Last time I rejoined the Gulf coast, crashed a political rally, and got kicked out of a hotel. Now I continue my flight along beach roads and islands, headed toward Campeche.
Tuesday, January 20 (Day 928 of the Great Adventure)—To Isla Aguada
Breakfast was a quick affair at a diner on the main square. Soon I was loaded up and weaved my way out of town. Ciudad del Carmen is a city on an island, but I wasn’t crossing back to the mainland the way I came; instead I’d chase up along the barrier islands using bridges and coastal roads.
I made some poor navigational choices trying to get out of the city, and was impressed by the amount of traffic. After some factories however—including one with a Coca-Cola logo—it was pretty much just me and the iguanas. On my left side was the beach, endless miles of it, big turquoise waves rolling in from the sunny sea. Walls lined all of the beaches, made out of loose rocks stacked in rectangular mesh cages, probably to hold off high water. Lizards loved the mesh and scattered over the wall as I biked past. I didn’t see many swimmers, but I did notice one semi truck parked in the middle of nowhere, driver missing, just a few feet from a break in the wall. I like the way that guy takes his breaks.
Today’s destination would be Isla Aguada, which I translate as “Flooded Island,” not exactly a confidence inspirer. It was early afternoon when I reached the bridge from Carmen’s Island to Isla Aguada. It was a long, curving affair over turbulent seas, currents with different colored water coming from three directions and mixing into a froth. I paused to admire the sea halfway across.
After the magic of the bridge, the grit of the island was hard to believe. Isla Aguada is a hardscrabble place with few jobs and little money. The coastal road is the main drag, passing through a checkpoint just after the bridge where commercial trucks pay a toll. Other than that there isn’t much to see, though I did spot a seafood stand under a giant red tent, and stopped for some fresh caught lunch.
Then I checked out hotels. Given how badly my last beach day went, I wanted to stay somewhere nice and I was willing to spend a little more than usual to do so. I found the perfect place, a gorgeous suite with my own hammock and a private porch with a thatched roof, all for just $700 pesos. Just one snag: no wifi (which I found so hard to believe at this fancy hotel that I made the owner repeat herself). But I had no client work due right away, so I decided to accept the ultimate privation and go for a day without internet. (Well, mostly; my phone still worked.)
It started with a trip to the beach. This is a lot less exciting than it sounds. First you walk three blocks through a really poor town, the only tourist in the place. Then you reach the giant abandoned beach that has the ruins of old concession stands and wonder if it was converted to a naval artillery range. Reassured by spotting one solitary Mexican family on 11 straight miles of beach, you wade across pebbles and floating litter into turbulent, silty water. It reminded me of a beach in the Dominican Republic where some fish kept taking bites out of me, protected from retribution by the cloudy water. This time I suffered no such attacks, only the hands of a particularly wicked tide that wanted to drag me slantwise along the shore, toward the bridge and the foamy mixer of the open bay.
It was pretty fun.
I let the current carry me for a few minutes, covering a half mile of shoreline, then waded ashore and walked back, repeating the process several times. I also made offerings to the sea.
I spent late afternoon in my hammock and reading. I texted a lot with my friend Urban. Urban had become increasingly important to me on this trip. I’d made a deal to check in with him via text message every night, so that someone somewhere in the world knew I was safe. He had become something like my guardian angel, my Siri, and my mission control all rolled into one. And frequently he was my only sympathetic ear in a bad situation. Urban, if you’re reading this, thank you.
I asked the hotel owner if she could recommend somewhere for dinner. She mentioned a place with “really good pizza” just two streets away, and I set out to find it. After a recent string of impressive non-Mexican meals, I though I would try it. This is what I found:
The string was broken. 27.5 miles.
January 21 (Day 929 of the Great Adventure)—To Sabancuy
Morning confirmed a new trend: if you ask a restaurant whether they serve breakfast, they say yes even if they don’t. Even if they have no eggs and no breakfast dishes. Basically they’re just willing to serve you lunch any hour you want. This seems to be a quirk of Campeche and the Yucatán; I don’t think it would fly in central Mexico.
So it took some doing, but I eventually found a semi-outdoors meal counter that had eggs in the house. Some rancheros and a little Nescafé got me in good shape for the road. Not that I got moving early—I shot a video tour of the Giant for supporters and enjoyed the hammock a little longer. I didn’t get on the road till 2 p.m.
It was a short ride, though. More great scenery: strange currents criss-crossing offshore, copses of palm trees guarding the beach, a few closed beachside eateries, iguanas invisible until they moved, and so few cars that I biked on the wrong side of the road. To my left was open water, to my right was jungle.
Within about two hours that jungle had given way to a direct view of the lagoon protected by the island. It was the opposite of the open Gulf: sheltered, still, more green than blue, covered in marsh grass and bird life and small fishing boats. My destination for the night, Sabancuy, was somewhere out there.
By 4:30 I reached the turnoff. Leaving the Gulf behind I crossed the lagoon on a series of causeways—at least five—and approached the town. Its ancient church and small central square are the first things that greet you as you roll in. Rumors of hotels were scarce, but I navigated to a place mentioned in a couple online reviews. It looked nice out the outside shabby on the inside, and had wi-fi in the lobby only.
