tysontrips

1 June, 2006

My… Uh… Pride?: Mel Gibson, The Maya, And La Playa

Playa del Carmen, Mexico – Much of the coastal Yucatan today, the area commonly referred to in promotional brochures as La Riviera Maya, is a tourist’s dream come true as much as it is a budget traveler’s worst nightmare. Glossy resorts that cater to the least adventurous of vacationer have taken over the majority of the coastline. But upon closer inspection, one notices other developments which are much more disheartening than packs of gringos lazing inside protected resort compounds by their pools. Most of the formerly stunning beaches are damaged and unattractive due to the work of overzealous and uncaring developers. Palm trees which once waved their fronds along desolate stretches of coastline have become obese, finger-pointing American vacationers, who come on daytrips via cruise ships to waddle down tourist-trap-lined walkways. High rise hotels and western-style clubs have replaced traditional bungalows and taco stands. The progress was inevitable; this is the most stunning and accessible coastline in Mexico.

emily
Above: Hurricane Emily before landfall on July 16, 2005.

Things were also a bit different before last season’s Hurricanes Emily and Wilma, which essentially wiped Cancun off the map. These two harmless sounding females did billions of dollars in damage to the Riviera Maya and damaged or completely destroyed almost every structure. Before Emily and Wilma, the most obnoxious manifestations of tourism in the Yucatan were mostly confined to the debaucherous, coastal high-rise strip of Cancun. The rest of the coast had been spared the worst of tourism’s exploitation. Although debatably over-touristed themselves, the smaller beach towns to the south were a refuge from the big city atmosphere of margarita-downing jet-setters and raging spring-breakers. But in the wake of the hurricanes’ destruction all that has changed. The formerly Cancun-bound crowd has discovered the previously moderately hidden gems of Playa del Carmen, Puerto Morelos and Tulum, all within an hour’s drive south of Cancun. Once limited to straw bungalows, Tulum now boasts newly built private resorts up and down its 10 kilometers of coast, as budget options are rapidly squeezed out. Playa del Carmen, once a haven for hammocking backpackers, is the new Cancun, with all the downfalls that come with it. And worse yet, Playa is the new drop-off spot for cruise ship tourism from the luxury liners of the Caribbean which call at Cozumel.

Above: Playa Del Carmen at its best and worst: Tara Ivey seeks and finds a less-developed stretch of Playa’s playa. Butt sometimes the beach is not all it’s cracked-up to be.

It only takes a short walk down Avenida 5, the several mile long pedestrian walkway which parallels Playa del Carmen’s fabulous but crowded strip of sugar white beach, to see that the Riviera Maya is about as far away as one can get from Mexico while still being there. The street is lined with a repeated abundance of the following: overpriced bars which are usually full of drunk, middle-aged gringos in their newly purchased white t-shirts with x-rated slogans about drinking tequila in Mexico, unoriginal and uneconomical restaurants featuring faux fare from around the globe, and cheesy tourist shops selling anything from oversized mariachi hats to cheap, generic pain killers and antibiotics to tasteless touristy trinkets. When Avenida is at its ‘best’ it is nearly impossible to hear any language but slurred English coming from the mouths of the hordes of overindulgent Americans streaming down the dubious chic walkway. Business along the stretch booms during happy hour, on a cloudy day, or whenever one of the gigantic American cruise ships landing at Cozumel dumps its passengers onto the mainland for a day excursion.

Despite the seeming complete lack of Mexican culture and the whitewash of tourism in the beach towns along the Riviera Maya, it is possible to find a few hidden spots if one cares to step away from well-worn routes such as Avenida 5. Just a mere two or three blocks back from the waterfront, but well hidden to the common or unadventurous tourist, lie all the local hotspots and taquerias, which are constantly full of locals scarfing down thirty cent tacos al pastor, day and night. Curiously named Taqueria Billy The Kid is the cream of the crop, dishing up three-peso tacos full of grilled greasy bistek, freshly diced grilled onions and shredded cabbage – and then double wrapped in two warm corn tacos produced in the nearby factory. No taco is complete without a liberal dousing of squeezed lime juice which arrives abundantly and non-stop in wedge-form. And finally, two homemade salsas – one mild red made from chipotle, the other green with an avocado base and jalapeño – always bring tears to my eyes for more reasons than one.

As far as self-catering goes, one must be vigilant if they are interested in saving a buck on provisions in this Mecca of overpricing. If they exist at all, finding a produce market in Playa del Carmen requires more effort than I was willing to put forth. This is in stark contrast to almost all other Mexican cities, towns and villages, where nearly every one has a centrally located mercado specializing in fresh fruits, local vegetables, seasonal flowers, and anything else that can be grown in the campo and sold. With tourism the only industry in Playa del Carmen there is much less local demand for Mexico’s famous avocados and juicy mangos. Because of this I had been told that for fresh produce along the Riviera Maya, the newly built Super Wal-Mart is the first and last stop. After days of scouring the city trying to refute this rumor I couldn’t hold out any longer for some sweet, luscious papaya. So, leaving my morals and opinions at the coat check, I begrudgingly sold my soul to the devil and entered the icy, air-conditioned Wal-Mart, doing my part to help ensure there would never be a local produce dealer in this resort town. I was shocked upon looking around to find that there was one major difference between this Super Wal-Mart and those I have visited in the United States: this outlet had substantially fewer Latino patrons than its American counterparts! The irony sizzled like a Sam’s Choice Steak. Most of the customers were gringo expats who were there to stock up on massive amounts of Corona or margarita mix, party snacks, or whatever their rented cabana on the beach was short on. For all its evils, however, the Wal-Mart’s homemade mole did look fresh and came in at least nine varieties – far more than I had seen anywhere else in the country.

