Costa Maya, Mexico

When I travel I tell myself I am not a tourist because tourists in my mind do silly things like adopt silly poses with dignified statues. But here I am doing just that, in Costa Maya, on the Caribbean coast of Mexico. 

I must remember that when I do stuff like this I must take another picture of the statue without me because embarrassingly I could not Photoshop myself out of this one and only picture I have of this representation of the Mayan figure Chacmool who guards the entrance to this faux Mayan shopping plaza. But Costa Maya is purely and simply made for tourists. It is a collection of tourist facilities at the end of a long, unadorned concrete jetty for cruise ships, 

long strips of white sandy or rocky beaches and cabanas 

A port of call carved out of the extensive featureless jungle beyond.

There are two villages within some miles of Costa Maya and some unexplored small Mayan sites in the jungle, but those are largely beyond the reasonable reach of a cruise passenger who has only a few hours on shore.

So one does touristy things.

Sightseeing here is simple and two-way: from the ship you look with envy and impatience at the white sand, colorful buildings, thatched cabanas and the warm clean surf lapping at the shore at the other end of the dock. From the white sandy beach and thatched cabanas you look at your ship at the other end of the dock and think of the splendour of life at sea. 

In between you pose with Chacmool, perhaps with a shiver down your spine recall that in the days of the Mayas, it is thought, sacrificial human hearts would be placed on that tablet on his stomach.

Or you visit this replica, on a much smaller scale, of a Mayan pyramid of the kind that are found all over Mexico.

Pretend to be scared by this fierce jaguar, an important figure in Mayan culture.

A Mayan style arch forms the entrance to a shopping mall with the customary souvenir stalls.

You might be lucky to catch an outdoor folkloric dance at this plaza.

Or take in the vivid colors of the various buldings.

When your sightseeing’s all done, this oversized bottle of Mexican beer may persuade you to slake your thirst. ¡Bienvenidos, amigos!

Western Caribbean Cruise

Usually on the morning after I return from a trip I call some of my siblings, who all live thousands of miles away and whom I don't see for years at a time, to let them know I am back home. That may be a habit motivated by inherited remnants of our mother's anxiety about our whereabouts and safety whenever we were not at home, and especially when we were travelling.

I was about to instinctively reach for the phone when I realized that this time a call was not necessary. My siblings, with one exception, had accompanied me on this trip. We had finally been able to have an almost complete family reunion after more than ten years.

A cruise seemed to be the best venue for this. We sailed out of Fort Lauderdale, Florida, a port that was as equidistant as possible for all of us. A gettogether for our family, as for most, I am sure, involves a lot of cooking, cleaning up and other busy work that severely reduces the amount of time for bonding and catching up on news. A cruise would eliminate all of that. If tensions arose, as also happens with family reunions, the gigantic ship, three football fields long, fifteen decks high and with a maze of restaurants, shops, theaters, lounges and other nooks and crannies would provide lots of places to hide. As an absolute and drastic last resort one could also jump overboard, as a passenger did one night (more of that later).

The itinerary was the Western Caribbean, with calls at Georgetown, in the Cayman Islands, Cozumel and Costa Maya, Mexico, and new for me, Roatan, Honduras.

That two hurricanes were churning about or developping in the Gulf of Mexico which we had to transit was cause for some concern even though with modern weather mapping ships have a lot of time to alter course to avoid dangerous conditions and will do so since no cruise line wants its ships full of seasick passengers. The magnificent weather we had at each port and most of the cruise emphasized that such concern was unnecessary.

Let's take a look first at Roatan, a small island belonging to Honduras where the vegetation in typical Tropical fashion is lush and colorful, the sea, even at the dock, is crystal clear, there's not a highrise in sight, enough infrastructure to show that there is no evident deprivation

Roatan provided a friendly welcome with folk dancers in their elaborate dress dancing to lively traditional music. No intrusive security meant to make you feel like a potential terrorist. And immaculate duty free shops including one drugstore which offered generic versions of Viagra, among other medications, as well as genuine potato chips and sunscreen.

Taste and Tongues

Taste and Tongues

Methinks I shall have to make two adjustments to my lifestyle.

