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By Sandy Korey
Eighteenth Annual Solas Awards Gold Winner in the Funny Travel category
This ain’t no fairy tale, you know. This is a true-life adventure of a modern-day princess, one who got rolled away in a big blueberry by her very own Mr. Wonderful. We just didn’t fall off no pumpkin truck neither, no sirree. It all came about due to hard work, sacrifice, long-range planning, and a big dollop of good luck as high as whipped creme on top of a double banana split tossed in for good measure that built up to this here surprise of the century or a lifetime, depending on which ends first. Here’s how it went:
Whoever said getting old is no fun and birthdays only add on pounds and pile up the years to the death toll was wrong on the first count. You just need to get away from it all and ignore the rest of the facts. One hell of a birthday card held the ticket. I was celebrating sixty-three years and got invited to go on a cruise. I don’t mean around the block or down Main Street like in the good old days. This was the real McCoy.
Thanksgiving is a nice holiday and I have a lot to be thankful for, but this time I was thankful to get it over with and be on our way. Like the song says, “Galveston, my Galveston, I hear you callin’,” because this was our scheduled port of departure and I was jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof to get there on time. December third was the boarding date and what an experience that turned out to be for a country bumpkin like me. Sitting around in a dreary old hanger crowded in with thousands of other travelers for hours with time on our hands didn’t seem like a fine beginning but that’s the price you pay for getting sophisticated, I guess. Finally, the gangplank opened up and we joined the cattle call “All Aboard!” My Goodness, this is just like down home on the farm, only here folks pay a high price for something we do every day, calling the herd.
Once we got past the rigmarole of proving payment for this privilege plus Homeland Security hogwash, the picture changed rapidly. Suddenly I was in a fancy hotel, one that floated on water-sort of like you know who. It seemed like a religious experience. Had I died and gone to Heaven without being properly notified? Uniformed angels came out of the woodwork offering to help us find our way around. They directed us to our room. They delivered our luggage without tearing the brown paper bags. They asked if we wanted a drink. Were we hungry? They showed us how to turn on the television set, lights, heat and air conditioning. We had indoor plumbing, a bathroom all to ourselves. That feature alone made this worthwhile as I’d been wondering what I would do if a storm blew up.
Mr. Wonderful told me, “Daylight’s burnin’ Calamity.”
I had to pull my chin back up to my face and hurry along to see the other wonders of this water world. Carpets covered our path, music filled the air, elegant ladies with painted faces, dressed in pretty clothes, nodded as we passed while real-life gentlemen stepped aside to clear our way. What a feast for my eyes and I was famished!
Quiet dining rooms with bowing servants attended to our every wish. Like magicians, their white gloves brought forth all a body can eat. I didn’t have to hop up from the table neither. All the preparin’ for, waitin’ on, and cleanin’ up was all done for me. Only once did I snag the soft white tablecloth, caught it on a button, sort of my own magic trick swiping the linen off the table while leaving the silver and glassware in place.
“I’m glad you haven’t lost your touch” murmured Mr. Wonderful, hiding behind his linen napkin. “You’re still my Calamity Jane.”
I fast needed to get me some savvy. Yep, that’s what I intended to do. The much-needed solution to my behavior problem came to me at bedtime in a dream come true.
I felt like Alice in Wonderland, sizing up the joint from every angle. I got plum tuckered out from being so awestruck. Come time to turn in and what to my wandering eyes should appear but technicolor chocolates wrapped up all shiny waiting on the pillow where my tired head should be.
Did they come with instructions like cookies? Once eaten would I wake up a different person?
What if new newfangled medical reports on the benefits of chocolate are true? I will try anything once and hope for good results.
Lo and behold, as the alarm on the clock signaled the break of dawn, I awoke as a new person, all sophisticated and rearing to go. I was ready for an adventure, island hoping in the western Caribbean. First stop Costa Maya.
Our ship, the Grand Princess, slid smoothly into dock along the piers jetting out of the sandy coastline of Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. All I could see from the rail was flat land with the ragged green edges of slopping palms that covered the rainforest, all framed by aqua-blue water. A bevy of taxis and buses crowd the shopping plaza all decked out in the finest commercial tradition to ease the tourist into the transition of an easier culture. This is where the glorified commercial shopping spree aspect of the trip enters into muddy waters by directing the unknowing first-timer to so-called recommended shops that kick back a percentage to the cruise line, appealing to the gullible traveler, too timid to go beyond the fray. Pretend Mayan Indians in phony costumes dance to the native beat surrounded by thatched gift shops beckoning for one’s mad money. Savvy as we were, we ignored the compulsion to stop and shop. We pushed ahead and boarded a local open-air shuttle to take us further inland.
