Photos: Seville, Spain

Southwest France: Caves and Cathars

 

Eglise in Saiguede

One can’t get much luckier than having relatives in a small, French village.  Saiguede, a petit village outside Toulouse in Southwest France, is a sleepy town of around 500 souls, and consists of the obligatory école (school), mairie (mayor’s office), and cenotaph (monument bearing the names of the townsfolk, both military and civilian, who perished during the World Wars).  There is, of course, a roundabout in the centre ville, near the church whose Christ had recently tumbled from a wooden cross during a particularly unruly windstorm.  Directly across from the church, on lovely cut grass, an eviscerated bunny carcass laid face up, limbs extended to the heavens.  By the looks of the skid marks on the road, my nephews estimated it had been hurled fifty feet upon impact.  This was Saiguede’s excitement for the day.

Saiguede (pronounced sah-ged) won’t appear on many maps, but the nearby town of St-Lys will.  As long as you’re not afraid of a little driving, the possibilities for day trips from the St-Lys-Toulouse area are almost endless.

Pick your history

If you love history, you can plan history-themed day trips – or, I dare say, full vacations – based on a variety of historical timeframes in Southwest France; you can also  mix-and-match a mélange of all that is offered.  Southwest France has been home to homo erectus, homo sapiens sapiens (i.e., cro-magnons), the Celts, Romans, and early Christians; the Franks, Vandals, Visigoths, Moors and Vikings.  She witnessed the rise of fiefdoms and bastides (fortified towns), followed by the construction of massive cathedrals and abbeys; these invited the passing of thousands of hungry and pious pilgrims during medieval times.  The English brought the Hundred Years War (and lingering anti-English sentiment), and of course there was Eleanor of Aquitane, the crusades, revolts and finally revolution. 

Let’s start at the beginning.

Prehistoric cave art

About an hour and a half drive south of St-Lys, La grotte de Niaux offers views of terrific prehistoric art from around 12,000 B.C.  There are many other caves to explore near Niaux in the vicinity of Tarascon-sur-Ariège – Bédeilhac, Lombrives, La Vache, Mas d’Azil – and if traveling north of Toulouse, La Bouiche. 

In general, the caves open after Easter, but Niaux can be visited year-round (13.50 euros per adult).  Reservations must be made well in advance of the planned visit as conservationists are serious about keeping the human footprint to a minimum.  The cave is not for claustrophobes and has no artificial lighting; carry a (supplied) flashlight to avoid frequent stepping in puddles. 

The graffiti inside la Grotte de Niaux is almost as impressive as the prehistoric drawings of bison and horses themselves, with fellows from as far back as 1602 leaving their John Hancocks throughout the cave. Reservations are indispensables and can be phoned in at +33-561058837.  Speak French or find someone who can.

On my list of things to do next time I visit the Southwest of France is a stop in the small town of Tautavel (near Perpignan), which lies helpfully on the drive to Spain’s Costa Brava coastline.  It is here that you can view the half-million year old skull of Tautavel Man, which is on display at the village museum, and visit the cave where archaeologists excavated him.

Live like the Gallo-Romans

Seviac tiles

Romans made themselves thoroughly at home in Gaul by the 4^th and 5^th centuries AD, as can be viewed in exquisite detail at the ruins of Séviac; there are other Roman ruins in the area.  Séviac was a grand villa in its day, containing luxurious baths and pools, some based on Oriental models;  the most impressive sites are the elaborate, well-preserved tile floors.  All floors were kept warm by an underground heating system provided by fires and the warmth of stacked stones.

It might also be fun to be able to tell your friends that you visited the town of Condom.  It’s only 13 km from Séviac, and only 5 km from Larresingle (mentioned below).

Following in the footsteps of the Compostela Pilgrims

Saint James the Apostle is rumored to be buried in the city of Santiago de Compostela in Northwest Spain.  In medieval times, pilgrims from Western Europe and beyond made the long, arduous trek on one of four routes leading over the Pyrénées.  Each of the routes contains impressive cathedrals, bridges and other landmarks where the pilgrims could stop, commune, eat and pray for safe passage.  Modern day pilgrims can make the same trek, in significantly more comfort. 

