Up On A Roof

In late June, before any of the tropical storms or hurricanes came to this corner of the Caribbean, the palaperos came. Four generations of them. Palaperos are the people, traditionally men, who make palapa roofs. Palapa roofs are roofs made of palm thatch. The calling of being a palapero is passed down withsin various families, as its been traditionally way for thousands of years. Typically, palaperos work without nets, without good ladders, without helmets, or restraints. And they wear sandals while climbing in high places on narrow, wood supports.

The roof on the Nah Yaxche, this house, was 15 years old. The original roof was installed by Sixto and his family. And though we'd been repairing it, the time had come, as it does eventually with all things, to replace the roof. It was worn out. And it couldn't be repaired any more. It would not stop leaking from TSs or bigger Hs. This was a big task: the roof is extremely tall,and round, and has many poles supporting it. The supports were all still in great shape, so they did not have to be changed. Sixto again returned and with his family replaced the whole thing. There are before and after and during photos for another essay (one to be put up when I have an Internet connection like a fire hose rather than the straw I'm using here).

This essay is just to show you two photos of the finished roof. Inside:

and outside:

And, of course, to note that this kind of indigenous, traditional, green architecture is art. Of course. Just look at what goes into it and how it's done. But more important, and essential to its being great art, it works. It's cool in the house even when it's bright and hot outside like today. And ceiling fans are more than enough to keep it cool. It's dry even when there are gail winds and downpours from TSs and Hs. Put simply, if you were going to design a green house for this corner of the Caribbean, one with a small carbon footprint, you just not do better than this house. What a remarkable structure it is. Is it any wonder why I love it so much?

A Sense Of Place

The entrance to Nah Yaxche from the Beach in Bahia Soliman

Today while walking on the only road in Bahia Soliman, as I do virtually every morning, I stopped and stared at a huge house that has been under construction for at least two years. The gigantic, very tall, concrete building with a small faux bell tower, has a huge advertisement in front of it stating that it is an “investment opportunity” that you can get into for as little as a mere $50,000.00 US money for starters. But what caught my attention today is that amidst the mass of concrete, an actual palazzo at the entrance to this seeming palace, which will eventually (thank goddess) be behind a high wall, there is now a tall, concrete fountain reminiscent of Versailles. I didn’t believe this. The building itself is not even finished. Of course not. But now there is a fountain worthy of Louis XIV. And it stands prominently in the entrance palazzo. Which will probably be finished in marble. This fountain is not depicted on the investment advertisement.

I don’t quite know what to make of this structure and my overwhelming distaste for it. I consider it a monstrosity. Or worse. I have ranted before about some buildings’ inappropriate adoption of Hacienda architecture in this Mayan part of Mexico and the historical significance of all that, true, but this building makes all of those complaints about history and symbolism seem hypercritical. And maybe even unjust. No. This house is the new nadir. This house is the prime example of not fitting. I am not even going to think about whether it might be a misplaced homage to Carlota, Hapsburg Empress of Mexico. I prefer not to speculate about the how that could even transpire.

What ever happened to the idea that a building should actually fit in its environment? Just because the lot size in 20 meters in width is not an invitation to build to 18.5 meters. Just because there is a height restriction is not a reason to build exactly to that height. Just because cement and rebar, sliding doors and channel windows are available is not a reason to use them. Just because you can buy marble for the floors and countertops and brass fixtures and gigantic air conditioners is not a reason to do that. Just because you can build something that is excessive and overcooked and gaudy and gauche is not a reason to do that. And if one does all of that, as I think it happened in this case, the very first casualty, and probably the most important is that the building no longer fits this environment. At all. It becomes an eyesore. It does not fit Mayan Mexico, the jungle, the mangrove, the beach. It does not fit in a country that is not a monarchy. It is a white elephant. I spare you the conjecture about where such construction might belong. And I spare you my hypotheses about the psychopathology that this kind of grandiose, ill fitting, pompous structure evidences.

I note in passing that Bob’s Store, a tiny, new convenience vendor next door to the horrid Palace, has a sign leaning against its wall that says “Colonial Café.” You cannot invent these kinds of ironies.

I am probably preaching to the choir. It’s a sermon I’ve given before. Often. I beg that you forgive my ranting.

I don’t want to dwell on the ugliness. Eventually, if we are all lucky the Palace of Versailles, Bahia Soliman Branch, will be completed and be practically invisible from the beach, and when its gates are closed it will be screened from our further appraisals by a high wall, hopefully with a thick, locked, impermeable Hacienda style gate or barricade.

