Sunday, March 27, 2011

The Real Cancun

Supposedly it's spring in the Big Apple. Which means only two inches of snow instead of two feet. There's better ways to speed up the dethawing process than trying to fast forward the Weather Channel. Mexico here we come!

Or rather, honorary US territory here we come! Cancun is about as Mexican as those double beef Gordita Nacho Supremes at your local Taco Bell. But when you wake up to views like this, who's complaining?


In a land where sun tans are measured on a logarithmic scale, this dude stands out like an iceberg at the equator.

Now there's a beach babe if I ever saw one. Finally the sunglasses have a use other than preventing snow blindness.


How novel, a puddle that doesn't require Ugg boots and an anti-sludge sonar to navigate.


Rock has the beach to himself. Must be because all his fellow Yanks are busy stuffing themselves at the breakfast buffet. Come on folks, ya'll can do that at the IHOP back home.

There are vacations where you unwind by gasping for breath in the rarefied Andean air as you drag yourself up yet another mountain pass, or chill out by spending days bouncing along a desolate dirt yak track in the quest for a mere glimpse of Everest. And then there are vacations.


Paradise Found.


Day one kicks off with a leisurely drive down the coast to the legendary ruins of Tulum, with an extended pit stop in the buzzing coastal town of Playa del Carmen.


They call this 5th Avenue. Mei's disappointment at not seeing a Henri Bendel store quickly dissipates with a stroll under the leafy palms.


You know a country isn't the marginal cost leader any more when the colorful coin purses, complete with "authentic" Mayan inscriptions, come by the containerful from Shenzhen.


Which way to the playa?


Nothing gets the greenbacks out of the wallet quicker than a splash of garish color to lure those turĂ­sticos into range.


In case you want to thank the big guy for building these fine beaches.


Dude, get in the water already.


You know a beach is a good one when Mei is first into the water. You know a beach is better than good when said entry isn't accompanied by complaints about too much seaweed, too many shells, or a temperature that isn't exactly 77.3 degrees.


Don't distract the lifeguards honey, they need to keep an eye on that big fellow from Wisconsin who is about to prove why some people should stick to a Disneyworld Passport instead of a Federal one.


Rock tests out the shower facilities. Just in case one of those sunbathers over there decides her bikini top has caught a bit of sand.


Out here the only decision is which perfectly formed palm tree one wants to sit under.

The greenback may be on the slippery slope, but out here it still buys you the freshest pineapple around.


Snow drifts are fun for the first month or so, whereas palm trees never go out of fashion.



Now there's one Chinese import that no one is complaining about.


Apparently the twitter-facebook literati have coined the term Chillaxing. Team J00ster is proud to bring you the official definition.


Hate to break it to you, but that's the pose one uses before they rip out your still beating heart atop one of those nifty pyramids.

On the other hand, this is the pose one uses before nonchalantly gunning down a rival posse in Dead Horse Gully. Strike 2.


Overnight stops don't come any better than this. The Retiro Maya is a world removed from the concrete, glass, and perky silicon of Cancun's resort strip. The laid back collection of beach side bungalows blends in almost perfectly with the palm groves.


Gotta love a place where an outdoor shower isn't what happens when yet another wintry arctic blast decides to dump a load of sleet on those unlucky enough to be two blocks from the nearest subway station.


One hopes this is for keeping skeeters out, not your local Mexican Vine Snake.


The back porch in these parts isn't too shabby at all.


Out here, this is the only guy you have to fight for beach towel space with.


Sunsets always look better when shared with an endless expanse of pristine sand.




Somehow I don't think we're going to need to queue for an hour to get into this nightclub.


Like every self respecting beach town, this one is built around a diving shop.


This is quite a rarity; a vehicle in this condition usually has had Rock behind the wheel at some point.


Rock weighs up the important travel questions, like whether the best thing about Mexico is the beaches or the free corn chips and salsa that you get at all the restaurants. No contest, you can get beaches anywhere, but you can't pick up salsa this fresh in Duane Reade.


It's a balmy tropical night, and the party is only just getting started.


An outdoor taco grill cranks out Baha fish tacos as the torches flicker and the gentle lap of waves floats up from the beach. Now if only they had wifi...



