Pancho's place, watercolor by my friend Cedar.
A dusty hand painted sign with an arrow pointing more to the heavens then to it's advertised location was planted in the hard ground off the main highway. A like dusty Mexican fan palm cast shade for people to gather near and as a bonus the vibration of the passing semis gave life to a slight cooling breeze. Near that location local workers gathered while waiting for the buses that would take them away.
Most rose around 6am worked the typical day, walked to the highway and now were returning home to either prepare a meal or share in one. The signs that were posted declaring friends, paradise and excellent accommodations were at the end of the road were not for them. If you stopped and asked anyone near these markers if this was the correct road to.....you would probably get a shrug of the shoulders with an exhausted look like didn't you see the sign? I wasn't all that alarmed, I could smell the ocean from a mile away so I just nodded.............gracias amigo.......and headed dead east. Workers in commute are pretty much the same over, tired of the day, tired of the waiting to get home and just plan tired of stupid questions.
I had once written in a travel log something like: You can travel with your cell phone, I-pod, digital maps, travel books and supposed expert guidance, but you still don't really know what awaits you around that next corner. This utterly applies to Mexico. A check point, a dead donkey being towed behind a vehicle, aggressive hookers at truck stops, a rapidly moving sugar cane blaze across the road, a couple of logs laid over a 12 foot chasm for a bridge ( that was preceded by a couple locals expecting tips to guide your wheels over the planks) fire breathers at stop lights and country folk driving with only running lights after dark....it helps to extend the life of the headlamps. Keep your nose in the wind and your eyes on the ridge while driving in Mexico, pilgrim's.
I was almost sure that this road wouldn't be accommodating large campers, scores of day-trippers and construction equipment waiting for launch. Over a period of years my favorite bivi/camp areas died the death of development or at least the pretensions of such. For example Chemuyil and Xcacel are in slumber now, but awaiting the alarm of construction. I knew of the last man to camp there. He was said to chain his motorcycle to a palm on the last day before shut-down. He poised this question to his evicters. "What about the 1000 feet of turtle nesting areas." The reply was there would be lights installed to help the nesting turtles find their way back to the beach and the new hotel I persume. While sneaking back there some years later I found it like Hitchcocks, "The Birds", just replace birds with scores of large iguanas and you will get the picture. That was in the daylight hours, so I didn't see how well the lights were working for those returning turtles. Hell, a little more then decade ago I stayed in the combi on the current site of the Hard Rock Cafe in Cancun not to mention camped around Xel-Ha, or as we now call it, "Xel Hell." Now that's what I call "car camping."
The road all looked grand so far, no traffic, Ziegfeld Line sized pot holes , no light no information , water filled depressions and dead 'silenciador's' stacked up on the tree line, this place had definite possibilities. After re-discovering a unique combination of idle in low gear with no pressure on the foot-feet and daft taps on the brake pedal I was always able to keep a steady rate of speed down that local "sacbe." Eventually I was able to get good indications of the water depth by listening to how much steam was generated by the contact of my VW engine with the surface. Travel Note: Once on a trip back to the states I used this same technique but did use the accelerator while dry shifting, no clutch, for 900 miles because of torn cartilage in my left knee which was aggravated in Palenque.
I crept on noticing no power lines, numerous "sucker roads" to nowhere, typical plastics using local vegetation as an anchor for their new home but no traffic. About 1/2 mile into the ride I noticed that the tops of the trees had suddenly turned from dust gray to bright green, I must be close now. A sound that resembled bedsheets being shook out caught my ear, that was followed by a green mass of parrots lifting off those dusty perches and rocketing down that trail before going into a steep climb, hard to port and disappearing. I spit out "did you see that." I knew there was no one there to listen but it was just another one of those times when you really wanted to share an experience.
He drank, chased the young ladies, maintained a family and was fascinated with work, he could watch it for hours. Pancho was in his mid forties with a vessel that more resembled a cask of rum then God's creation. An oval face was supported by a stout powerful neck while perched upon a barreled chest that was being attacked by the ever increasing girth of his stomach. Even by now his knees were weakening but the day I met him I sensed a strong heart.
Pancho had a schedule. When to rest, to drink, to eat, to entertain and when to tell other's when he needed some work done. He spoke English and didn't mind to. He spoke with gentle tones and his laughs were short and sincere. At this time I didn't know of his connections with the family that were long time property owners at Punta Bete. That story is long and inviting. No one was staying at the site when I arrived and during that first month or so no one else arrive. The price was 12 pesos a night. We didn't talk much initially, he just said put it up anywhere. Instead I choose the palapa with half of the roof blown off and leaning about 30 degrees to the lee-ward side. It was on the end, furthest from the restaurant and the middle shelter that I suspected would be busy sooner or later.
20 paces to the open ocean, the evening light of Cozumel in the distance, a reef less then a half mile from shore, doce pesos por noche and an endless supply of Havana Club rum just 10 minutes away. Estoy aqui.
The Lacandon Indians of Chiapas prefer to call themselves the "Hach Winik" or the true people. Although I never heard that term while traveling in their homeland I just figured they were too polite or maybe unaware of the importance of using that description. But it had meaning to me and I was going to show all that I also considered myself different. I may be a gringo but I had alot of Mexican running in me. All was going great, then, the Canadians arrived.
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