My wife, ever concerned about my general knowledge and my health, has recently sent me two e-mails with research that may suggest how to stave off dementia. I wondered for a while which was her motive, but since it seems logical to think that if I were sliding into dementia I would be the least likely person to notice, I guess she was passing on the information for my general information. At least I hope so.

The research suggested two ways to postpone the dementia that sometimes comes with advanced age. Not that I am there yet ( I mean advanced in age) but I would like to get there sometime.

It seems one way is to function in several languages.

I definitely have slid back in that respect. In California I used English and Spanish routinely in my everyday life. Here in Seattle there has been little need for Spanish other than the infrequent occasions when a monolingual English-speaking friend who has monolingual Spanish-speaking contacts in Latin America, copies me e-mails to translate or my wife forwards an item from a Spanish-language source on the internet. Even our household use for Spanish as a means for my wife and me to communicate secretly when the kids were present is no longer necessary or effective since they no longer live at home and, as we later discovered, as kids they had long been able to figure out what we used to think was secret communication anyway.

The other preventive mental health measure I need to take is to increase my intake of wine to one glass a day. My current dosage is far less than that, unless beer can be included as part of such a healthy regimen.

Looks like I shall have to add these routines to the pleasantly limited choreography of my current retiree lifestyle.

If only I could recapture those few days when both chores came packaged together on a cruise on which the sommelier giving a course on wine appreciation spoke Spanish and the wine was served at dinner by a Spanish-speaking señorita.


As they toast in Spanish:
¡ Salúd !

Ponta Delgada, the Azores

I haven’t witnessed very many sunrises in my life since I am not an early riser, but after six days crossing the Atlantic without sight of land the prospect of seeing land, even if it would be a lonely island 900 miles and two more days at sea from the nearest other land, was enough of a motive to get me out of bed for an early morning docking at Ponta Delgada in the Potuguese Azores.

In spite of the fairly luxurious life aboard the Azamara Journey, its lavish meals and continuous entertainment, the previous six days at sea with nothing but water in sight 360 degrees around the ship, were enough to make one almost identify with The Ancient Mariner of Coleridge’s poem of that name, or wonder why Columbus’ sailors didn’t mutiny as they passed this very way in the opposite direction without a clue as to where they were going or how long it would take to get there.

I wasn’t expecting much of the Azores. The only other time I had seen one of the Azores was fifty-one years earlier, and that time it was only a distant fog-shrouded vague outline rising out of nowhere that my ship was passing after ten days out at sea with another four days to go. The only other sign of life we had seen in all that time was an old freighter we passed one day.

A lot of the other passengers must have felt the way I did because several of them were already up on Deck 10 when I got there just as the sun was emerging from behind a mountain straight ahead as our ship entered the breakwater of the port at Ponta Delgada.

As the ship docked church bells solemnly rang out: not to welcome us but to announce Mass, for this was Sunday.

The first limited view of Ponta Delgada was itself a solemn one. A church with one severe square tower, few windows and a stark contrast of unadorned white walls, black roof and black trim dominated a cluster of plain buildings of similarly stark contrasts.


The sun rose quickly, revealing a cloudless blue sky and with it a far more cheerful panorama of a sweeping esplanade bordering a pleasant marina with an old fort at the far end and a sprinkling of ancient church towers and modern highrises poking above the mostly two or three storey closely packed buildings of this city that dates back to before 1546.




As I walked about this small city (population 21,000 ) according to the ship’s newsletter) I was charmed.

It had the narrow, cobbled streets typical of ancient European towns.

Picturesque City Hall, fountains and monuments:



Churchgoers chatted as they spilled out of the massive old front doors as Mass ended. Primly dressed seniors mingled with young families.

Waiters busily arranged tables at a sidewalk cafe for the churchgoers who would presently cross the narrow cobbled street to get to their favorite table.

An open carriage plodded by pulled by white horses.

Tourists pointed, posed and snapped pictures.

Above, and permeating all the happy chatter, were the deep peals of the churchbells echoing between the walls fronting the narrow streets.

