Izamal, the yellow city

Last year we discovered Izamal by chance when we had to take a detour on our way to Chitzen Itza to get gas. We didn't have much time then but made a note-to-self to go check it out next time we were around. That next time was now and so we took a little trip to Izamal and staid for a couple of nights.
We traveld the local way this time: by bus. It is a short distance from Merida and we knew we wouldn't need a car while there. It was all in all a pretty pleasant way to travel and I was surprised to see that when it comes to punctuality the Yucatecos are more German than the Germans. When we got to the terminal three minutes late (okay, we thought we were 27 minutes early but an unexpected schedule "adjustment" had happend overnight) the bus had already left. So we boarded the next one 45 minutes later and took of on the minute. This, though, is where the similarities to the German bus system end. We made countless unplanned stops for people to get on and off just there and I can't be sure but had the sneaking suspicion that the occassional little detour occured to accomodate a passenger whos house wasn't on the main route. Vendors entered the bus on one end of a little town bringing on board a steady supply of popcorn, fried I-don't-know-what-but-I-know-it-ain't-healthy stuff, tacos and sweets and got off on the other end, no doubt to hitch a ride with the next bus going the opposite direction. It was a good way to get a feeling for all of those little towns that aren't in any guide book because they simply have nothing to offer what the American or Eurpean tourist would care to see. Some of these twons (actually all of them) can only be discribed as extremely modest and that would be an understatement. Poor little houses, some with dirt floor, tiny with what must surely be roofs that leak like crazy during the rainy season, unpaved roads, the smallest "spuermarkets" known to mankind and always a central plaza with a church.

The whole trip of just uner 2 hours could have been relaxing and educational if it wasn't for the bored 4 year old next to me seeking entertainment. The game he had thought up this time was to find as many as possible silly answers to the question: why do policemen carry guns? Needless to say that after about 30 minutes the answers got exceedingly silly and after about an hour we had to both declare defeat (we were taking turns) - neither one of us could possibly think of even the most outlandish reason.

So we finally puttered into Izamal with its yellow houses (in my humble opinion they are of a light orange color but people keep telling that I am color-blind which is nonsense as color-blindness is recessive and resides on the Y chromosome which makes it impossible for me to be color-blind unless I have a novel and very rare mutation on my x chromosome - but I'll leave the genetics for some later blog). Anyway, I like to think that I have a refined understanding of color that allows me to differentiate between shades of light orange that mere mortals can’t possibly ever achieve.
So we schlepped through town, with the little rollerboard in tow (highly inappropriate choice of luggage) until we found our B&B – a pleasant surprise with small little huts in a lush green setting, a pool and Germans and Americans ever which way you turned.
Izamal therefore knows tourist but they are few and far between (outside the walls of the B&B, that is). If you take the cars, motorcycles and blue gleaming TVs out of the equation you’d feel like you are in a different century (or two).
The central plaza with the huge yellow/orange convent dominates life. At 7 am there is more going on there than at 7 pm (this ain’t nightlife central). Vendors setting up stands to sell a lot of fried I-don't-know-what-but-I-know-it-ain't-healthy stuff, tacos, peeled mangos on sticks (yum, healthy!), traditional clothing, religious paraphernalia etc. Little old ladies come paddling on huge tricycles loaded down with everything they need to make all the unhealthy I-don’t-know-whats, set up candles with the picture of the Virgin Mary, or walk around with one to three grandchildren in tow to get the morning’s supply of tortillas. They generally wear the traditional white embroidered dress and it absolutely beats me how they can keep these things so sparkling clean. I just take one step outside in my khakis and black t-shirt and I am dirty (let’s not even talk about Max …) and here the little old ladies run around all day in those bright white dresses, peeling mangos – an infamously messy undertaking- riding bikes, sweeping and not a d... spot.
There were a whole bunch of horse drawn carriages around town, basically horse-taxis which I first thought where for tourists but there weren’t enough tourists around to keep half those horses busy. So, upon closer examination, I concluded – validated by empirical data – that the locals were hiring the horse taxis to get around town. Crazy scientist that I am I collected data until it was too late for us to actually ride one of those things …
To be continued