After a shower I got a delicious dinner of alambre at a local taco restaurant. This time I did have client work, so I sat in the hotel lobby tapping on my laptop till it was time for the hotel staff to close up.
Although not well known, Sabancuy has a claim to fame: sea turtles. The surrounding lagoon is their nesting ground, and a local university has a program to protect the eggs and bolster the species’ dwindling numbers. Anyone who visits there can volunteer to help, collecting eggs by hand and moving them to protected places. But this wasn’t turtle season, so I had to content myself with a beautiful sunset and the sounds of the lagoon at night:
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January 22 (Day 930 of the Great Adventure)—To Champotón
Shabby or not, the hotel had a cute enough little dining room, and for the sake of convenience I decided to eat there. I’m glad—the fruit plate that came out was amazing, the kind of mouth-watering fresh fruits that make me wonder why anybody buys sweets in the tropics.
I had still been icing my knees at night, and had no soreness to speak of. Today’s ride took about five hours and aimed at Champotón, a larger town right where the flat coastal plains give way to a more hilly region. It was my last day of constant, unadulterated beach views and I soaked it up with joy.
Champotón itself was a bit disconcerting. Maybe every town has its own attitude, or maybe it’s just luck of the draw on who you meet, but people here seemed surprised to see a foreigner and more than a little uninterested. That surprised me—it was (slightly) larger and more cosmopolitan than my last two stopping points. The heat had also gotten to me, and I was not eager to spend the entire afternoon following vague directions to questionable hotels.
So I took the first decent place I found. It was an old colonial building with a view of the sea and gorgeous grounds. Yet some strange contrasts: for example, the king size bed had a plush velvet bedspread but no under-sheet. Apparently you were supposed to lay directly on the bare mattress. (I chose instead to sleep on top of the bedspread, a spare blanket over me.)
I walked down to a string of seafood stands along the malecón, the owners vying for my attention and shouting their menus at me. The seafood was good and fresh and I washed it down with some house made agua fresca (fruit drink). 42.3 miles.
Friday, January 23 (Day 931 of the Great Adventure)—To Campeche
Owing to the heat and a headwind, yesterday’s 40 miles had been a bit of a slog. The wind shifted in the night, and the earlier I left the longer I’d get a tailwind before it died. But early is relative; after finding a breakfast place, eating way too much in their courtyard, and loading up the bike it was just after 11:00 a.m.
Today was one of those days where I took a longer route because it would be prettier. A main highway cut inland straight toward Campeche, but the winding coastal road looked a lot more interesting.
The first stretch looked almost like Ireland: sea cliffs on one side, the tropical equivalent of heath on the other, occasional thatch-roofed huts clinging to the hills in the wind. The road was narrow with no shoulder and plenty of traffic, also not unlike Ireland.
After a while the terrain got woodsy and hilly. I soared past wattle cottages and spooked chickens in the road. I stopped to buy oranges from a fruit stand in the village of Villa Madero. The vendor charged me double for what few bruised oranges he had left. Only after I parted with my pesos did I see shining ripe mandarinas at the fruit stand next door.
Winding roads eventually brought me to the fishing town of Seybaplaya, one of the most picturesque in Mexico. I rolled through the streets, weaving uphill on narrow lanes, and made a second stop for a snack and Powerade. Eventually I reached the top of the town and joined a lesser highway, still no shoulder, but much less traffic now.
It was the final run to Campeche. The approach is quite beautiful. The road is beachside, and you go through the outlying town of Lerma with its cute restaurants and nice houses. I stopped at one such restaurant hoping for a seafood cocktail… but they didn’t have them! I should’ve known it would be no good from the sign that read, “Mexican Grill” in English. I left without ordering.
Campeche itself is a sight. It’s a true city, but there’s no sprawl along the beach road, just a malecón and high end restaurants. I found my way to the old city—the historic downtown surrounded by giant stone walls.
For centuries, Campeche was the major port of Yucatán. It was also a frequent target of pirates. The city’s massive walls and big guns made it virtually unassailable, and despite several attempts the pirates never did manage to raid the city.
Those walls are still there today, carefully restored with a million slivers of stone forming mosaics on every surface. I passed through the wall and gawked. Historic Campeche is like being on a movie set, except everything is real.
Everything, that is, except the hotel prices. I wandered into a well-reviewed 400-year old building and hesitantly approached the desk. Just then I noticed a sign with the prices:
Single room…. $1150/night
“Oh,” I said to the concierge, laughing. “Nevermind. Thank you.”
“Wait,” he said. “How many nights do you need?”
“Two or three.”
He shrugged. “How about $550 a night?”
Ka-ching. This is the advantage of not booking in advance: if they have rooms they need to fill, they might give you a deal. I agreed and soon had been shown into the all-around most beautiful hotel room of the entire trip.
I showered, found food, and realized I might be here a lot more than two nights. 41.2 miles.
Map. (Note: The loop in the route is accurate. Is that cheating to include that? I don’t think so, that’s how I biked it.)
Total traveled this leg: 137.2 miles.
Total traveled since Day 1: 4528.3 miles.
Next time I’ll explore the wall, the Mayan cultural museum, and the creepy but beautiful statues that haunt the alleys of downtown. Until then, become a supporter to get the video logs or check out past stories from the road.