Here’s where the true spirit of travel takes hold. The beachfront was a maze of color, a bazaar of floppy tent-type covers protecting native wares from direct tropical sun lined the sandy way on both sides with local shopkeepers calling out, taking your arm, leading you to their tables to view their wares. The effect is charming or intimidating if one is not informed or forewarned.
Time was a constant consideration. We had a few hours here or there dictated by the sailing schedule of the cruise line. We tried to make the most of each port stop in our limited judgment. To my advantage was my companion’s experience having cruised parts of the Caribbean several times in his previous life, coupled with the re-enforcement of his living experience of six years in Central America which equipped him with understanding and respect for Mexican culture plus the ability to converse in Spanish.
I didn’t want to travel all this way to miss an opportunity to view the Mayan ruins, that was our first goal. Dusting off his Latin style, Spanish flowing like water, Don negotiated a local taxi and off we whisked to the site of the closest Inah Ruins, Chacchoben. Even his name, Don Loedding, fits in here, employing the Don to mean the Spanish title or equivalent of Mister. Mine is Sandy like the beach. Our driver was friendly, enjoying Don’s banter as he took the front seat easing communication skills. The Latinos love to joke, their language is full of double ententes. Don was an expert in this field. The roads are dusty dirt; the buildings that line them are shanties made of tin and cardboard. Ladies hawk fresh pineapple slices along the route, an item to resist unless you want to experience Montezuma’s revenge. There was a military presence guarding the way in and out of the village. Armed, camouflaged troops sat around waving the traffic through. We would have been stopped for questioning if not with a recognized native escort. Not wanting to raise our suspicions it was explained there had been some problems with hunters, well, maybe in a way, yes.
The level countryside is a tangle of twisting trunks and pretty flowers in a marshy setting. Temperatures are a comfortable hot and it’s early December. A local school was a series of connected pavilions, very typical we were told, servicing the very basic educational requirements as we know them. A rag-tag operation by our standards but then what else do these people need to accompany their simple uncomplicated lifestyle?
Most delightful for me was the local cemetery brimming with a profusion of fresh flowers spilling over almost out of every grave site as cheerful reminders of the joy and love of life these folks enjoy without the morbidity we gringos associate with death. Familiarize yourself with the Day of the Dead festival for self-enrichment, the true hidden ingredient making travel worthwhile. Happy Halloween.
Arriving at the ruins there is a large grass hut structure sheltering more tourist items for sale. We brought our own water bottles, thank you. The bathrooms are clean with an attendant to tip, a practice I hadn’t encountered the pleasure of since my social life scaled down in the states. Admission tickets were expensive at thirty-three USD so we decided to forego the guide even though she insisted she was worth another fifty as an educated archaeologist, “Sir, I am a professional.” So were we, able to read the signposts. We ambled the beaten paths meandering through tunnels of overhanging cypress guarded by razor-sharp yuccas in the undergrowth unfettered. We batted a few mosquitoes and wiped away the humidity which furthered the discomfort of my trusty arthritic victim. With his walking stick for support, Don was an out-of-step Moses in the wrong place at the wrong time but a good sport to endure my unceremonious enthusiasm at every bend and discovery. Make him an updated long-suffering Professor Henry Higgins instead of doting on my little dos and don’ts.
The so-called ruins could be a misnomer because the old stone structures, be they temples or whatever, are in excellent shape due to solid construction. Our edifices should only be as strong minus the philosophy of built-in planned obsolescence. Stone fitted on stone, pyramid-like, supported by indented story levels, sealed by moss and packed soil. There stood the proud monuments honoring the lost Mayan people boldly before me. The consequences are breathtaking, impressed by my imagination. I climbed the many steep steps while contemplating the ground beneath me.
