Back-island barhopping

The “back island” of Cozumel is the east coast of the island – the one facing the Caribbean Sea.  It is a lot of nothing… scrub trees, rocky beaches and a lonely two-lane highway that is in the process of being rebuilt. And, in the charming Mexican way, appears to have been in that process for about 20 years.  Only in Mexico and Massachusetts can a relatively minor road construction project take longer to complete than the Great Wall.

The entire east side of the island is conservation land.  Only a few structures are found, presumably built by people with connections that could get around the regulations (another Massachusetts similarity?). There is one tiny hotel, right on the beach, that looks like it has maybe 10 rooms.  And a string of bars, evenly spaced and equally unique.  One could kill a day very pleasantly by hopping from one bar to the next.

Which is how we killed Tuesday.

We weren’t alone in this endeavor.  Someone with a love of drink and an entrepreneurial spirit has commercialized the idea.  Along our way we encountered a busload of American tourists with “Drive to Drink” T-shirts. They were traveling in a bus and were doing their level best to drink themselves stupid.  But, being lightweights when it comes to drinking, we weren’t far behind.  We trusted that our taxi driver could find his way back to our hotel to deposit our corpses.

The first bar we encountered on our counter-clockwise tour was Marley’s, a charming rasta bar on the beach where one could, if he was so inclined, be served while swinging in a hammock.  The place is officially the Ohana Bar and Grill, but with pictures of Bob Marley everywhere and reggae playing continuously, it is no mystery why it is called Marley’s.

The decor is Old T-Shirt.  The entire underside of the thatched roof is covered with autographed T-shirts, presumably left by patrons who either carried a change of clothes with them, didn’t mind going topless or were too drunk to notice that their shirts had been boosted.

We didn’t donate ours. We each had a margarita and went on our way.

The second bar, at Playa Bonita, had less charm but a beautiful view.  We did like the large crucifix over the serving window, surrounded by posters of nearly naked women. “We thank Thee, Lord, for the food we are about to receive.  And these really big bazooms.”

Another margarita for each of us. And some salsa and chips to keep the margaritas company.

The third and final bar (I told you we were lightweights – we skipped a half dozen others) was Coconuts, which came highly recommended by several.  It had the distinction of being perched on a cliff.  Given the low-lying, featureless nature of the rest of the drive, the cliff seemed out of place. The Gibraltar of the back island.

We had to climb a long, uneven staircase of rock to get to the bar.  By this time we needed a pit stop, to make room for another margarita, so we visited the banos.  It had a charming sign that indicated that used toilet paper should not be flushed… it should be deposited in the trash bin.  I stayed long enough to take a picture of the sign, then got out.  But the image remained in my head.

Ewww.

We encountered a group of travelers from Wisconsin who were posing for a photo at the edge of the cliff.  One of the staff was taking the picture, urging them to smile by saying – what else? – “cheese”.

We ordered two kinds of ceviche – conch and shrimp – to go along with our drinks.  I switched to beer, but Jett and her sister soldiered on with another margarita.  The ceviches were excellent, but we couldn’t finish them. Like punch-drunk boxers, our bellies were screaming “No mas!”

We encountered a gentleman there who was wearing a wacky parrot hat.  I thought maybe he had started his tour at Margaritaville, but it was deeper than that.  He was, in a way, the reincarnation of the Birdman of Alcatraz.  He pulled out a small photo album and showed us pictures of his parrots.  Well, not actually his.  They were the “wild parrots of San Francisco”.  Apparently San Francisco has a wild parrot population and they all flock to his place in the lower bay.  Who knew?  We will look for them when we get to the bay area in December.

The taxi driver drove us to town where we had a frustrating hour looking for the Bernard Passman Gallery which both Jett and I thought existed in Cozumel but apparently does not.  We got some Starbucks to temper our disappointment and went home.

It was a fine day, but Jett paid for it on Wednesday.  She wasn’t hung over, but her delicate stomach put her on notice that the back island experience was not to be repeated.  We spent the day at the pool, reading.