T A B L E_T A L K Toughest job you'll ever love? Former Peace Corps workers discuss their travels and work in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y There'll always be a London By Douglas Cruickshank A wandering wonderer ponders the passions of collectors and cabbies (05/13/98) Into the heart of China By Joshua Cohen Two English teachers glimpse the realities of rural life (05/12/98) Road Warrior By Brent Gregston Insider's guide to Brussels (05/11/98) Sex and the salaryman By Dave McCombs Changing fortunes are altering one of Japan Inc.'s most cherished relationships (05/08/98) Road Warrior Dawn MacKeen Airfare roulette (05/07/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		DON'T GO THERE .-. PAGE 2 OF 2 We found only one open establishment -- a tiny, sad tienda with little more than Chiclets and candy for sale, certainly nothing that would qualify as an appetizer. Erik asked the toothless shopmistress where we could get something to eat. "En mi casa," she replied. "Tienes dinero?" We had been in other private homes on this trip, always enjoying amazing people and surprising food. And we still had some money, yes. Erik and I exchanged glances -- getting to know local people could be the saving grace of this place. The old woman promptly closed up her store and motioned for us to follow her down a sand path. We stopped at a structure that was no more than a hut, crudely made of cinder blocks, cardboard, sheet metal and salt-crusted blankets. I couldn't believe she lived here. She called out, and a wizened man, apparently her husband, appeared from within. He regarded us suspiciously. They talked briefly in muted tones; he then changed his demeanor, introduced himself as Diego and welcomed us grandly inside. On every trip there are times when you feel utterly far from home. Inside, we saw that Diego and the woman lived in absolute and total poverty. They had nothing. The shack barely qualified as a roof overhead -- Diego had made crude attempts to repair storm damage that his house had not been built to withstand. Rough sticks held dirty blankets where walls should have been. A crumbling table commiserated with the mud floor. Diego directed us to sit down. Then, as if this was an excellent seaside eatery, he inquired as to our preference for dinner. I had severe second thoughts -- was eating here a good idea? Aside from the question of hygiene, we were certainly imposing on these people. And we'd already sent our innkeeper off to fetch dinner. But Erik was both fearless and starving; he quickly rattled off our favorite choice of Yucatecan cuisine: rice, fish, garlic and limes. He even asked for a beer, which, amazingly, they had. While the woman prepared the meal, Diego broke the awkward silence with a sweeping gesture of his arm. "La vida aquí es muy, muy buena." Life here is very, very good. Well, OK, but what he did he do for work? "Soy un pescador. Es un vida muy rica." He was a fisherman, and led a very rich life. We were puzzled; he may as well have said he was an astronaut. There was simply no connection between his statements and the dire setting in which he made them. We tried to ask him in our broken Spanish what had happened to the town, but Diego merely steered the conversation back, insisting that we understand: "La vida aquí es muy buena." He asked no questions of us. With a flutter of apologetic hand-waving and mumbled explanations, the chef brought three bowls of food. Mine and Erik's appeared to have the requested ingredients, while Diego's contained only rice. For a few moments we confronted our food in silence, then tasted it. It was terrible. Tough, salty, dry fish chunks overpowered the glutinous, undercooked rice. Whole cloves of unpeeled garlic lurked within, and the lime was moldy. I couldn't imagine a more appropriate time to humbly accept generosity, but we simply couldn't eat it. Diego had no such problem; he polished his bowl with proud gusto and reminded us again of his excellent quality of life. Then he stood up, a gesture we were glad to assume meant that our visit was over. Except, of course, for settling up. He named an amount, not looking at us as he spoke. We paid. I was never good at math, and converting dollars to pesos still confused me. So it wasn't until we were halfway back to the Scorpion Inn that I realized we'd spent roughly the price of a fine meal in an expensive restaurant back home. Erik was peeved. "Mr. Wonderful Life! After forcing us to listen to his nonsense, he robs us! And I'm still hungry!" "Oh, well, they certainly need the money. Maybe they can buy a new house." I wondered if our innkeeper had come up with anything better for us to eat. He couldn't do worse, unless he'd gone shopping at Mrs. Wonderful Life's store. As it turned out, I needn't have worried -- he hadn't gone anywhere. The casa was dark and shuttered when we arrived, although there were a few battered cars parked in front that hadn't been there before. We knocked several times before the door cracked open and a quizzical face -- not the innkeeper's -- peered out, then quickly shut the door. We stood outside for several minutes, confused. The door opened again, and the same man gruffly motioned us inside. The room was pitch black except for the harsh glare of a television. In the flickering light I saw our innkeeper's face, hypnotized by the screen. He ignored us completely. Many other men crouched in the room, all equally rapt, although our presence seemed to make some of them uncomfortable. On the screen, over a soundtrack of bad instrumental rock music, a skinny white man with a shag haircut methodically having sex with a panting, flop-breasted redhead. They diligently plied their craft, then rearranged their various extremities and orifices and continued work, doggedly. Like an archeologist digging in a special kind of dirt, I identified the music, the hairstyles, and the species of human as late 1970s Los Angelenos. Our host looked up, indifferently. "Es porno," he explained. Ah. We stood there in the darkness like alien emissaries -- two pale riders offering heartfelt cheer and goodwill from a distant culture quite unlike the one in which these men lived. And yet this sordid bit of video flotsam had found its way from our shore to theirs, arriving before us, and mesmerizing our host so completely that he forgot all about hospitality, not to mention our dinner. We skulked out. No one paid us any mind. There was nothing left to do but go back to our dismal quarters, not an uplifting prospect. In the room, Erik pondered, "What about this hellhole -- did Señor Porno say how much he was going to charge us?" "No, I don't think he did. The rates are probably similar to the restaurant prices, and I'll bet he charges extra for the adult TV, just like in a Holiday Inn. Wasn't he supposed to bring us blankets and sheets?" The room was barren, just the way we'd left it. By now Erik and I had developed a kind of traveler's ESP -- we didn't need much discussion to know what the other was thinking. So when I dug around in my pack for the map, I could tell Erik was right on my wavelength. "You know what I'm thinking, right?" I confirmed. "We only have a few more days in Mexico. If we leave now, we could make it to Valladolid in a couple of hours, get a room there and be back on the beach at Tulum by noon tomorrow. Whaddya think?" Erik was already packing. Checking our route again before folding the map, I transposed some letters in Dzilam de Bravo to the name I'd remember it by: Dizmal Depravo. We crept out and stealthily loaded our car, parked right in front of the Scorpion Inn's Den of Sin. Erik started the motor and backed out before we slammed the doors. I checked the fuel gauge. "We're pretty low on gas. If we don't find a Pemex station somewhere on this road, we'll be sleeping in the car. You up for that?" By way of response, Erik pressed his foot to the floor and headed straight into the deep jungle night. SALON | May 14, 1998 Tim Barrett is a writer who lives in Northern California. Join the discussion on travel in Mexico in Table Talk's Wanderlust area.