Finding Holbox

Was a weird experience. Post-Friendship and post-DecompresShip, I’m back on to my travels. Miami to Cancun is the easiest [read: cheapest] flight.

Now after a week straight of crazy partying, I need to calm down. Sleep and tacos are the best medicine. I’m walking towards the beach, a kilometer hike from the hostel I’m staying at. Fine. What a good time to catch up on some texting. I know! I shared FriendShip with my brother, I wonder how he’s doing back in New York.

“Check out these tacos!” I say, presenting the humble meal I had at a food cart down the street, easy Instagram-Influencer fodder. Carnitas too. His favorite.

“I miss you! I love you!” reminded of the time we make carnitas from scratch. Pork shoulder, Milk, Orange juice, spices; slow cooked until melty.

The bouncing triple dots don’t belay what’s about to come.

“Try loving me a lil less.”

…

“Nice looking tacos tho”

This leads to a...charged…discussion.

~I shouldn’t be so sensitive. So emotional. So affected by another’s words.~

Yeah but, regardless. That’s harsh. That’s mean. I could ask any stranger on the street and that would come off as rude to insulting.

~No way. I’ll save you the embarrassment.~

Young Boy overestimated my level of embarrassment. None.

This whole story is how I get around to assailing a completely random Mexican man about my familial problems.

I learn that he also has siblings. Sisters.

He was traveling on vacation from the Pacific side of Mexico where he lived. We spent the next half kilometer walking towards the beach. We have chitchats about nothing; the basic questions that any traveler is well aware of now. Their other travel destinations, you “oooo”. Their travel stories, you “ahh”. Well-versed blend of ethos, pathos, logos that flows into smooth narratives. Relatable. Interesting. Cultured!

[What? Stop looking at me.]

But he does hit on a little gem that sticks with me.

I am planning to head south. I’m aiming to get through Central America towards Utila, Guatemala, Colombia, Peru.

Mexico was never a big part of the plan, but this one-man changes everything. Changes how much I love Mexico, as a country, as a culture.

Changes my trajectory though the country and only makes me wish I could go back.

My new friend humbly suggests Holbox. Nice beaches on a simple island. No cars, just golf carts. Great nature. And only two hours away from Cancun by bus.

That’s a simple sell, and we part ways on the beach. I get pulled by some locals simultaneously jumping off the top of a bridge and fishing underneath it.

But I follow his advice, and find myself on a bus a few days later. A short ferry ride after that and I’m accosted. I love places that don’t require shoes. The more barefeet friendly, the better the place. That’s just fact.

Things aren’t perfect here. Island prices means it’s expensive to eat. At the low end, 3 or 4 dollars will fill you up. At the height, up to 20-25$ for a nice sit down. But there is some excellent food around. Try the stands around for your favorite taco or torta. A couple of nice ceviche spots and I was pleasantly surprised by the hotdog with the works. [Or just a little homesick, about 9 months since I had been back to New York.]

Beers are about 2 dollars each, sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less.

The avocados and fresh fruit though, are a million-and-over percent worth it.

[Here’s the side irony. The Friendship Festival, run through the Royal Caribbean is an extremely posh affair. But for everything, the fruit was goddamn inedible. First world problems, but seriously, first world failures. Fruit. Fresh, local, whole fruit. It cost you less than a dollar for the best mango of your life in Holbox, Mexico. The homie will peel and cut it up, and stick it on a stick for you.

Thailand, mango sticky rice. What an unreal treat. With extra sauce. Extra crispy rice. Wow. Nothing like it. Barely a dollar fifty.

I flew in from Vietnam where fresh coconuts were under a buck. Cut up with a cleaver by a Vietnamese grandma, spoon and straw to-go. Most delicious, refreshing thing in the world.