When I returned from my walk, I immediately noticed the contrast, how brilliantly my house, Nah Yaxche, had been designed to fit right here. I can take no credit for this. None. I didn’t design this house. It was the first house built on Bahia Soliman more than fifteen years ago. It is basically as it was then. It has been slightly updated and improved. But its essence has always been preserved. I just love it and maintain it and admire it. That is what one does with a treasure.

Nah Yaxche’s design is round. In that it echoes on a somewhat larger scale traditional Mayan homes for the past 3 millennia. I yesterday found a 1981 tour guide to the Yucatan (Loraine Carlson, Traveleer Guide, Upland Press, Chicago). In it is an old black and white photo of a traditional Mayan home: round, palapa roof, stone or cement walls, window openings for cross-ventilation. It’s essentially the archetype from which Nah Yaxche sprang.

Another important part of the design of Nah Yaxche is the jungle on all sides of the house. The plants are absolutely critical to its seclusion, its being cool, its being a refuge from the direct heat and sun of the beach, its being quiet. When the wind blows you can hear the sea, and you can also hear the plants and cocos rustling. In other words, you are in Bahia Soliman, not insulated from it. TS Ernesto did not severely damage the plants in front of Nah Yaxche, as Wilma did. In fact, the plants sustained a little salt damage (they were flooded by the sea) and a little wind damage (some cocos' leaves are a bit yellow at the edge), but they are going to be just fine.

Being in this environment and sitting in a house that fits, makes for wonderful relaxation and calm. And oceans of gratitude for this house. I consider Nah Yaxche a refuge. And I am utterly delighted to be able to share this with others who come here.

UPDATE: August 28, 2012 9:40 am: I awoke this morning to a gentle shower. And the thought that many readers may have thought,"Oh, Mi Bloguero, you always exaggerate and expand, and that fountain cannot possibly be as garish as you made it out to be." OK. Have it your way:

Bahia Soliman Again

Bahia Soliman

In the beginning, there was only the bay, Bahia Soliman, just north of Tulum in Quintana Roo, Mexico, in the Mayan Riviera. The reef protected the bay from storms, sheltered the coral forests, and tinted the water the most gorgeous turquoise. You could hear the wind and waves rumble at the reef. Pelicans dove, frigate birds cruised. There were fish hawks. And barricudas. At the shore there was only the most gentle undulation and the turtle grass moved like a tai chi master. The sand was smooth and white. I love the Bay. I have loved it since I first saw it many, many years ago. And so, early next week I return there for a short stay.

There will, of course, be occasional postings, pictures while I am at the Bay. Maybe some new Tulum photos. But in general, my keyboard time will greatly decrease, and my blog output will become a thin trickle, maybe just a sporadic dripping, maybe even complete silence. You could imagine here instead of my voice, the clacking of the cocos in a humid breeze, the songs of birds and insects, the sounds of waves as they gently groom the reef. Sounds of life. Sounds of nature.

This is one of the cycles of creativity. Inhaling inspiration and exhaling words, dreaming and writing, abandoning conventional time, contemplating, renewing, resting, reinventing. Imagining. A lull, a pause, a brief hiatus. Who knows what will happen when time gently expands itself so that every minute has 63 seconds? Who knows what is hiding in plain sight? Who knows what treasure is in the lost and found?

I am bringing with me Novel Three. There are only about a thousand words, and there are, of course, lots of ideas. It is just a tiny, new sprout. Will it grow? Will it be nourished? What will be revealed? Of course, I'm aware of the injunction I received, that I should write even more joyfully. That seems good advice. I will take it.

Imagine now that this post is a small, shiny soap bubble and that when we come to the period in this sentence it will rise safely up through the cocos into the deep blue sky and silently disappear.

The Calmest Of Seas

October in the Riviera Maya is a risk. Six years ago today Hurricane Wilma arrived. That category 5 storm destroyed everything and killed people. And then there’s today: the calmest of seas, a bay like a mirror, the softest of breezes, and a slightly overcast sky. In other words, a day of beauty. And sighs. And maybe naps.

There are virtually no tourists here now. This really is the off, off season, the time for maintenance. The palaperos, workers who for generations have repaired and constructed palapas, palm thatch roofs, were working next door. You can hear their chainsaw and the hammering, but when the stop, there is silence. And lovely bird song.

It’s so quiet and calm that small herons, usually skittish, have been fishing at the shore. And the needlefish, usually driven away by swimmers, are gliding in the shallows. They are almost invisible when they are still and are over turtle grass. And of course, my favorite bird, the sociable flycatcher, has been hanging out with me all day and offering me literary advise.

What a delight it is to be here.