Tracing the Decimation of the Cathars

Montsegur

There are many Cathar villages, cities and strongholds that can be visited, but one that shouldn’t be missed is Montségur. 

The “heretical” Cathar sect grew rapidly in the 12^th and 13^th centuries in Southwest France as a reaction to the rich and autocratic Catholic Church.  Pope Not-So-Innocent III began the Albigensian Crusade in 1208 (named as such since many of the Cathars were based in the French town of Albi), with the able assistance of the French King and his military. 

In May 1243, a ten-month siege began, with the French military surrounding five hundred or so Cathars who were tucked on top of a craggy mountain, with magnificent views of the snow-capped Pyrénées.  It was a brutally cold winter, and even under the best conditions it’s hard to imagine five hundred people huddled in one large stone complex at the top of a bleak, but excellently fortified, hill. 

Eventually, the French King offered a truce, but only on the condition that the Cathars renounce their beliefs and join the Catholic fold.  This they couldn’t do.  On March 16, 1244, over 200 Cathars were burned at the stake at Montségur.  This was a demoralizing blow to the few remaining Cathars, the last of which were extinguished by the early 1300s. 

Bastides and châteaux

Cordes-sur-Ciel blue

Hilltop bastides and châteaux, many with Cathar history and connections, are numerous and many make terrific destinations from Toulouse.  International tourists tend to visit the oversized (some would say Disneyfied) medieval city of Carcassonne, but the locals head to the more modest and cozy Cordes-sur-Ciel, with its cobbled streets, winding alleys, and dark chocolate crepes. 

Larresingle, “the cutest little medieval village in France,” is a stone’s throw from the Roman tile wonderland at Séviac and makes for a nice stop on your way there.  Larresingle was founded in the 12^th century and was allied with Condom.  The ancient town walls and moat are in impressive condition.  An unmarked pilgrim bridge, the Pont d’Artigues, lies 1.5 km from Larresingle, and is lovely in its simplicity, with its unusual asymmetrical arches across the murky River Osse. 

Hang out in the pink city

St-Sernin

Or just stick with Toulouse for a day to take in the pink-colored Place du Capitole and its pastel-colored sister buildings on the square.  Toulouse was on the southernmost Compostela pilgrimage route and the incredible St-Sernin Cathedral should be on any to-see list.  Saturnin (Sernin in Occitane), Toulouse’s first bishop, was martyred in 250 AD, after being dragged through the streets by a bull (taur). 

The cathedral can be entered for free, but it is well worth the 2 euros to visit the crypts and ambulatory, where relics (aka, body pieces of saints – a phenomenon that boggles the mind) from several apostles can be gruesomely imagined in their ornate cabinets.  Most impressive is the 11^th century wall carving of Christ, surrounded by apostles and angels, and containing many symbols that would be of great interest to anyone who read The Da Vinci Code or follows the enigmatic stories of the Knights Templar.

This little piggy went to market

Chocolate cochons at Samatan

A careful reading of a good guidebook will inform visitors about which day weekly markets occur in which lovely little towns.  The largest and best-known market west of Toulouse is in Samatan, on Mondays.  Samatan hosts France’s largest foie-gras market (Halle au Gras), where famous and non-famous alike stand side by side and point at and haggle over bloated duck livers.  A more savory market exists outside on the produce side of things (Place des Halles), but there are also plenty of stalls for general market items like clothing, bread, cheeses, snacks, soaps and chocolates. 

 A jaunt to the Costa Brava coastline

A trip to Southwest France can benefit from a jaunt into Andorra, known only for “shopping or skiing,” or to Northeast Spain – Catalonia and the Costa Brava coastline – depending on your mood and priorities. 

Tossa de Mar

I recommend staying away from the busier and more spring-breakish Lloret de Mar in Catalonia and sticking with the tried-and-true Tossa de Mar.  Tossa is a lovely town of around 5,000 with a fantastic hilltop medieval fortified village on Mont Guardi, built during the 12^th-14^th centuries.  Mont Guardi overlooks the sea, and visitors can still walk the Vila Vella (old town) walls and wind down into the Vila Nova (new town) with its cobblestone streets and quaint shops and restaurants. 