But on an all-expense paid cruise among the most luxurious cruise-liners in the world? Garbage watermelons. Garbage oranges. Actual shit called Red Delicious, so mealy it could have passed for sandpaper. [[I don’t know if they grade it but coarse.]] The papaya was okay. The guava was barely passing. Ask an attendant for a coconut and you might as well have asked for cocaine, the way they look at you. It’s fucked up]

Back to the gemstone though. Holbox’s best part is the beaches. The sand was so fine that it might as well have been clay. Pure white. Soft as velvet. The sandbars extended far into the ocean so you could walk a dozen meters and still be shoulder height. It’s vaguely crowded. Sometimes. That’s fair. But it’s still kind of underground. Simply because it’s so small.

One morning I took a run to the bird sanctuary, barefoot. The beach pillowed my feet. A flock of flamingos strutted in the shallows. A quarter dozen windsurfers taking lessons, kites flapping in the wind, boards over the hip deep shallows. Twice, I forded the ocean, where rays sat in wait.

Another time, this kind, elderly Danish oboe playing man from the hostel, a sports therapist traveled in Mexico but house-sitting in Holbox, an Argentinian scuba diver, and myself took kayaks to the mangroves marshes where the Dane [countryman] led us in a Tai Chi practice. We ate mangos and bananas, admired pelicans and cranes, fish and dragonflies.

Twice, I venture with friends to the bioluminescent plankton. The low shores plus new moons meant that tiny lights would bristle at us, following our trails in the water. The walk back passed the only late-night bar in town, house music blaring into the street, people perched on the curbs or eating hot dogs from the stand nearby.

Another time Sharon and I bike through the island. We stop for a quick prayer in the local graveyard and get a little stuck trampling in the jungle. Ceviche and tacos for dinner.

Some of us at the hostel cook a potluck dinner with fresh, local avocados making guac, local herbs to make pesto, fresh tomatoes for red sauce, chips and cheese. It’s simple food, but filling to share with friends. The table has two Germans, a Dutch, Canadian, three Americans.

There is a giant great Dane [dog] who is old and blind that languishes in the center of town. He is sweet, and Enormous, but a little skittish.

I make some excellent friends with the hostel I stayed at. It attracts a lot of expat wanderers types [lots of Argentinians. Literally every third person is from Argentina]. We play cambio and other card games. We drink from the same cup, mata and beer and wine and vodka with cola.

One time we go out. I’ve been regularly reading some poetry at the Open Mic in Tribee Hostel. We dance and drink until close where an owner of a beachfront resort ferries us to his hotel, 9 or 10 of us hanging from a golf cart.

The wedding that booked the entire place for the weekend canceled, but he got paid. The place is ours. I blare the Breakfast House Friendship Mix, but we transition to salsa music on the rooftop watchtower. Another Argentinean teaches me simple steps, and I’m that perfect combination of punch drunk that I feel confident in my twirls. We kick around the beach, the bright full moon on cloudless nights greyscale the late-late-early hours, the tiny waves lap us home.

I don’t remember the next day, but I’ll hold those joyful hours in my sternum forever.

There isn’t a lot to do on the island. Three full days will get you through most of the activities. Otherwise. Drink, party, and enjoy. You have to find a different type of life there. One that flows instead of forces. Chills instead of rages. When you drop the presupposition of having to do anything in particular, you recognize the immediate fun of doing nothing in a little paradise island.

My days are easy, waking up for a run or a swim or a yoga, marveling at the sand and the sea. I cook, and relax, enjoying fruits and friends in the hot sun. [Get some writing done. If I’m good to myself.] For sunset, we walk somewhere, smoke weed and drink beers to enjoy the beautiful sky. Nights are whatever you want, with everything in walking distance, you can’t ever be too fucked to make it home. Rinse and repeat. A simple life. But a pristine one.

But the worst? Mosquitoes. Man, I’ve said this before but biting insects are the fucking worst, and Holbox has plenty due to the mangroves nearby.

Alas. Even paradise has kinks.

I’ll undoubtedly be back, probably for longer. It’s a little slice of true heaven.