Later that Sunday evening as The Journey passed the breakwater and headed once more into the open Atlantic bound for Lisbon, three nights and two days away, the passengers were treated to a dramatic episode of skilful seamanship. It is the custom in maritime navigation for a local Pilot, who knows the safe passage in and out of the harbor, to take control of the ship to safely guide it in or out. On the way out, after the ship leaves his jurisdiction, he transfers at sea, while both vessels are moving, from the large ship to his much smaller Pilot boat by jumping on to it. This is dangerous at the best of times because the two vessels are never attached to each other and they keep moving forward while they are rolling and pitching in opposing directions and constantly changing their vertical movements. In a rough sea it is extremely risky . There is just one split second for the pilot to transfer safely under those conditions. Such were the conditions as it grew dark that evening, and we had a grandstand view of the event. Sometimes the deck of the Pilot boat in the photo was completely awash in the roiled white water as it plunged deep into some of the large swells.

TransAtlantic Cruise

When I attended my first presentation about cruising I felt completely out of place at the “By Invitation Only” event.

I was at least 20 years younger than the youngest guest and my jewelry was limited to a cheap wristwatch. I was in the habit of travelling by plane, train or bus with one small suitcase, while I imagined that the dowagers at the presentation were still used to a retinue of porters straining under steamer trunks of gigantic proportions.

I looked around and saw no one who might be enthusiastic, or awake for, midnight buffets, 24 hours available pizza or mild amorous adventures, which were becoming the focal point in the articles in the Sunday travel section of newspapers eager to scoop this new phenomenon of “Love Boat” type cruising that was just emerging. Not that I was there to scout out those possibilities, you understand?

In the 1970’s, cruiseliners like the one featured in the highly popular tv series “The Love Boat” were ushering in a new form of recreational travel. It was a time of transition from the concept of travelling by ship as primarily a means of getting from Point A to Point B, with varying degrees of pampering and comfort, depending on whether you were going First Class or Second Class, or Steerage, pretty much the same situation as air travel now, to one of the ship itself becoming the focus. The new cruiseliners were classless and fun: no more areas forbidden to those who hadn’t paid for First Class, the illusion of equal luxury and limitless food for all, and a touch of romance, legitimate or otherwise.

Years earlier I had travelled on a French Line transAtlantic ship, in Second Class, because it had been the only feasible way for me to get to university in Ireland from my native Trinidad. It was images from that voyage that I brought to that presentation on cruising. The presentation hinted at a far more glamorous and enjoyable experience, but still left me unimpressed. The joys of oceanliner travel still seemed reserved for a much older, wealthier clientele or, if one rather believed the travel writers, for the All You Can Eat Whenever crowd of slightly promiscuous poolside adventurers.

It’s thirty years later. So why have I just returned from yet another cruise, a lengthy 16 day TransAtlantic crossing from Florida to the Azores, Portugal and Spain?


Well, consider my home for those 16 days, the Azamara Journey:


I unpacked my luggage when it was delivered to the door of my stateroom, and never had to repack it until 16 days later even though I visited 7 ports in 3 countries during that time:


Like all staterooms, except suites, in cruiseships, mine was not very large, but why stay in your stateroom watching tv like you would have to do in most hotels anyway, when a short walk down a corridor:


would take you to several “Gentlemen’s Club” type lounges, such as the Martini Bar where a harpist played on evenings:


as you walked through on the way to dinner in the Discoveries restaurant:


Fancy having food presented like this three times a day if you wish:




Yes, there was a buffet too, with pizza, ice cream, wonderful pastries, salads and a million other dishes and treats in another part of the ship:


Want to feel glamorous? Pose for a photo on the Grand Staircase:


The sun is setting as you dine at a special restaurant on Deck 10:



Then it’s Showtime at the intimate Cabaret Theatre where artistes perform cabaret-style close to the audience rather than on a remote stage:



One night the captain throws a cocktail party to introduce the senior officers:


There’s a casino and music and panoramic views from the Looking Glass observation lounge:


You don’t have to struggle for a taxi to get to the entertainment, and there’s no worrying about whether the place you have chosen will turn out to be a clip joint, as could happen in any unfamiliar city on land.

Almost every day except for the long transAtlantic crossing the ship would dock at a new port or a new country:



with views like these right from your stateroom balcony:
Alicante, Spain
Almeria, Spain
Cadiz, Spain
Lisbon, Portugal
Ponta Delgado, Azores

Next, let's go ashore for a look at Ponta Delgado, Lisbon, Cadiz, Almeria and Alicante.

Hasta luego.