An even more impressive hilltop fortified city lies in Girona, a short drive from Tossa on your way back to France, which could handily surpass Tossa as the place to stay if you’re willing to be sans plage. With a population of around 80,000 (it feels larger), Girona’s medieval city couldn’t possibly be more magical, with its narrow walkways, steep climbs, Jewish history (centered on Carrer de la Força), and fantastical Romanesque and Gothic buildings.  Even before seeing the colorful buildings on the canal/river, Girona felt more like Italy than Spain.  And there’s no need for that extra pesky plane fare.

Though I have yet to see for myself, I’ve heard nothing but raves for a village further north on the coast, Cadaquéz, and the nearby Port Lliget, where Salvador Dali enjoyed part of his colorful past. 

If I knew then

Vals church entrance

Instead of opting for economical airfare in March, I would arrive after Easter, preferably in May (though September would also be nice) – a bit warmer, more places open to the public, but still without the hordes of tourists. 

I would return to the tiny village of Vals, located between Pamiers and Mirepoix in the Ariège region, and bring my tripod to get better indoor photos at the subterranean church for the Compostela pilgrims that was literally built into a rocky hill.  The views from the grounds are astounding; a photographer’s dream.    

In general, I would prioritize more time in the Ariège region – perhaps two nights at Mirepoix and two at Tarascon-sur-Ariège.  Mirepoix is a lovely medieval town and a nice springboard into sites east of Foix such as Montségur, whereas Tarascon is just minutes from a handful of caves with prehistoric cave art and fantastic formations.  A nearby option that would include spa time is the town of Ax-les-Thermes, close to the Andorra border. 

 

A Flag That Crossed Oceans

I drove slowly down a narrow street with typical modest Dutch houses. Juggling pieces of paper noting an address, directions, phone number, I craned my neck to better read the numbers on the houses. No, must be further. Not there. Wait! Yes, that’s the one. I’d arrived.

My hands began to sweat. I leaned forward and placed my forehead on the steering wheel. What had I agreed to do? This was no simple errand, and suddenly I doubted my credentials. I wasn’t trained to counsel grieving parents. I was no diplomat. I just happened to be a citizen of the United States who had a friend who purchased a Dutch flag in honor of the first (and at that time, only) Dutch fatality in the Iraq war. His name was Dave Steensma. Now I was delivering the tricolor flag to his parents.

My friend, Jodi, had told me about her journey to Dave’s flag. She’d been adopted and was aware of her biological Dutch heritage since early childhood. In 2002, she felt strongly that it was time to find her birth family. She purchased a Dutch flag and hung it on her office wall for inspiration to continue the quest to find her birth family. (She found them nine months later.) Then, in Tooele, Utah, in 2004, she came across the flag that memorialized Dave’s death; it was at a fundraiser at Soldier’s Field, in honor of those who had died in Iraq and Afghanistan, to help fund a new Veteran’s Memorial.

Jodi’s curiosity grew about this man, Dave Steensma. She went online and, to her surprise, quickly located a couple of Dave’s military buddies. They put her in touch with Dave’s parents, Oeds and Margreet, who lived in that quiet little town in Friesland. Eventually the commitment grew within her to give the flag and ribbon, pressed with Dave’s name and unit, to Dave’s family – back where it belonged, on Dave’s home turf. For Jodi, it was a tangible way to connect with a distant homeland. She e-mailed his parents and told them about the flag and about how this young man’s life had helped her find her own roots. She told them that this one lone Dutch flag that fluttered among the many American ones touched her in a way that she couldn’t explain. She was drawn to it, had to have it, had to honor this unique life and solitary death. Oeds expressed that, yes, it would mean much for he and Margreet to have these items.

