun”? Is it the short fat Mexican wearing a sombrero? Is it a city bathed by sun, fun and heat?
Through my eyes Cancun is so much more, is like this extreme socio-cultural experience of getting out and going to the beach, I would never call it a extreme before, but for me, here, it has become this interesting activity on Ruta 16 where I never know what Cancun is going to offer me after the next turn.
I signal the little van, hand the chauffer 6 pesos, sit back by the window and off we go. A lady comes in with her quiet son asking for help, does her spiel, her paisanos offer her their kindness, the chauffer waives off the fare, she still looks restless, I am sure it’s not enough, but she smiles thankfully and for the rest of the day she will carry on walking this streets outside asking for help, as a strong, loving mother who would do anything for her son, even if that entails walking the city under the humid over 30 C heat. Outside the juggler takes his chances by juggling in front of the cars as soon as the light turns red, first row street entertainment, if he is lucky, he might get some pesitos and one day join the streets clowns who walk in on the bus on a real show. They give their shot, tell the passengers their jokes, behind their melting make up, there are some not so enthusiastic faces eager to be appreciated, but one seems to give them much attention, I look at the skies and hope their have better luck on the next ruta.
The “tiendas” start to become more and more often as we get closer to Cruzero, sometimes it’s hard to see the clearly through the confusion of “tiendas” and Mexicans in a hurry walking about. Most shops are filled of cheap clothes and mobile phones. A little glimpse of the even more packed side streets, bring lost memories of Honduras, and then I smile remembering Roger’s advice of “not walking in that area by yourself”… course that was after I already had. Makes me wonder how many “bad areas” I have walked, trusting that my Latin European looks and that my sense of humour will help me getting by, as they always have.
I ask the chauffer to let me “bajar-me aqui” without being sure if that is correct. It’s crossing road time I look at both sides like I would in any street in the world and I feel as if as I going to do a bungee jump, its very exciting and I am sure I will be very happy when it’s over.
From the dusty dirty streets, full of houses owned by hardworking Mexicans I arrive to the centre, the big supermarket Chendraui by the nicely decorated roundabout with coloured seashells is my reference point. The surroundings areas are much cleaner and there is a visible North American influence, not very far there is one of the over 14 Plazas packed of Internationally renowned shops, the American Plaza from where you can get buses to anymore, and if you are lucky you might even get one of those nice buses that travel to the ZH. I usually try to get the Ruta 2, it passes by Wal-Mart, Radio Shack, Sam’s Club and other Big typically American (USA) Stores before picking me up and take me to the beach paradise for which Cancun is known. Why R2? Well… I have obviously noticed that most of these buses have A/C.
Me and the Mexican workers are joined by tourists that travel from Hotel to Hotel and Plazas to Plaza in this stretch of 20km of money spending paradises where people all over the world dream of spending just one night. Even the whole experience of getting of the bus and crossing the roads is very different. It’s all in the pressing of a button. I press the button, bus drivers stops, I press a button, a little white man comes up telling me how many seconds I have to cross the road. I could be in any city in USA right now crossing the road, but course I am not, although the prices of the shops are no longer in pesos.
However it’s not in the shops/stores/megastores, where buying only one item would mean spending my entire budget that I want to get lost. I walk, I explore just like I would in any other part of town. Here I meet Melissa and Jake a young newly wedded couple from Indiana, I learn about Cancun from their eyes, I smile politely whilst I learn about all the things they love about Cancun. I can’t help thinking they’re all only peeling off the top layers of this sweet onion, which I am devouring slowly, but hey, they young, probably work hard and have 10 days holidays out of the year, they’re allowed to see only the top layers, if they want to. The Mexicans thank them for coming here and so do I.
Cause of them “Cancun has work for everyone”, I open the newspaper and find pages filled of job vacancies, cause of them there are thousands of people are able to raise their kids, cause of them while some Mexican workers cater for their needs other Mexicans cater for those same Mexican receptionists, waiters, barmen, etc, cause of them the tortilla man, the bread and the water men that roam around town satisfying everyone’s basic needs, and have plenty of customers from all sorts of places and walks of life.
I walk through these streets and find the sea behind these perfectly immaculate, architecturally stable buildings; I dump my things hastily, run, dive, swim and find myself emerging from these waters. I feel like I am swimming in a warm soup, course I wouldn’t know how it feels like to swim in soup, but I can only imagine how ants must feel like, course I am not an ant either, but …I could be. J
When I swim in these waters, thousands of words run around in my mind, allowing me to mentally write dozens of books keep stored in my mind. Books of adventure, of admiration for my paisanos, admiration for the world, for all the different realities I have had the pleasure of witness, but mostly books hoping to inspire others to be enjoy this beautiful word we have, this beautiful world which is all we truly have.
My socio-cultural adventure won’t finish here however. It might take me back to sitting in a bus stop in a centre waiting for Ruta 16. Allowing me to get mesmerised by the 20 buses that stop at that very bus stop in less than 5 minutes filled of tired workers, and how suddenly all the over 6000, 12 hours daily working, taxis drivers finally have customers, justifying the frantic daily driving around the city. I will find some of these workers on Ruta 16, tired workers looking outside the window on the way home, teenagers French-longggg-kissing on the bus after a long day apart, the little kid sitting between his parents, who smiles at me through this big white framed glasses, way too big for his face, spiked hair according to the good Mexican tradition, showing off this tender smile that I can’t help to love. I smile back at him, he quickly looks away, and shyly looks back at me, I wish I was brave enough to ask permission to his parents to take a picture of this cute 4/5 year old without sounding like some weird paedophile.
Next time he comes on the bus I might not be there, I might be cycling around town with Tonho, the northern Mexican who wants to learn Portuguese, I might be watching the sunset in a hidden secret location smoking a “cachimbo da paz” with the modern hippy Mexican girls, wearing roller-skates instead of shoes, I might be in Mambo Caffe enjoying the Latin moves to the rhythm of the Mexican / Cuban, I might be in a Mexican BBQ, I might be across town randomly saying to the taxi driver “don’t loose that bicycle”, I might be in a CS meeting singing some old rock and roll 80’s song up on stage, I might be listening to my some band playing my best friend’s favourite song while I am sitting in a alley eating fabulous Tacos and she is about to wake up across the globe not knowing I wish she could be eating this taco too, …or a different Taco seen they’re a bit small. And I might even end up in the roof tops of some random building in central Cancun in a party full of Portuguese, Hungarian, African French Expats whom I never met before I walked through that door.
I don’t know where I will be there when the little kid smiles back at some stranger in the bus; I don’t know where he will be either. But if there is one thing I know, is that it doesn’t matter what layer of layer of the onion you are exploring, doesn’t matter if it’s a poor, a rich house, a resort a fancy 5 stars Hotel, if the streets are clean, dirty, or less clean or more dirty, … Cancun will always receive you a 5 year old smile.
No comments:
Post a Comment