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		_________BY TIM BARRETT | "To think that most people see this country from a tour bus window," Erik shouted over the noise of the motor. "They'll never find the real Yucatan like we have." I shared his sentiment. With only a single guidebook between us, our wanderings had been memorable far beyond our expectations. Every day had been packed with wonder, sensory delight and soulful human encounters. We'd bounced the rented Volkswagen from one adventure to the next, each one validating our no-tour guide, no-itinerary, no-reservations style. We were intrepid and confident. I was sure we were about to stumble on some amazing secret hideaway where no tour bus had yet ventured. Which must have been why we went to Dzilam de Bravo. I spotted it on the map, a black dot perched alone on the peninsula's featureless north coast. That could only mean semi-tropical Caribbean paradise, right? We'd heard nothing about the place, so it must be truly undiscovered. The guidebook was quiet on the subject, naming only the road to get there. Actually, calling it a road was generous. Parts were washed out and other parts had never been completed. We piloted cautiously. By midday the thick scrub jungle gave way to a strange, stark landscape. The closer we got to Dzilam, the bleaker it became. Hurricanes in recent years must have hit hard -- rusted cars sank in the coarse sand, and what buildings we saw were abandoned. Tall, dead palm trees stood in eerie rows, their crowns of fronds snapped off by high winds. Beyond them, the ocean sulked, gray and uninviting. We passed very few functional vehicles, only the occasional pickup truck with forlorn characters riding silently in back. "There's something creepy about this landscape," I finally admitted. We'd both been avoiding this truth all afternoon. "Yeah, the hurricanes must have wiped out the economy," Erik agreed. "It seems really depressed." "There'll be something good going on," I wished. We passed a roadside cemetery full of rotting floral arrangements. I began to think we weren't going to find a beach full of cheesecake on holiday, as we had in Tulum. We rolled into town. The main drag had a few shops and a restaurant, but none was open. Sand blew across the streets and drifted around the steps of the crumbling buildings. Not a soul was present. We parked and walked to the end of the street, which merged abruptly with the misshapen and littered beach. A few battered fishing boats lay haphazardly on the sand. The late afternoon breeze carried a chill. There was absolutely nothing appealing about the place. We were hungry, but there were no prospects here. We poked down another dry mud street. A desiccated structure with lettering that once said "Casa de Huéspedes" showed signs of life. The door was locked, but humans made sounds inside. Our knocks produced a slow-moving, older man in a cowboy hat. He considered our request for food and lodging carefully, as if he wasn't sure he was up to the task. "Un cuarto para dos ... con una o dos camas?" One room for two, with one or two beds, was a question meant to assess our masculinity. "Dos camas," we reassured him. "No tengo dos camas. Solamente una cama y una hamaca." So he didn't even have two beds. But I'd been fine in a hammock in Tulum -- this would be fine, too. And dinner? He pondered the request, scratching his chin. Finally, he supposed he could go into town and find something to cook for us, but it would take two hours. Not sure that we had any options, we agreed. He gave us a key and pointed toward the room. As we shuffled through the junk littering his yard, I was sure we were his first guests in a long time. Erik opened the door to our room and felt for the light. When the bare overhead bulb glared, he yelped. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Look!" he said, pointing to my sandaled feet. Walking across the doorstep like a pet that had just been let in strode a prawn-sized scorpion. It waved its upturned tail and stinger assembly, which looked very much like an extended middle finger. "We haven't even moved in and we have a visitor. A hostile one, at that," I said. Erik kicked at it until it turned and scurried out. The room was as bleak as the rest of the town -- carelessly painted, dirty, cold, without furnishings of any kind except a grim mattress. "I'll take the hammock," I volunteered. As much as we loved lounging in hotel rooms, reading and napping, I couldn't picture relaxing here. "Let's walk around the town some more before dinner." Erik readily agreed. N E X T+P A G E | Porno for dinner?