Not long after, Jodi told me this story and I said, “I’m going back to the Netherlands in a few months. Why don’t I hand-deliver it for you?” I’d planned a “war tour” – first, I’d attend commemorations for World War II battles in Arnhem. Then, I was to spend time in Ypres, learning about trench warfare in World War I. Why, sure, I could swing north to Friesland first, do a simple drop off of the flag and then head south to my historical destinations. “It really wouldn’t be right to mail it; I mean, anything could happen. It could get damaged, even lost. No, it should be hand-delivered – packed in luggage, brought to the door, and handed over.” I would do it.

And so I found myself driving north from Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport to Friesland, across the 32 km-long Afsluitdijk. Once over the dike it was only a short drive to locate the small town, Franeker, that was my destination. I lifted my head off the steering wheel and peered right, toward the Steensma’s front door. Everything was still. The Steensmas are expecting me and I really should get this over and done with. I took a few deep breaths, said a quick prayer, summoned my courage and knocked on the front door.

It was in that moment, those few precious seconds between rapping my knuckles on the door and it opening, that I felt real panic. The reality of the loss of this human being, someone I’d never met, became palpable. I lost my breath. Every cell jumped alive and begged me to slow down, be cautious, to love. I was on a life and death errand.  I carried the small box with tenderness. Jodi had created a nest of lovely gifts for the grieving parents. The flag and ribbon were in the box, of course, but there was more – newspaper clippings about the fundraiser where Jodi bought the flag, token gifts from Utah, lovely mementos for her faraway friends.

Oeds met me at the door. Margreet smoked by the kitchen counter and smiled weakly as I walked in. My heart sank. I had entered a grieving home and I hadn’t done my homework. I was ill prepared and at a loss for words.  Oeds and Margreet were nervous to meet me. They spoke easily of this to me later in the day once they learned they could speak easily with me. They had feared that I was there on “some kind of American right-wing political or moral mission to hail the fallen hero.” What happened, instead, was a meeting of the minds on almost all topics, with lively comparisons of Dutch and American culture, attitudes and politics. I met Dave’s sister and his beautiful, nine year old niece. I didn’t meet his wife and two boys – it was still too recent a loss for them to bear extra attention from a foreigner with a dubious Dutch last name.

There were awkward silences at first. Oeds and Margreet apologized for their terrible English skills, which, by Dutch standards, meant that they were almost fluent; at any rate more advanced than my seventeen words of Dutch. We moved our small tea party to a small, immaculate garden in the back of the house, full of life – pungent, colorful flowers gave the space the air of a Japanese tea garden. Margreet smoked and smiled, but the despair in her eyes told a story of profound and unending grief. Oeds gently tended to Margreet and maintained his own private acre of grief in his heart. Their one son, their one son!, who died in a war that practically no one in the Netherlands supported. What did he die for? How can parents deal with an experience like that? How can so many American families do it, when they hear a knock on the door and open to a solemn-faced military officer?

Oeds excused himself and returned with a large photo album. “Go ahead, look at it. The Dutch army made it for us. It’s Dave’s funeral service.” Initially Dave served in the Royal Dutch Marine Corps, but his duties later took him to the 12^th Infantry Battalion of the Airmobile Brigade, Regiment “van Heutsz.” The Dutch army made a photo album for a family? My brow furrowed. I don’t think American families get that – too many dead, I suppose, how would the military keep up?

I turned the pages – a large church, a military funeral, all captured by a professional photographer. The service took place with Military Honors at the Algemene Cemetery in Franeker on Saturday, May 15, 2004.  I started to turn the page and Margreet warned “The next pages are a bit difficult.”

Those two pages, that centerfold of photos! Four – or was it six? – photos of Dave in an open coffin. His head was heavily bandaged and it was clear the head injury had been extensive. I stopped breathing. “Do you know that in the U.S. there is a Pentagon policy that we are not supposed to see even a closed coffin of a soldier killed in Iraq being returned to the U.S.?” “We know,” they said, “and we think it’s terrible. You should have to see the dead. That’s what the dead look like.” Margeet pointed to the photos of her son. “You have to see it. Everyone should have to see it. What a shame to not see for yourself the reality of war.”

