As the plane pushes past turquoise gulf waters, crossing over the state of Quintana Roo, I immediately notice the hurricane damage. A gentle throb of sympathy pulses within me as I notice the brown scars on the face of the once verdant landscape. I cannot see the Zona Hotelera from my window, but I wonder what devastation it endured.
The Zona Hotelera of spring break infamy lies along a shoal-like spit of sandy beaches and resort hotels. Ciudad Cancún-a bustling city of nearly one-quarter million inhabitants-hums nearby on the mainland. Most American tourists pass through the real city only twice, to and from the airport.
We arrive and empty from the plane directly onto the tarmac. The heat and humidity wring sweat from my skin. A small shuttle transports us from the plane to the main terminal, where LaFleur and I wedge into tight corrals, waiting to stamp our passports. I am surrounded by exactly that which I expected: pale-skinned families robed in affluence and artificially bronzed twenty-somethings eyeing one another, unbuttoning themselves with lustful anticipation-a crowded confirmation of all my negative American stereotypes.
The masses trickle away from the baggage claim conveyor belts and outside to the sweltering taxi ranks. Well-pressed uniforms stand next to high-occupancy vans waiting for guests of specific resorts. Shuttle drivers offer passage to the Zona Hotelera for only $30 US. A squatting, ovoid woman sells bottles of Dos Equis XX beer from a Styrofoam cooler. A stream of cab drivers, with their attire and autos in various states of disrepair, squawk enthusiastically “Taxi, taxi!”
We push through the throngs of tourists, following signs, toward the end of the terminal. After only 20 meters, we are conspicuously alone. We reach a turn and trade suspicious glances at one another; we feel suddenly fearful of our isolation. One hundred meters later, we find two quietly humming first-class buses. A lanky, stooping man places our backpacks in the undercarriage; we purchase tickets for $3.50 US to el terminal centro, and board the ADO coach.
The icy air-conditioning raises goose bumps, a second-rate Hollywood film chatters dubbed Spanish from the television above our seats, and my body feels overcome with success. As Latino passengers shuffle down the aisle in search of their seats, LaFleur kisses me and thanks me for avoiding the clamor of the crowds. She looks relaxed and at home.
Near the central bus depot
The bus terminal rests near the economic center of Ciudad Cancún, a gleaming glass structure at the heart of the city’s activity. After a quick guidebook consultation, we set out in search of a hotel room. I’m excited by the independence a guidebook affords, by our intentional lack of reservations, by the spontaneity of our trip. The city feels thick and gritty with opportunity.
“You looking for a hotel? Clean, affordable?” A tiny man with acne scars and squinting, wrinkled eyes scurries across the street to catch us.
“No, nos vamos al Hotel Cotty, graciás,” I reply and continue to walk.
The man circles around us again, introducing himself as Miguel, marveling at my Spanish. He no longer speaks English to us, explaining with a slurred lisp that he works for the hotels in Cancún, helping tourists find rooms. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head toward “Hotel Otty” (I notice the sign over the door is missing the letter “C”), assuring us that the rooms are too expensive. He pulls a fistful of business cards from his pocket, recommending other nearby hotels, listing prices, describing their comparable accommodations.
I feel tense, remembering an altercation with a shoeshine grifter in New Orleans a few years ago. I’m often too polite for my own good, especially when interacting with other cultures. I never want to seem racist or pretentious with the locals, so I recite the Golden Rule internally and put my faith in humanity.
We follow along to Hotel Punta Allen. Lovely Spanish colonial wrought iron balconies frame the ascending stories of newly painted plaster. Miguel introduces us to Pablo in the lobby, explains the promised price ($300 MX, slightly less than $30 US), and we ask to see the room.
“Let’s just take it. It’s not that bad. It has A/C and I’m getting hungry.” LaFleur dumps her backpack onto the bed, unzips her smaller daypack from the bag, and adjusts her ponytail in the metal mirror.
The room boasts no balcony but instead a large picture window that opens into a busy hallway, thinly veiled with thin tattered fabric. It’s slightly larger than a matchbox, with a tiny water closet crowded with a sink, toilet and showerhead-but no shower curtain nor hot water. The air-conditioner, plastered into the wall at a dangerously rakish angle, shakes and sputters cold air into the room. In the hallway, a child’s plastic sand bucket catches dripping water from the A/C. The piercing scent and sight of black mold turns my stomach. I acquiesce. We pay the manager for the night and head out.
Doña Tota Gorditas
We sup on rustic pockets of masa bread filled with exotic contents such as nopales, chicharron, and huevos con chaya at a nearby stall named Doña Tota’s Gorditas. As the warm, spicy food fills me, I can think of nothing but the dialectics between rich and poor, dominant cultures and the oppressed, the ideal and reality. I reluctantly realize that I too have grown accustomed to the opulent American standard of living, despite my contempt of those who seek it on their travels. We catch a local bus to the Zona and spend the sunset looking nostalgically for my old hotel, wandering along the lapping waves and white sand.
