Falésia

An old boat I spoted on one of my daily walkings

“As I walk barefoot in the sand”… I know… it is a cliché! I probably should start this post with “As I walk barefoot in broken glass” to impress or... I can add dirty sand filled of dead algae and randomly left behind unwanted human items to make it less of a cliché...  but as anything in life just carry on reading.

I am not thinking about clichés as I walk in the beach; I am walking in the beach because it has been my favourite backyard for the last decade. I am walking in the beach, because I have been coming for a walk every day since we arrived to Progreso. Although I usually walk around sunset, when the last rays of sun bathe the world with this orangey glow and I dance and I sing, keeping an eye out for possible white vans with suspicious men wearing white.

                

Just before I can touch the water I stand with feet apart, hands in my pockets looking at the Puerto stretching out in a 10km long human-made arm in the distance. For the last two months I have seen all sorts of containers filled with the most varied items passing by, arriving from north and south, taking sand “made in México” to not so far away places. This Puerto is one of the main shipping areas of the region and it makes sense seen it is very close the cultural and industrial city of Merida.

I simply stand still, the sun is up high in the sky, the solar energy brings the wind and I inhale deeply as if I was standing in a falésia back home. The water is shallow for kilometres, so many I’d have to walk far too long in the Golf murky waters to go for a real swim. I merely stand on the borderline of my falésia, right in the edge of where the fishermen live and where they work. I stand wearing my “travellers smile”, admiring the edge of my knowledge border.

Standing here, makes me think of people I met over the last few months in my Mexican travels, like... Joe, (Joe is not a real person but there are many “real Joes out there”). Joe has a Travel version, the one that does all the things Joe would not do back home under the watchful eye of their own society, addicted to live the moment looking for the “vegetarian” spiritual paths Mexico has to offer.  I wonder if you cannot simply get far above the ground by standing facing the wind, the sea, snorting the sea breeze and getting expanded lungs of inspiration without veggies. If I was asking Don Juan he would probably disagree!  

 

Next to the long pier there is a smaller sister quay where fishermen spend endless hours working every single day, this is where in a couple of nights I will meet Don Juan, a little man wearing matching shorts, t-shirt and cap, matching not only in colour but also in age. That night I will learn how he uses “Vay a Grecia” to catch lobsters, crabs and other delicious expensive treats (of course the fish is called something else but I like that name better!)... (Hey! At least I can pronounce it!). I will sit beside Don Juan, I will politely decline some “greens” and play a guessing age game with myself (...50?...“salty good looking” sea wolf 60’s?), and in the end I will decide he is a “working” 40.

The first catch og the night!

Don Juan has been spending every night at the pier since his 7^th year of life, before everyone else wakes up and chases all the good stuff away. He doesn’t get bored of it, he doesn’t dread it, he doesn’t complain about it. He cuts the fish, straps the fish to the net, puts the nets in the water, waits patiently, trades with the other fishermen, picks up the net, puts the net down, picks up the net, puts the net down and picks it up again until the sunrise comes and the darkness will belong to a new tomorrow, closer to the sea, further away from the sand.

     

In a couple of nights Don Juan will be standing facing the shoreline, under the moonlight, inhaling the sea breeze, in high waters, waving goodbye ... from the salty side of the border.

Me... I will walk back in the sand... with shoes on.