aka Sheila and the Policia
May 18-19, 2013 – Chacala “Rest” Days

“I can give you green-eyed babies.”  What? My Spanish was bad, but I am pretty sure that is what the Policia was telling me, as we lay cheek to cheek on the secluded beach.

Friday, I set off in the morning, prepared for both nice long hike and a pleasant day at a secluded beach, Caleta las Cuevas. The hike wandered through acres of guanaba (aka jack fruit aka soursop aka nasty) orchards. It was still early in the morning when I found what I believed was the beach, but there was a huge locked gate that wasn’t yellow as I was told, there were numerous “Cuidado de los Perros” (Beware of the Dogs) signs on the gate, and I did hear growling dogs behind the gate. I figured this must be another one of those private, gringo estates and kept on walking.

A short while later, disaster came knocking on my own gates. Montezuma came for his revenge, and he was serious. I headed down a trail that seemed to lead to the water. I trucked on until I could truck no more and had to duck behind a tree and evacuate. I dropped my bike-style running shorts, changed into my swimsuit bottoms, and continued hiking down the hill. I assumed I would find a nice little beach were I could go for a cleansing swim. No such luck. The beach was a rock-strewn spot with waves crashing against the boulders. I returned the way I came, looking and feeling ridiculous in my swimsuit and hiking boots. 

Once again, I found myself in front of the gates with the snarling dogs, I could not take another moment of the boots and swimsuit fashion so I pulled my shorts from my backpack and attempted to squeeze my sweaty, sticky body back into my bike-style running shorts.  In the midst of my struggle, the gate opened and out stepped a gorgeous man in nothing but shorts. I guess he heard my Luna chatting with the guard dogs. With my shorts around my knees and red in the face, both from exertion and embarrassment, I asked in my poor Spanish if this was the beach and could I enter.  He told me it was and I could, and he excused himself for a moment. He returned fully dressed in his policia uniform.  Well, to be fair, it was very hot and he had donned his vest, BDU pants, a gun, and nothing more.  Thankfully, in the time it took him to dress and open the gates, I had been able to get my own shorts pulled up to their proper place.

He let me in and pointed the way to the beach. The beach was deserted. I had my nice cleansing swim, Luna and I were tumbled by a few waves, we explored the beach, relaxed for a hot minute, then I decided I better head back to the hotel to see if there had been any success finding a replacement window. As I was heading out, my policia was just arriving at the beach. He properly introduced himself to me, Ruben was his name, we exchanged a few pleasantries then I left. 

There was no success with the car window, but I spoke to a few people that afternoon and learned that I could easily go into Las Varas, only 15 kilometers (less than 10 miles) away, where there were a couple auto glass shops who could easily repair my window. I arrived at siesta time and all the shops were closed for lunch, so I amused myself with lunch and a cerveza buen fria (good cold beer) while awaiting the end of siesta. Once they did open, I was told that the earliest they could have a window delivered and installed was Monday. It looked like I would have to hike to the deserted beach and visit my beautiful Policia, once again.

When I returned Sunday, there was a group of men who had camped the night on the beach. Their fiesta must have been good because they were clearly hung-over. Ruben, my beautiful Policia, was hanging with his pals for a bit more revelry, before they packed up and left. For the rest of the afternoon he hung out with me, teaching me “Mexican,” joking about his Policia friends and their visit to the strip club, and allowing Luna to lick the sweat off his face with a mouth that reeked of the dead sea creatures she had ingested.  Towards late afternoon, a large family arrived at the beach. Ruben went to greet them and returned with an invitation for me to join their picnic. He very sweetly gave me the best chair, a big glass of water, and because I don’t eat meat he made me a special sandwich of Bimbo white bread, strawberry jam, and condensed milk.  Ruben never had the chance to give me that green-eyed baby. I said goodbye that afternoon and never saw him again.  In addition to being nearly half my age, he didn’t get off work until Thursday and I was eager to move along.

Before meeting Ruben, I had a cheek clenching fear of the Policia. They travel in packs, loaded onto the back of trucks, swaddled head to toe in black, ballistic Commando gear and reflective sunglasses, machine guns clutched tightly to their chests, billy clubs and pistols attached to their belts. They are a scary looking group. The state Policia are a little less scary, but similarly attired. The Municipal Policia seem jovial and friendly, but given their reputation, you don’t want to piss them off.

There are many checkpoints throughout Mexico, both military and police. I would get very nervous as I approached I literally did not remember the answer to “Donde va?” (where are you going?). A pattern began to emerge. Every questioning devolved into the same conversation, “are you enjoying Mexico? Are you traveling alone? Are you married? Kids?  No? Why not?” I began to look forward to these stops, I considered them my mini Spanish lessons.

In many of the towns in which I stayed for more than a few days, I would become friends with the local Policia. With my bleached strawberry blonde curls, pale Irish skin, green eyes, and a big dog on a leash, I stood out in this sea of brown. I felt like I had guardian angels watching over me. On Cinco de Mayo in Alamos the streets were lined with junior Policia, giving me directions to restaurants and making sure los barrachos (the drunken revelers) didn’t cause me grief. In San Blas, I climbed the hill to the ruins of Templo de la Virgen del Rosario. After touring the 14 Stations of the Cross, the Policia on duty approached me to see if I had questions. Our conversation circled around to the mango trees and he told me that green mango was delicious. I didn’t believe him, so hepicked, peeled, and fed me a green mango to try, I didn’t like it but I told him it was delicious. In Taxco, a Policia found me a hotel that allowed dogs, carried my bags up the hill, and up the three flights of stairs to my room. It wasn’t until my return trip across the Yucatan peninsula that I was asked for a mordida (bribe). I was stopped four times in 36 hours, on two of those occasions I was asked for money. I very succinctly answered, “no.” They were so shocked they just motioned for me to move along. So much for the cheek-clenching scary men with machine guns and reflective sunglasses for eyes.