On The Road Again

You would think that by now your humble Bloguero would be able to move himself from autumnal Upstate New York to warm Tulum, Quintana Roo, Mexico effortlessly. That he has had enough practice to accomplish this feat. That he would efficiently wrap up the remaining work and household chores, pack a tiny bag (bathing suit, t-shirt, toothbrush), assure that the house and the pets were well taken care of, reach his escape velocity, and propel himself across the Caribe in one giant leap. But, alas, no. Gravity is an unforgiving master, and overcoming inertia requires energy. Leaving isn't quite the task of Sisyphus, but it remains for your Bloguero a real one.

The next post will in all likelihood be from Nah Yaxche in Bahia Soliman, just north of Tulum in Quintana Roo, Mexico. What remains is completing the ever increasing number of chores and getting on an airplane.

Your Bloguero admits that he has tendencies toward procrastination, and he knows that there are more than 24 hours until he must pass through those scanners. Plenty of time, he says. Plenty of time. And now, if only your Bloguero could convince himself.

Foto by Sr. Bill Koller, 10/12/11

This Evening's Caress

Sometimes, Bahia Soliman has the sweetest, most gentle rains. This evening was one of them. The clouds fill the sky and spray everything with mist, and they kiss the bay with their soft, puffy lips. And they hug and caress the trees and plants. And in their delight at nourishing all the varied life here, they shed zillions of the tiniest tears of joy.

Their embrace is so gentle that the birds continue to sing. And children continue to laugh and play. The lizards scamper across the deck. Turtles wonder whether tonight is the night to lay their eggs. Everything is gently wrapped in damp, thin, soft cotton. It’s only some of the adults who take cover. But from what? From Mama-kocha’s wet lips? Oh please don’t. Please stand out on the beach with me with your arms spread wide, and look up, look up at the sky, and feel how all the clouds are so very gently cuddling us against their puffy breasts and hugging us against them.

The Sky Over Bahia Soliman

This evening, just before dusk, there was a rainbow. I had been waiting for a rainbow for several days. It's been raining while the sun was shining. Often. But until this evening, no rainbow. This one was worth the wait. This is the sky to the North of Nah Yaxche, from the beach in Bahia Soliman.

But the rainbow wasn't the only thing worth looking at this evening. This is the horizon to the east over Bahia Soliman, a different part of the sky. This photo was taken with minutes of the first. What remarkable clouds, and what incredible light.

I have a good digital camera, but lately I haven't been using it much. Instead, I find myself taking photos with a cellphone, a Blackberry Bold. That's what I used to take these photos. It's much quicker. And I seem to be able to find it when I want it. Typically, I post most of my photos to a Facebook album, Tulum Summer 2011, which you are welcome to visit. But every so often, like right now, what I see is so remarkable to me that I post it here. So you, too, will see it, Facebook or not.

Enjoy.

Up On A Roof

(Note: This essay is an appreciation of traditional architecture in Quintana Roo, Mexico. It is the second in an informal series. The first essay is here.)

One of the greatest, if not the greatest invention of Mayan traditional building is the palapa roof. A palapa is made of palm that has been dried and tied together so that it can then be fastened to a wooden frame and withstand both high wind (hurricane winds, in fact) and heavy, driving rain (hurriane rain, in fact). It also provides shade from a hot tropical sun. Put on a building with the right openings, it can create a delicious cool spot in the midst of intense heat and humidity. Put simply, the palapa is a natural wonder.

At Nah Yaxche there are a number of palapa roofs. Each is slightly different in shape, but the construction is basically the same. These roofs are constructed by palaperos. The artisanship of being a palapero is passed down within a family. It is not unusual to see two or three generations working on the same roof. The oldest, most skilled member might not go up on the roof. The youngest member gets to do the heavy lifting, carrying material up and down the ladder. The main artisan work is done by those who stand on the roof and install it. None of this is approved by OSHA. These are trained professionals. Do Not Try This At Home.

Here is what a palapa roof looks like from outside. This photo is of the main roof at Nah Yaxche. It is very tall. As you can see, after the roof is completed, a net is placed over the roofing material. This keeps wind from twisting the material and making it stand on end. A roof like this can last decades if it is maintained and repaired. Eventually, as with all natural, organic building materials, it will either rot (and become porous) or dry out (and become porous) and have to be replaced. When that happens, the old roof is removed, the framework is tightened up, and a new roof is installed.

Here are two additional roofs. The one in the foreground is the casita at Nah Yaxche. The big roof in the background is the main roof at Tulipanes, our neighbor.

But what holds this up? Traditionally, trees of the correct diameter are cut, the bark is removed, and they are made into a framework to support the palapa. This is not done with heavy equipment. When something needs to be lifted, several people pick it up and move it into place. This can be heavy, backbreaking work. Here is the inside of the big palapa at Nah Yaxche:

How very beautiful. The tree at the center, holding up the roof is about 14 inches in diameter at the base (about 1/3 m). It is approximately 30 feet tall (about 10 m).