Our faithful chauffeur waited in the parking lot. We retraced our tracks back to where we alighted in the marketplace to rummage through the offerings, always remembering to haggle for a lower price than asked for. When in Rome, do as the Romans, you know. It’s expected and all conducted in good-natured kidding. They’ll tell you with a disgusted click of the tongue and brush you off when you’ve bid too low. Time to move along. This open-air arts and crafts fair is a full-time family affair. Merchants have pitched small pup tents in the sand beside their displays to spend the night, watching over their investment. Small children scamper freely around the parents’ workplace, basking in love and sunshine. There are no behavior problems. They are bright and beautiful with their shining dark eyes, healthy brown skin and straight black hair. Everyone is happy. The soft sand is clean and white, the ocean clear and calm in gradations of aqua green to azure blue as it deepens. Small craft bob anchored close to shore, hammocks hang lazily between coconut trees. Such a serene paradise should be celebrated and we did, with libation, a street-side margarita in a cafe owned by a Canadian couple who had thrown in the corporate towel in favor of this gentler pursuit. With an eye on the clock, we had to return to the ship in the good graces of our constant driver whom Don rewarded with a generous tip.
Security is always the order of the day. Every going and coming is held up as our ID cards are pressed into the computer system for tracking purposes by polite and patient waiting uniformed staff. Shipmates are advised to always keep the “cruise/key card” on their person at all times. Purchased packages are searched on the gangway. Alcoholic beverage purchases are held to be delivered back to their right owner on the last day of the cruise. The duty-free saving isn’t that remarkable and the bottle limit is so low, it’s not worth the extra effort.
We returned to our quarters for showers and change of clothes to become night owls. A stroll around the deck, perhaps to catch a glimpse of the sun setting over a watery horizon, relax with a before-drink cocktail to stimulate the appetite at one of the many piano bars, fine dining with international wait staff at your service, another stroll to settle an overcrowded stomach, maybe take in a live Broadway review or current big screen movie, a little shuffling of feet to romantic mood music in a mellow cocktail lounge, followed with a deep sleep rocked on a deep blue sea in the arms of love.
The next port was Belize City, an early morning call. Due to narrow channels, we had to board ship tenders to reach the shallow shoreline. These smaller touring boats are a slow-going crowded nuisance.
We did not have much time on shore here as the ship was scheduled to hoist anchor at 2:15 P.M. Belize does not enjoy a wholesome or safe repudiation so one would not choose to be left behind here.
Crowded together, the shops hover near the piers so it is easy to get in and out fast. We did enjoy the riot of colors that abound on the materials offered, particularly the showcase of bags, along with throws from nearby Guatemala. My one regret is not buying something from this display. The mood of the locals in this small corner of Belize was a little foreboding. We were content to bid the spot adieu, allowing ample time for a safe return ship side. Every evening aboard the ship followed the same pattern, much like a big city night on the town but without the hassle of driving in traffic or parking the car. I could get used to this lifestyle fast.
Welcome to Grand Cayman, Brand Cayman if you are a shop-a-holic. As British subjects, duty-free shopping here takes on a distinctly elegant flare. This is the place for upscale tastes and designer jewelry, we are talking diamonds and emeralds, Wedgwood China and Waterford Crystal. I took a fast zip down Memory Lane just to renew my senses and sensibility. I’ve outgrown such tastes.
Another goal was a trip to the beach, so here we hopped the local bus, really convenient vans, and a dollar lighter we were on the public stretch of Seven Mile Beach, just another conglomerate of surf side hotels row on row like every other natural swim site gone to Hell although amenities abound. Again, a very clean bath house to change in free of charge. Don could nest under an awning, complete with a collegiate barmaid to wait with cold beer while I tempted the fates with a dip in the Caribbean Ocean. Oh joy and ecstasy, by Jove, I did it! Sand and surf as in the good old days but look how far I’ve traveled from the humble Cape of Cod. The buses are reliable every twenty minutes so it was an easy sprint back to the docks. Relaxed and refreshed, ready for another night out.
There is always something going on, on board. They really go overboard (not literally) to satisfy every taste. We’re not interested in gambling, but the casino goes full tilt around the clock with all the bells and whistles. Instruction in computer know-how or hands-on pottery classes for the faint of heart. Those dull-witted peons with no interest in foreign shores should stay home in my opinion.
We hiked up to the Sky Walker Lounge just to see the sights on the upper deck for closure. This spot was the last to shut down in the wee hours where the young folks love to jump, hump and bump to loud noise. I got asked to dance once by another woman. When I politely turned her down, she asked Don instead. He was so flabbergasted he didn’t know if that was an honor or an insult. We all shared a good laugh.
