Medicos, Maggots & Monos Malos

It was a hot, crowded Sunday our first day back in Merida. The goal was to find a house, settle down for a few months and pretend to be real people. We were on holiday here 18 years ago and used to lean over the roof of our hotel drinking El Presidente and imagine we lived in one of the flat-roofed houses below. There’s been a lifetime of water under the bridge since then but here we were, full circle. We found an old house, completely renovated and minutes from the historical center. It had no parking but we found a secure spot in a garage around the corner. Before July was up, we’d moved in and were toasting the moon from the shallow end of the pool. It was just bright enough to spot the shadows turning into hard-shelled, spindly-legged insects mincing their way up my wine glass. Then the quiet was shattered by the dog behind us starting to howl. Maybe the wine-soaked roaches disturbed his sleep on their way home.

Click to enlarge photos.

We settled in, luxuriating in our good fortune of having found a traditional home. Only two-rooms wide, it extends to 6 rooms long. Merida houses look small and nondescript from the street but stretch far out back to an Arabian Nights world of hidden courtyards and fountains. Even the bars and restaurants surprise with tropical gardens bursting forth beyond narrow wooden doorways. Mere feet from the roaring mini-buses and bleating bicycle horns, these havens provided much needed tranquility after a year on the road and the 18 months of preparation that preceded it.

The heat and humidity are intense. If whatever has to be done isn’t done by 9 AM, it’s not getting done at all. We set the alarm for 6 AM and spend 50 minutes drinking coffee and reading the papers. By 7:10 we’re walking the Paseo Montejo (modelled on Paris’s Champs-Elysees) and watching toddlers weighed down by enormous Princess/Batman backpacks being lifted off motorcycles and walked into school.

We visited the only two people we knew. Jesus, an artist we’d met in Mexico City, creates whimsical, flying bicycle sculptures, straddled by figures with long, streaming hair. While the coffee brewed, we inspected everything from delicate figurines on bookcases to birds whose wings spanned over half the back patio. It was good Spanish practice too.

A trip out to Oscar’s felt less of a medical check-up than that of a drop-in on an old friend. He owned the apartment we rented back in June and after a quiz of ‘How to visit a Medico’, we’d promised to look him up when we returned from Belize. If you ever want to experience two dizzying extremes without artificial aids, try moving from the American healthcare system (is that an oxymoron?) to the Mexican one. It made for an interesting few days. No appointments were necessary, waits weren’t long and results were ready the same day or within 24 hours. The biggest surprise was of course the bills. A leisurely chat with Oscar cost all of $3.16. He also refused to charge for the introductory visits, or for driving us to a dentist during his lunch hour.

Wondering how Oscar could possibly pay off his student loans, Fran decided to help out by going back. He had a pinkish discoloration on his scalp that refused to heal. We thought it was an insect bite but sometimes it was painful and then a tiny hole appeared. I said it was probably an alien being that inhabited his body crossing the border from Belize.

I was right. Oscar called it a blowfly and it most likely did come from the Caribbean. It had laid an egg inside Fran’s head and now this worm was living there. Every now and then it came up for air through the hole that wouldn’t heal. Poor Fran, that day he gave birth to a white maggot wearing a tutu. The circle of hair around its middle was to help anchor it in place when evil doctors like Oscar tried to remove it from its lair. It would have come out on its own eventually, if we hadn’t noticed it, but that was cold comfort. Fran on the other hand, being the model patient, said matter-of-factly he’d suspected he was the AirBnB host for a parasite but admitted the birth had not been an easy one. It took over an hour and two attempts at extraction. I think even Oscar sweated that one a little. But all ended well and I'd definitely say the visit was well worth $3.16.

When life settled down we texted the leader of the Bad Monkeys moto club. A reply came from “Edwin of Merida” which for some reason got me thinking of medieval castles and knights with names like Ethelred the Unready. We invited Edwin over for a beer and after a few confusing texts heard the sound of engines outside. When we opened the door, a handsome young biker stepped inside. His black t-shirt had a white logo of what looked like a rabid monkey. He was followed by another, then another, all handsome and all dressed the same. Finally two females broke the chain; one was carrying a baby wearing earrings, a big pink bow and…. the ubiquitous black t-shirt.

After the initial awkwardness of trying to make everyone comfortable in a room with only 5 chairs I did a headcount. Eleven in total, not including the bebé. There was a 15 year-old brought along as translator but his high-school English was on par with our Spanish so it didn’t bode well. However, we had a great evening with plenty of laughs and were even presented with Mad Monkey badges. When the baby got tired she was taken outside and brought for a spin. Sandwiched in between her Mum and Dad on the motorbike, they roared off for a quick circuit of the block. I suppose it's Mexico’s version of singing a lullaby.

The surrounding countryside is full of pyramids, cenotes (sinkholes) and Mayan villages with names like Yaxkukul and Xucu. One Sunday, we stopped on the roadside for lunch. Only one type of food was on display and it looked like somebody had raided the post office and set all the parcels on fire. The dish was called El Pib and had chicken, cornmeal and beans wrapped in banana leaves and baked in an open pit of hot coals. Our plates were squares of cardboard. With hot sauce served in plastic bags, it tasted delicious. The whole area looks like a tropical, 1950s Ireland with palm-thatched cottages and grey, stone walls, except for the open doors that reveal old men lying in hammocks. It’s good to be on a swing when the women are chasing chickens.

The hammock is the bed of the Yucatan. In every room, and in the garden, there are metal loops embedded in the walls just waiting for a hammock to be hung. I didn’t understand this until one night we were drinking with a fellow motorcyclist from Germany. He recalled a conversation with a local lawyer who wasn’t looking too good. After asking if he was all right, the answer was “No, I’m feeling awful. My family has gone to the beach for the summer and taken all our hammocks. I only have a bed and haven’t had a good night’s sleep since they left.” Now I finally understand why a hotel here advertising a room for 6 only has one double bed.

The days are rolling into one. Fran’s been doing maintenance on the bike and we’re learning our Spanish mostly online. It’s the rainy season and the daily storms are thunderously loud and very wet. But they stop as quickly as they start and all is calm again, a little cooler and the pool overflows. Splashing about is strictly prohibited since Fran sent a tidal wave through the kitchen window. All the dishes had to be dried a second time but at least the floor got cleaned.

We’ll be going back on the road soon. It won’t be easy to leave but it’s time to change the view outside the window. My toes are beginning to take root and we’re moving slower every day. I blame the heat but that’s not the only reason. The thought of going sometimes breaks my heart but on the other hand, I never could stand that dog.