A winning idea - swings instead of bar stools. Now even when you're swaying you can still order another drink.


Now that's a sight worth getting out of bed for. What a coincidence, a binkini clad babe seems to have popped up right in the middle of Rock's sweeping beach photo.


You want to get to the ruins? You're gonna have to come through me!


The entrance to the legendary ruins of Tulum. Even ancient warriors liked to compare beachfront properties between virginal sacrifices.


No wonder they got blindsided by the Spanish. Hard to drum up the motivation to practice bludgeoning enemies to death when your barracks looks more like a spa than a fortress.


Up there the watchmen take turns spying on the chicks on the secluded beach below.


Generally when building one's defenses it's probably not a great idea to leave a gap in the walls so that you keep your beach access. But it sure makes a great photo op.


Careful, I heard they're looking for a new sacrifice appease the annoying gods who let these clouds blow into the shot.


Next stop on the ruin trail, the ancient jungle city of Coba.


It doesn't get much cooler than Coba. Crumbling temples and mysterious pyramids gasp for breathe as the tangled vines of the encroching jungle inexorably tighten their grip.


It's just like Indian Jones. Well, it's just like Indian Jones before the days when a 70 year old man picked up his million dollar paycheck by standing in front of a bluescreen and cracking a CGI-ed whip whilst waiting for the scriptwriters to decide whether an Aliens or ET ending is a better way to destroy what little plot they've already penned.



You can almost hear Raiders march swelling in the background.


They sure don't build things like they used to.


Mei demonstrates the appropriate technique for avoiding poison arrow traps. It also works well when a giant stone comes rolling your way.


The original March Madness may not have had an exclusive contract with CBS to televise every game, but it did have one thing that even TV money can't buy: the bloody sacrifice of the losing team. Even St. Johns and Syracuse didn't quite suffer that fate, depite the NY Post's best efforts.


Needless to say, Team J00ster refused to sell out to the dark side. Although after a dusty hour of ruin-hopping on foot, the moral high road began to look more like a moral long road.


Nothing like an annoying tourist to desecrate the sacred grounds of an ancient temple.



Seen one ruin seen 'em all? Not when you stumble across the first round pyramid in a sea of squares.

Time for a break from all this history, how about something that's only centuries old instead of millenia.


It wouldn't be a Mexican town without a colorful plaza in the middle. The perfect place for that mid-afternoon siesta. On second thought, the best place for that is in the nice air conditioned car while Rock toils on in the driver's seat.


Nothing beats eating like the locals. The foodcourt off the plaza serves up watermelon juice so fresh it makes Whole Foods look like freeze dried astronaut food.


Things move slower in this part of the world. No need to swear under one's breath as another group of gawking Euro tourists slows down your carefully cultivated New York sprint-walk.



Final stop on the Tour de Old Stuff, the massive pyramid of Chichen Itza. Named one of the new seven wonders of the world (narrowly beating out this esteemed publication in a run-off), the mighty structure towers over the surrounding jungle like any good Wonder should.


You can't climb it any more. Which may be a good thing given the fitness levels of Team J00ster after four long months of hibernation.


Now that is a pyramid.


The perfect place to lure an intruder to a excruciating death via an elaborately constructed set of traps, riddles, snakes, and anti-whip defenses.


No one is going to take you seriously without a battered fedora.


Either they've finally spotted those elusive aliens who built the darn thing, or Saturday Night Fever has come to Mexico.


The ancient guardians don't have much to do now that everyone is armed with an SLR instead of a quiver of poisoned arrows.


This thing is bigger than it looks. Unlike this blog, where you pretty much get what you see - tabloid journalism and generic tourist photos.


Time to check a new temple. Moden nightlife in Cancun has evolved a bit beyond hunting jaguars out behind the pyramids.



On second thought, evolution is probably the wrong word. Bringing Jersey Shore to Cancun confirms recent theories about homo sapiens regressing back to the primate world.


The big finale - a day of doing completely nothing other than lazing around the pool - is great when you're doing it, but doesn't exactly make thrilling reading.


Hot or not? You be the judge.



This could almost be a Corona ad, if it had a couple more boobs.


Finally Mei manages to swim across a whole pool without touching the ground. It only took 10 years of practice and an ice cold pina colada on the other side.