There were lighter moments, of course, and even a few laughs. We went to a local steakhouse for dinner. The change of venue altered the tenor of our encounter. We walked a little more quickly. We grinned at one another, delighting in the strangeness – and wonderfulness – of our encounter. We enjoyed a lovely dinner, we really did – talking about my life in New York and time spent living in Amsterdam. They treated me as if I was a long-lost family friend.

I began to wonder if I hadn’t met Dave. Did we spend kindergarten through high school together, with countless times sleeping over or joining each other’s families on trips during school vacations? And, if we didn’t, why did I feel like I’d known him my whole life; that I’d sat and talked with his parents countless times before?

For Sergeant 1^st Class Dave Steensma

Born November 20, 1967

Died May 10, 2004

This article was published in the May 2009 issue of American Cemetery Magazine.

Yucatan Adventure: Calcehtok Caves

There’s no question about it – Lol Tun Caves, on the Ruta Puuc,  Yucatan Peninsula, deserve a stop.  You may end up on a tour of the caves with a large group of Germans and Poles (as I did), you will be pressured incessantly to overtip your guide, but you will also see stalactites of a magnitude previously unknown – magnificent! breathtaking!  

If, however, the Disney atmosphere and false lighting leaves you hungering for a truer cave experience, head west about an hour to Calcehtok Caves.   Calcehtok is the second largest dry Yucatecan cave system, behind Lol Tun.  Pronounced “kal-ke-tok,” it means ”neck-deer-stone” in the Maya language. 

I had read in a guidebook to simply show up at the modest entrance to Calcehtok, rouse a sleeping guide, and ask to be taken on a tour.  There was no welcome desk, no (mandatory) fee to pay; I simply drove to the road’s end and asked a small, lovely man - Rogelio - in very poor Spanish – if he would take me for a brief tour of the caves.  We managed to agree on a one hour tour, una hora ruta turistica, a typical route for a Western tourist. 

Rogelio packed his rucksack with a few needed items, handed me a beat-up flashlight, and grabbed a small Coleman lantern as we walked to the edge of the limestone entrance.  The ancient Maya ruins of Uxmal and the city of Campeche appeared on the horizon.  Below was a scene from Jurassic Park, with palm trees seemingly growing out of the underworld and reaching towards the blue, Yucatecan sky.  The ground looked fertile, the foliage lush.  The sounds and sights – and smells! – of bats flying below inspired me to close my eyes and say a quick prayer.  I tried not to think of the guidebook warning I had read earlier that day about not entering the caves alone because the noxious fumes of bat guano could actually induce unconsciousness.  I eyed Rogelio, who was smaller than me, and tried to picture him putting me over his shoulder and mule-packing me out of the cave.   He wouldn’t enjoy it, but he could do it, in a pinch.

We climbed down a small, iron ladder onto a limestone ledge, then scrambled over rocks, deep down into the Jurassic palms.  We continued beyond the lush green and further into the gray rock.  Here’s where the Maya built a wall to keep out their enemies, Rogelio explained.  Here are the metates, where the women ground corn.  Here are a couple chultunes, cisterns for holding water.  How long ago?, I asked.  Oh, these metates and chultunes are probably 500-600 years old, he said.  Lying next to one metate was a rock carved into a menacing face.  I was perplexed to be standing among items that would fare better in a museum than in plain view.  Rogelio stopped and fired up the lantern as I breathed in guano fumes and took in the last rays of natural light.

We walked from gray into black, into the first cave entrance, ducking down, watching our heads, and eventually standing in an immense, completely darkened chamber.  Cool water dripped from the rock ceiling overhead; sweat began to pour down my face, neck, chest.  The dirt under my feet turned to mud. 

Many Maya have lived here over the past hundreds, thousands!, of years, Rogelio said quietly, reverently, as we walked across the chamber.  There is evidence of hundreds of Maya families living here as long as two thousand years ago.  Later we would see shards of pottery and sacred phallic objects from approximately eighteen-hundred years ago, and two-thousand year old art etched and drawn on the limestone walls.