The last stop was Cozumel, a small island nine miles off the coast of Mexico. Welcome to a dose of reality. This port had been severely damaged in the last infamous round of land-striking hurricanes. Going ashore took forever because the Mexican government insisted that all the cruise ships in the harbor, and there were several, employ only Mexican Tenders. The frustration level ran up everyone’s bar bill 100%, beginning before noon. It was a sobering sight though to view ripped-away moorings, gutted-out hotels, déjà-vu at the real ruins to see workers up repairing torn rooftops and rebuilding the skeletons where fat cats once roamed. We were forced to scrap our plans of renting a car to tour the island, settling for making our way inward beyond the tourist plaza into the heart of the city. Don had been here years ago and has a strong memory. We hailed a cab.
There is something to love about a sidewalk because all the shops and city dwellings hug them. It is Spanish custom to build the home circle style around the gardened yard in the middle for privacy. Wrought iron gates and fencing ensure safety and ward off intrusion. The doorways are pretty with decorated ceramic tiles and flowering pots. Mexico is a Roman Catholic nation.
Decorative crucifixes fill plunging necklines and bounce with the bust. Women are simply sexy, uninhibited with their charm and appreciated that way. No Puritan double standards confuse the issue. We waited for a bus that never came right on a corner, sitting on the bench under the window to an old mission church Don remembered. I went in with my camera and snapped a few pictures. A nun in white garments rushed past us bare-toed in her sandals. Didn’t we call them JC shoes after the first style setter? Families ride motor scooters. Mommas, Poppas, and little kiddies hanging on for dear life as these machines roared from one place to the next in a burst of gas fumes, rounding sharp corners on busy narrow streets.
Nobody seems to worry. Bright colors hid the cracked walls in cement on the building fronts. Signs are easy to read. Directional shapes, stop, etc. are universal. We ordered a rum and coke for the pause that refreshes in a beautiful upper-story restaurant that has been in business since Don’s earlier days. They didn’t remember him. Nevertheless, we were serenaded by two resident guitarists. It was a nice romantic touch. We did some last-minute shopping for ourselves before wishing all “Viya con Dios”, meaning “Go with God”, the sincerest farewell one can offer.
On the last day at sea, we maintained a steady course through the Gulf of Mexico with water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink. We ancient mariners took time to reflect on our whirlwind tour while doing nothing with a clear conscience. The sea remained smooth throughout our voyage with never a sprinkle to dampen an outing. Perfect conditions had prevailed. We found the other tourists less willing to be as open and friendly as the camping types we are used to on the road, or was this a premonition in our changing times?
Americans sure know how to look tacky. Gringo dress code in the marketplace is a sight for sore eyes, just plain embarrassing. To misquote Robert Burns wish: “Oh to have the gift ye gi’ us, to see ourselves as others do.” Overweight, out of shape, sloppy, with pasty complexions spilling over and out of tight tee-shirts and shorts, like rising dough, isn’t sexy or pretty, not to mention poor taste. I won’t even compare habits of cleanliness. I already mentioned the clean bathrooms. Shame on the roadside restrooms and comfort stations back in the U.S.A. No roadside trash is visible here either.
There was a laundry on board, just down the aisle from our room. I didn’t want to travel with dirty laundry so I fell back into my old routine before we packed it all in. We would be pulling into Galveston, Texas, early and thought we’d be first in line. Here I will indulge with the oft-quoted, “They also serve who stand and wait” because that is what we all did during the lengthy boring disembarking process. Hurry up and wait. More of the same in the luggage claim area. Hailed a shuttle bus over to the parking lot to claim our vehicle, the rootin’ tootin’ Big Blue camp bus! It’s a ten-hour drive back home in Arkansas’s Ozarks.
Well, with all the jostling around I began to lose my spit and polish. In the grime of the Galveston port, my tarnished self emerged from hiding. Boasting saddle sores on my fanny from all that riding I was back to bein’ my old self, bitchin’, stubborn, pure countrified, and comfortable in my creased skin with no more airs about me than an old fart.
I was cussin’ over inconveniences and disregard for human dignity. Been there, done that. Hot damn if we didn’t have a time though!
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Sandy Korey is now retired, reliving twice-told tales.