Machismo Supreme

I had been warned of most of the preceding tourist downfalls before my visit to the Riviera Maya of Mexico. My goal was to encounter and extract ‘the real Mexico’ from the gleaming tourist facade which had become characterized by resort-lined coasts and loss of culture, especially the indigenous Mayan culture. In my quest to discover the remnants of Mexican tradition on the Riviera Maya I failed to realize that I might completely surprised with what I find – in this case a Mexican machismo platter piled high with Maya pride and Maya defeat. Fortunately, my girlfriend and traveler extraordinaire Tara was aiding and guiding me during my travel in the Yucatan.

After asking a few workers and bartenders around town where a good locals-only joint could be found – a place where the beer was not subject to gringo prices – we were directed to a small, hole in the wall located several blocks off the main drag. As is almost always true in touristy towns, the farther one ventures in any direction away from the ritzy coastline or the revamped center of town, the more authentic the population and cheaper the goods and services become. This bar was a hidden treasure – seemingly miles from the loud, drunken squawks of the Gringus americanus. But noisy just the same. In fact, it was a place for the locals to vent, most of who worked in the city’s only trade – tourism. Proceeding up the stairs to the second floor balcony with Tara, who was kind and bold enough to accompany me into any precarious situation I was bent on getting us into during our ten days in the Yucatan, we shuffled past a few patrons on the staircase. They shot us looks of dazed interest. Upon reaching the top of the stairs I was sure we had made a mistake. About fifty completely packed tables spread across the floor space of the bar. Every table was filled with beer-guzzling local men, all of who were dressed in black pants and a button-up white shirt – the signature of an employee in the local service industry. Of the couple hundred patrons in the place there may have been three women total, including Tara. The ambiance was similar to a giant party of noisy, drunken groomsmen after a wedding. And everyone in the entire establishment seemed to be looking right at us.

The only thing I know how to do in this kind of situation is to act like I know what I am doing, which I almost never do. Spotting the bar in the far corner of the place I led us toward it, zigzagging between tables crowded with men who flatly bellowed “Guero!” (blondie) at me but were much more interested in Tara – despite the fact that that she was obviously with me, they all chimed together in an overwhelming tornado of macho catcalls and whistles. This behavior can be interpreted as bluntly rude or flattering, depending on the ear and mood of the beholder. The bartender, either aware of my anxiousness or my light skin tone, attended to us immediately and told us what we had wanted to hear all night – that yes, beers were only a dollar. We had finally found a locals’ spot! Making our way over to the only available table, we wound through a sea of small-stature Mexican men; each and every one blowing kisses at Tara, who followed close behind me in bewilderment. Eventually, the excitement of our arrival wore off and the catcalls died down enough for me and Tara to have an uninterrupted conversation – at least for a few moments. Well into our first beer, we pondered machismo in the Mexican culture and why these middle class locals wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to whistle and ogle over any female who walked into the place. Before we could come to any consensus, the overflow of neighboring curiosity reached our table. An extremely intoxicated local of about fifty reached across from the next cramped table over and laid a heavy hand on Tara’s shoulder, slurring, “Where you from?” in broken English (“Way you fro?”). And that was the start of a very tedious conversation. As I mostly listened in on the drunken babble of the first indigenous Mayan we would run across that night, it dawned on me that, like many conquered cultures, there are two widely contrasting directions the psyche of the offspring of these civilizations can take: defeatism or pride. This night we met two Maya descendents – each one representing one side of the spectrum.

Side Note:

The history of the Maya is characterized by early, great triumphs in culture, science, architecture and astronomy, followed by prophetical apocalyptic abandonment, internal and external power struggles, war amongst neighboring indigenous civilizations, and then catastrophic decline due to the limited resources of the unproductive and unforgiving geography of the Yucatan. Eventually the Maya were dealt a final blow by the arrival of the Spanish by way of the Europeans’ guns, germs and stealing. The contemporary Maya haven’t fared much better. The full-blooded indigenous cultures of Mexico have been treated as third-tiered groups in society – after the full-blooded Spanish who have been the most favored historically, and the mestizos, or mixed ethnicities, who make up the majority of the Mexican populous. Mexico’s indigenous population today might be described as living in a parallel universe to other North American indigenous groups, such as the American Indians in the US, who were forcefully confined to reservations for centuries. This outcome has spurred two psychosocial reactions of almost equal and opposite force in the population. There are those who remain proud of their heritage and are willing to fight to keep their culture alive and recognized. Then there are the polar opposites – the representatives of the group which has accepted defeat and wallows in self-pity while yearning for a better existence. The ‘defeated’ group can hardly be blamed for their apathy and self-loathing. They have never received fair or equal treatment in society. After centuries of such treatment it must be extremely difficult to remain optimistic. The group of ‘proud,’ however, deserve admiration for continually fighting the uphill battle.

maya
Above: El Castillo at Chichen Itza, not far from present-day Cancun.

