DURING a recent trip to the Yucatan, my husband and I, despite being happy exactly where we were, decided to switch towns for a day or two. To help us figure out which one to visit, we turned to our thus-far helpful guide, Frommer’s: Cancun, Cozumel and the Yucatan 2004.
The book listed Celestun as a side trip from our base town of Merida. It was described as a “quiet night away” where visitors could enjoy a wildlife tour, the highlight of which apparently were flamingos, and spend time afterwards in the town, which featured a “wide, sandy beach facing the gulf.” Celestun it was.
Reservations were made at the Hotel Maria del Carmen, touted as the guide writer’s “favorite” accomodation in Celestun, and we set forth by car. As we passed through remote Mayan villages, we began to get psyched about Celestun’s promised charm.
Promises, promises. Upon arriving, we were greeted by slackjawed locals, dirty roads and decrepit buildings. Packs of dangerous-looking dogs roamed the streets.
OK, we said. So it’s not pristine. And yes, it’s the type of place an escaped convict would come to hide from the law. We can deal with that.
But then we saw our lodgings. If the dingy Hotel Maria del Carmen is the writer’s favorite, I shudder to think of what the other hotels in town were like. The lobby featured an old plaid recliner, folding chairs and a dirty refrigerator, and the manager seemed completely unfamiliar with the basics of hotel hospitality. Our cheerful declarations of “Uno dormitorio, por favor,” were met with one long, vacant stare. After a lengthy game of charades (what part of the “sleeping” gesture was hard to decipher?) something finally clicked with the manager: Perhaps we wanted a room?
We were shown to a concretefloored cubbyhole with one thin sheet and no blanket, flickering fluorescent
lights, spiders nesting in the shower, flimsy plywood doors, and a lock that a cat could have jimmied.
The room offered a view of the beach – ah, yes, the “wide, sandy beach” – which was strewn with trash and black sand. It looked like sunbathing was out.
We left our gloomy room to find out about the flamingo tours, but no one seemed to know they existed, including the several locals we stopped – and the people at the tourism office.
Next, we strolled along the dirty, windy beach looking for a good restaurant – or, barring that, a restaurant
with lots of alcohol. We stopped at a decent-looking place and proceeded to drown our Celestun sorrows
with tequila and ate ceviche.
As we left, we passed a diner who was, by God, spinning a gun on the table, next to a box of bullets. “At least
he isn’t spinning a loaded gun,” I noted, trying to be optimistic.
We scurried back to our hotel room, dodging a few snarling dogs along the way. After pushing a chair against the door, we supplemented our bedding with assorted clothing from our suitcases. Then there we lay, alert for the sounds of gun-toting villagers and making plans to hightail it out of there as soon as the sun came up.