My flashlight flickered off and I cursed myself for not bringing my own large, high-powered light.  I stayed one step behind Rogelio – as if blind, arm reaching forward to touch him, his shirt, anything – as we walked into the next large cavern, and then the next, and then the next.  There, see over there?, Rogelio would ask,  sitting on his haunches, pointing into a distant corner with a flashlight.  We could go spelunking down there, with rope.  There are underground streams, so you’d have to wear wading boots.  It’s a long, skinny channel, but then you arrive in the most magnificent chamber.  I could take you on a two hour tour, or four, even eight! 

We entered a cavern the size of a football field, containing a single, lonely boulder in the middle of the space.  Rogelio informed me that we were about 80m underground at that point (approximately 260 feet); we stood solemnly in front of the rock altar, and I listened to him describe how this was the spot where Maya women were sacrificed.  I was amazed by how proficient one’s Spanish could become when hundreds of feet underground, alone with a stranger, speaking of female sacrifices.  I leveled my flashlight, still flickering and dying, into Rogelio’s eyes.  Why only women?, I asked.  The men were sacrificed on the pyramids, and the women in the underworld.  At this precise moment, my flashlight died.  Rogelio whacked it on the rock a few times, to no avail.  He gave me another flashlight.  I eyed him suspiciously.

We viewed a small room where the “alux” (”ah-loosh”) live, the tiny dwarves of Maya mythology, containing around a hundred small stalagmites that looked to be a room full of the alux themselves, in army formation.  Next was a small enclave for a kitchen, a portion of the cave with blackened walls and ceiling, metates, chultunes, and a complex map of the cave system etched onto a portion of the overhead wall. 

Our trek continued; we marched through mud and over massive stalagmites resembling termite hills.  Bats continued to fly and screech overhead.  Water dripped, sweat coursed, mud suction-cupped, odors overpowered.  But something had happened - my fear of the dark, fear of enclosed spaces, fear of Rogelio, fear of bats – had all passed away, and I was one of the ancient Maya women, winding her way from kitchen to storage, rummaging for food, gossiping with friends, tending to the children.  I felt the vibrancy of the community and togetherness, the humanity and rawness of living in cramped spaces so far underground, and having to protect your home and family from dangerous foes.

Eventually, we ducked a final time and walked into sunlight.  It had been the longest and most glorious hour of my vacation.  I wiped brown muck off my face.  I gave Rogelio a generous tip, shook his hand, thanked him profusely, and marvelled at my sudden inability to speak Spanish above ground.   

Mérida and her destinations

Mérida, a Yucatecan city, is fantastic; if visiting, try to stay at a hotel within walking distance of the Plaza Principal.  There are many nice walks to be had in Mérida itself, to enjoy shopping, eating, people watching, museums.  It’s an attractive, electric, yet manageable city of one million people.  I felt extremely safe traveling there as a single woman – safer, in fact, than I feel in most parts of the U.S.  There are wonderful, free, cultural events like music and dancing at the Plaza Principal; most of the attendees will be locals.  The locals are as much fun to watch as the performers.

 

But one of the best things about Mérida is the day trips you can make from there to somewhere else.  I had a rental car, a secure spot in which to park at the hotel (the wonderful and charming Casa SacNicte Bed & Breakfast, http://www.casasacnicte.com), and enjoyed, by day, some of the best vacation adventures I’ve had anywhere.

 

My numero uno recommendation, by far, is to go to Izamal for a half or full day.  Izamal is located 45 minutes northwest of Mérida by car.  It’s “the little yellow city that could,” with buildings bathed in a uniform vibrant yellow and buzzing with energy.  The imposing Franciscan Monastery was built as a partial amends to the Maya people for Bishop Landa’s almost incomprehensible destruction of ancient Maya culture; Pope John Paul visited in the early ‘90s.  Small Maya ruins can be visited within Izamal.  

