Hey, Ma. Look at that sign, “Smoke Shop.” Should we stop?

Anastasia and I were tooling down Highway 307 in Tulum, Mexico in November having arrived from Boston a few days earlier. Years before, Tulum was a dusty backwater inhabited by natives of Mayan descent who’d lived there in close-knit families for millennia taking pride in the blue-green beaches and remains of archeological structures built by their ancestors. When the developers swooped in a decade or so ago, they tossed the locals construction jobs and put in motion a spin to the economy like the town had never seen. In return, the environment, the jungle, the waterways and underground pristine cenotes seemed to be up for grabs as companies commenced rapid development of housing, convenience stores, restaurants, souvenir shops. You get the picture.

We sauntered into the smoke shop nestled between a cluster of storefronts. The guy behind the counter was friendly, spoke excellent English and asked where we were from.

He introduced himself as Salvador, sold us some goods and, since he was closing the store, accompanied us outside where the three of us sat down on a bench.

Salvador at age 29 turned out to be a passionate mountain biker, so much so that he created his own mountain biking path in neighboring Playa del Carmen where he lived. He showed us accelerated-speed videos he took of himself the previous weekend contemplating the site, measuring, taking notes, cutting away bushes, digging the soil. He created a path, building a 10-foot high cliff out of wooden slats from which he planned to begin his journey of dropping in mid-air.  He wanted to land precisely on a smoothed-out path dotted with a succession of mounds, or jumps, circling hair-trigger curves before finally slowing down and stopping. He worked the entire weekend alone, creating a biking utopia for himself and his friends using mostly hand tools and single-minded determination. 

While we were dining with him in a nearby outdoor eatery, Salvador commented on what he saw as the inevitable collapse of Tulum. Regulations about how deep developers could bore into the shallow limestone earth were flouted as four-story and even higher apartment dwellings were being built at a rapid pace. Cenotes, natural sinkholes of potable groundwater used continuously since the ancient Mayans, ran under Tulum and elsewhere in the Yucatan Peninsula, were being polluted and destroyed by over-development. Salvador told us first, but we heard the lament over and over again from people we met. 

But, hey, we were on vacation and since we were going to be in Playa del Carmen for a wedding — the reason we came to Mexico — we decided to meet up with him there in about a week, and he’d show us his trail. By then, it would be complete and he’d be taking his first test rides.

Soon we left Tulum and boarded the ferry across a wildly pitching Caribbean Sea to Cozumel where we stayed in The Flamenco, a friendly place with a bar on the first floor.  Locals mixed with ex-pats and the conversation ran to dumping the 9-to-5 in favor of a rootless, nomadic life. A couple of drinks in and I was ready to rent out my Marblehead condo for big money and get a long-term rental at The Flamenco at bargain prices. I’d become fluent in Spanish while living my rootless, nomadic life, snorkeling among the sea cucumbers and barracudas who’d be nipping at my butt. The well-thought out plan stayed with me at the bar while listening to various ex-pats talk about how they did it. No regrets. Ditch everything. Spend days perched over a Margarita in brilliant conversation with whomever pulled up a barstool. So sensible. Why had I never thought of it before?

Next day, hangover aside, Nachi and I went snorkeling with an Argentinian, who lived in Cozumel.  He’d abandoned his lucrative air conditioning business in Los Angeles for life on the island where the weather was always perfect and the developers hadn’t yet sunk their claws in. Eventually, we left paradise and again crossed the treacherous Caribbean in our lurching ferry, landing in Playa del Carmen. It was the final destination in our two-week sojourn, where two Bostonians, Aaron and Nicole, would say their vows. Having grown up together in Lynn and Marblehead, Nachi and Aaron had friends in common. The weekend festivities promised a rousing bit of fun for everyone who made the trek to Mexico.

But we had a date with Salvador. We waited for him at a Mexican food stand and ate a couple of limp tacos bearing no resemblance to those in the states.  Eventually, we saw him wedged in traffic, waving out the window.  We piled into his pickup and headed over to an expanse of sandy, bush-strewn land beneath a highway overpass that he had permission to develop into his mountain biking path.

Salvador wore a T-shirt, biking pants, and high-top sneakers.  He stopped the pickup on level ground, went around to his bike in the cargo bed and began checking and tightening wheels, tires, handlebars, grips, frame. Nachi and I watched this single-minded, all-consumed man about to test ride his mostly home-made bike on his home-made mountain path. Today’s trial would be the culmination of weeks of exhausting physical labor, mathematical calculations, analysis of gravity and the physics of bike suspension, to say nothing of balance, prayers and inspiration. 

He strapped on a vest, snapped on his helmet and conferred with Nachi about the route since she was going to video tape him. Ride One: I held my breath as he positioned himself at the precipice of the 10-foot wooden cliff. He straddled his bike, stared down at the drop,  meditated for an instant, and pushed off the landing. He was airborne then hit the ground and kept on riding, over one, two, three mounds and hair-trigger curves before decelerating.

Whoo-who! He did it! His audience — Nachi, me and two teenage boys on bikes — let loose with a shout and applause. The trail worked. His bike worked. His calculations and labor were fruitful. It was the first of seven rides. I worried he’d get tired and careless as the sun was setting and casting shadows on the trail.  But he was in control with no slip-ups until the very last ride when he slid circling one of the mounds, dropping his bike. No matter. No injuries. 

His T-shirt dripping wet, Salvador was content. The teenagers, who had never met Salvador before, spoke to him in Spanish. They were in awe and wanted to learn. So he led them onto a nearby wide path, but both boys managed to break their bikes in the process. Salvador promised he’d give them lessons.

I felt like we had witnessed something extraordinary. Did people like Salvador do that kind of thing all the time? Was it common in Mexico where one couldn’t just buy what was needed or find a company-constructed trail? 

Dusty and elated, Nachi, Salvador and I returned to the pickup. He sang us Mexican songs as he drove us to our Airbnb where we retrieved our luggage and headed to the Wyndham Alltra hotel where half the 200 wedding guests were staying. When we pulled up, we saw a knot of uniformed doormen standing at the entrance as well dressed guests began arriving. The doormen’s mouths fell open when they saw us. All of them started interrogating Salvador in Spanish as to what he was doing with two American women. Was he taking our money? Was he a hired driver? Finally, Salvador convinced them that we were friends and we’d simply been at the biking trail. 

The wedding was a spectacular affair, set a mile deep into the jungle that opened up onto a pristine stretch of beachfront. Nachi and I mingled with scores of people we knew from back home in Massachusetts.  But one thing many of the guests told us they regretted: not getting outside of their hotels to get a taste of the authentic culture and meet some locals. Yeah, that was the best.