Mayan meeting number one: The Proud

The man who had begun the conversation with us was completely plastered but ultimately happy. He seemed to genuinely enjoy his existence and was very curious about ours. His demeanor articulated that he appreciated and acknowledged our culture. He treated us as equal to him but made it clear that he believed his Mayan heritage was of equal importance to ours. As intoxicated as anyone and everyone else in the place, the man held nothing back. He sat at the table next to us with his drinking buddies but might as well have been at ours, leaning over so far in his chair toward our table that he had to rest his elbows (and soon possibly his head) on ours. Our new and proud friend soon bothered to bring up the news to us that Mel Gibson was filming a movie in a close by location. It took a couple of tries before we could understand what he was trying to say. “Maiy Gheebso! Maiy Gheebso!!” he shouted until we understood. After explaining the plot of the movie in production, called Apocalypto, to us, he proudly and forcefully patted his chest. “YO SOY MAYA!” he announced and repeated several times. Nothing gave him more satisfaction and self-worth at that moment than to explain his proud heritage. Good for him. Had he not been a case into the drinking I am sure that his antics and lack of humility would have been toned down. But his pride as an indigenous Mayan would never be deflated.

Mayan meeting number 2: The Defeated

Later, during a run up to the bar for another round of ice-cold, dollar Pacificos garnished with lime wedges, Tara and I met another gentleman – this one was a few years younger than me. He made space for us at the bar by actually vacating his chair in order to persuade us to stay for a little Spanglish conversation. These interactions always begin the same: “Way you fro?” (Where are you from?). Our new friend, Arif, actually spoke a few words of English because he worked at one of the tourist shops on Avenida 5. So Tara and I spoke shattered Spanish and he answered in broken English. It wasn’t long before Arif waxed frank with us about his feelings – and we were shocked.

“I am ugly and you are beautiful,” he murmured from left field, pointing at me.

“What?” I protested, mostly out of surprise but partly out of convention. Perhaps he was merely trying to compliment me and not put himself down. But he continued.

“You have nice, light skin. Mine is dark and ugly. You have blue eyes. Mine are brown….”

“Hold on!” I tried to intervene in the self-deprecation. “I think dark skin is beautiful.”

But he shook his head and persisted.

“You have blonde hair. Mine is black. You have a small nose and I have a big, wide face. You are tall. I am short. I am ugly” And the last line he spoke nearly killed me. “I am Maya.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Just a few minutes ago another Mayan man spoke precisely the same words, but he had used them in shameless self-promotion rather than disheartening self-defamation. This was a man with a torn ego and the explanation he gave for his low self-esteem was his skin color, his race and his culture – the same reasons our other Mayan friend felt a sense of pride. Tara and I attempted to boost his deflated spirit with some kind words and a few more Pacificos but he refused to be resurrected from self-image purgatory. The extra rounds of cerveza made him even more forceful with his derogatory comments toward himself. Worse yet, he was alternating touching my arms and lightly stroking my legs as he complimented my non-Mayan features. This inebriated tactic only proved to make me feel less comfortable, Tara a bit hysterical, if jealous, and both of us ready to leave the bar. “I wish I was you guys.” He kept saying. The blatant difference in these two men’s self-perceptions had me baffled beyond the dizzying factor produced by a few too many icy beers. But I resolved to sit and sip rather than ponder the anomaly.

What I craved more than anything in the overly-touristed Yucatan was a touch of local color – an experience different than the majority of other visitors would have. A brush with the locals. And some quality tacos al pastor. The psychosocial issues that manifested in these two locals were more profound and, effectively, more than anything I had bargained for during a simple beach vacation– a glimpse into history, culture and the human psyche. I discovered how the same knowledge and reality can shape two men so differently that one becomes a proud warrior and the other a defeated one. I also found that the brash face of tourism can easily be brushed aside if one is willing to take the time to look deeper and further than the next vacationer. And finally, I learned that Mel Gibson is always looking out for number one: Mel Gibson.

mel

Coming to a theatre near you this December, Mel Gibson presents his take on the decline of the Kingdom of the Maya before the time of the first Spanish settlement in Mexico. The movie, called Apocalypto, will take you to another time and place…

Tagline: When the end comes, not everyone is ready to go

Plot Outline: As the Maya kingdom faces its decline, the rulers insist the key to prosperity is to build more temples and offer human sacrifices. Jaguar Paw (Rudy Youngblood), a young man chosen for sacrifice, flees the kingdom to avoid his fate.

tulum
Above: A structure left over at the ancient and abandoned Mayan city of Tulum.