 

My second suggestion is to visit the three fantastical cenotes (swimming holes, sinkholes, caves, and caverns of all descriptions) at Cuzama.  Gentlemen will be hanging around waiting for gringo and Mexican families to choose them, their miniature horses, and their fashionably decorated little buggies (for a modest and well-worth-it fee of $20 U.S.), to bring you deep into the woods where you will be left to visit and swim each cenote.  I did the whole trip in a couple hours and felt rushed; it would be better as a half day excursion.  Be prepared for climbing up and down steep stairs and ladders, and bring your camera’s tripod.  If you can’t easily open your eyes underwater, bring goggles so you can see the beautiful underwater sights - bring snorkeling gear, if you have it.  The water in most cenotes is crystal clear with excellent visibility.  Expect a significant amount of physical jostling while in the buggy. Add a visit to the nearby ruins of Mayapán to make it a full day trip.  I loved these ruins – they are very compact and dramatic and you can still view color art friezes on several walls.  I recommend visiting Mayapán first thing in the morning and then the cenotes at Cuzama in the afternoon.

 

My third recommendation:  driving the Ruta Puuc (the Puuc Ruins Route) to see all the Maya ruins, especially Uxmal.  This would make for a long day, so it wouldn’t be the end of the world to just see Uxmal.  Uxmal is a wonder and deserves a full day of exploring, if not two.  As with all Maya ruins, the noteworthy suggestion is to arrive early, before the tour buses arrive.  I made it a habit to arrive at ruins by opening hour – usually 8 a.m. – and was able to enjoy quiet moments without the hordes of tourists (not to mention the hot sun).  If there’s one suggestion worth taking, this is it: ruins = arrive early.

 

My fourth suggestion is a shorter excursion than the others – drive north of Mérida to see the Maya ruins of Dzibilchaltún (less than a half hour away); bring your walking shoes as they’re beautifully sprawled.  Don’t forget your bathing suit and a towel so that you can enjoy a quick swim in the clear, fresh cenote with the lily pads and curious fish.  Afterward, continue driving north another half hour to the little beach town of Progreso.  Progreso is worth visiting just to see what a beach town on the north coast of the Yucatán Peninsula looks like – it’s a small, scrappy place, but you’ll be able to enjoy a good meal and there are decent and moderately priced Maya and Mexican goods to be purchased.  Be prepared to be harassed by vendors.

 

My fifth recommendation would be to drive to the well-known, jaw dropping Maya ruins at Chichén Itzá, and since you’re going all that way, plan on visiting the nearby Ik Kil Cenote.  Chichén Itzá is filled with tourists (and vendors) by 11 a.m., so if you go there, definitely go early.  Ik Kil is also filled with tourists and you’ll have to pay more than you think you should to get in; it’s so beautiful, do it anyway.  As is the mantra, bring your bathing suit, a towel and plenty of film.  A tripod may be helpful since the cenote is deep and sufficient natural lighting is not guaranteed.

 

All this being said, I prefer the smaller and more recently discovered Maya ruins north of Chichén Itzá called Ek’Balam.  Ek’Balam has some of the most beautiful Maya art and carvings I’ve seen; they look like they were created last year, not in 800 A.D.  If you arrive early enough, you may be the only one there to enjoy the site for the first hour.  See these ruins now before all the other tourists catch on to their wonder. 

 

  

BONUS!  My sixth suggestion is a bit of an “adventure” and not for the fainthearted.  Drive to the remote Maya Oxkintok ruins down a long, deserted, potholed road to enjoy these ruins (probably alone), then take a short drive to the nearby Calcehtok Caves for a private, impromptu tour of a (dry) cave system in which many ancient Maya families used to live.  There’s no lighting of any kind, there will be hundreds of bats flying overhead; the pungent (and potentially toxic) fumes from the bat guano may be more than you can stand.  It’s also one of the coolest things you can do and see in Mexico.  If you choose this route, drop me an e-mail first so I can fill you in on the details. 

 

Stay tuned, my next article will cover the experience to be had while inside Calcehtok.

 

Izamal: photos of the magical, yellow town

  

On driving in Mexico

Many people will advise you not to drive in Mexico.  I disagree.  As long as you don’t hit:

• chickens, roosters
• pigs, piglets
• parked cars
• bicycles, trici-taxis
• goats
• locals burning their trash
• cows
• the occasional two year old out on a leisurely stroll
• topes, going way too fast
• potholes a rooster could get lost in
• iguanas
• construction workers
• potholes a piglet could get lost in

…you’ll be fine.