Yesterday, the palaperos arrived to fix some wind damage from the storm that would become TS Arlene. It is fascinating to watch them work. What language are they speaking? Mostly Mayan with some Spanish thrown in. They work quickly and quietly. The repair is done in a flash. I climb a roof to take a photo.

The palapa roof is a wonder. Unfortunately, as there is little new construction in Estilo Robinson Crusoe, and more and more buildings are being built with tile or other material roofs and no full size palapas. But the palapa continues up and down the beach.

A Love Letter

In the beginning, there was only the bay, Bahia Soliman, just north of Tulum in Quintana Roo, Mexico, in the Mayan Riviera. The reef protected the bay from storms, sheltered the coral forests, and tinted the water the most gorgeous turquoise. You could hear the wind and waves rumble at the reef. Pelicans dove, frigate birds cruised. There were fish hawks. And barricudas. At the shore there was only the most gentle undulation and the turtle grass moved like a tai chi master. The sand was smooth and white. I love the Bay. I have loved it since I first saw it many, many years ago. Back then, nobody lived there.

Later, the people came. First, my friend, Sr. Bill lived in a camper. And then Caroline built the first real house. This house. I am sitting in the house as I write this. I love this house. It is round, it has a tall palapa roof supported by a varnished tree at its center. It has no glass. The windows are wooden louvers. It has doors of wood, some with louvers, some solid. It has no air conditioning. It does not need it: it has ceiling fans and a high ceiling. It has no swimming pool. Why would I choose a pool when I can swim in the pristine water of the Bay with Eagle Rays? It is incredibly simple. And understated. It has no marble. It has no granite counters or Italian bathroom fixtures. No flat screen televisions. No microwaves. It is in a style that reflects the centuries old building practices of the Maya, who belong to this land. It is in its own way a homage to the Maya. And it has a Mayan name, “Nah Yaxche.” “Nah” means house, “Yaxche” is the name of the original tree, the tree of paradise.

I think the house is an excellent, if not the best example of what I call, “Estilo Robinson Crusoe.” Because the Bay is so compelling, the central idea was that the house should invite nature in, and it should fit in with nature. It should be virtually invisible from the sea. It should have plantings, a jungle between it and the bay. You should be able to open all of its doors and windows and invite it all in. So you could embrace it, so you could feel and smell and hear and, yes, taste it. A lot of this is the marvelous construction work of Andrew Field, our neighbor. Long ago, he built a bathroom shower that was open to the sky. I like to think that was the high point of ERC.

But as he tells me often and as my own eyes confirm, ERC is the past. It’s history. Nobody wants to do that any more. And he and I both live in museums. After the simple ERC structures, there has been a long wave of construction at Bahia Soliman. Virtually none of this is ERC, though there are sometimes a few elements that pay respect to or echo it. No, no more ERC. The newer houses are something entirely different. There is no zoning here. There is no association to decide what the aesthetic should be. People can and do build what they like. And they have. There are now many very large houses on Bahia Soliman. These have glass windows and doors, marble floors, stone exteriors, air conditioning, gorgeous swimming pools, balconies, and on and on. They are first world, luxury vacation villas. Many have elements of architecture that, to my amazement and shock, reflect the Spanish and Christian conquest of this area. And they also tend to have Spanish names. Make no mistake about it, these are lovely, wonderful homes. They are elegant and beautiful. At the same time, they are far from my aesthetic. Or ERC.

What I love most about ERC and this old house is its relationship to this place, the way it belongs here, the way it fits in the bay. As I write this, there is a small rain storm. I can hear the rain and wind and the sound of the reef. I can hear the birds and the clacking of the cocos. Louvers facing the bay are closed so that the floors won’t become lakes (don’t ask), but even though I am dry, the storm isn’t shut out, not by glass, by thick cement, by air conditioning, by anything. And what a lovely storm it is, with rain like grapes, and winds that rumble. This house is designed for that experience. The experience of nature.

On hot, sunny days the house fits just as well. All of the doors and windows are open, and the sweet Caribe breeze fills it. It is cool inside. And shady. And if the air is still, the fans can gently move it around and offer relief from high temperatures and humidity. This house is designed for that experience, too. It is designed so that you fit in nature.

But, alas, it’s really a museum. If we were to sell it, somebody might knock it down and put up yet another glass and steel mansion. That would be heartbreaking. It would be the end of a style of building with low impact on the environment, and low carbon footprint, and humility that should be continued. I love ERC, and I make no excuse for that. And I love this house. It is perfection.

Note: for more pictures of Nah Yaxhe, click here and here and, of course visit,“Nah Yaxche” on Facebook.