Frank was definitely onto something, but my tour of the Yucatan Peninsula was somewhat marred by the unwelcome guests of Hurricane Babs and the onset of Mexico’s rainy season. Wrong week to check in to Isla Holbox - idyllically chilled island sin autos, but also, like much of this stretch of coastline, a lifestyle predicated on the sunshine which enlivens beach, bar and café. Grey drizzle and rough seas also cancelled potential whale watching, HOWEVER the evenings were clear and this island rocked the most insane phosphorescence I’ve ever experienced; dancing trails of liquid fire. Nuts.
I opted to bypass the US-flavoured festivals of debauched hedonism that are Cancun and Playa del Carmen, instead hitting up Tulum further south where I’d heard tales of diving in a massive network of underwater caves… HELLO there. I got lucky and the day I booked to go it was a solo shindig, just me and the dive-master. The first cenote was known as the ‘Temple of Doom’, and was - reassuringly - entered via a sinkhole of collapsed limestone. Safe as hellfire. Bubbling beneath the surface into the darkening green gloom of the cave system triggered some early claustrophobia (not helped by a leaky mask), but this was quickly overcome and it was a totally new dive experience. An eery, static world virtually devoid of life but exhibiting all kinds of cavernous tunnels and chambers. Explored by torchlight. This cenote was also linked to the sea somewhere and the thermocline and haloclines were cool as salt; the dive-master ahead dematerialising into a dark blur until I’d passed through the filmy layer and vision was restored. The second dive at the gran cenote was a much clearer affair, with deliciously limpid water and the occasional freshwater terrapin lazing by. A subaqueous cathedral of stalagmites, stalactites and complete columns. At certain points the ceiling was pockmarked with tiny air pockets of mirrored glass rounded by surface tension. Stunning.
Next stop was the incomparable Laguna Bacalar near the Belizean border. A phenomenal iridescent lake of varying blues; unreal hues that changed with the passage of sun and cloud across the sky. Paradise. A couple timeless days spent diving off a catamaran moored by the hostel and basking in the sunshine with cervezas could not have been more ideal. Exactly the kind of place worth capturing on camera - unfortunately mine had evaporated on a night bus. Damn. I also happened to be there on a Friday so I headed out with a Frenchman to the happeningest place in town: La Playita. Youtube DJing the recurrent sounds of Pitbull for some furiously camp Mexican men. Amusante.
Bacalar was my last proper stop in Mexico as I finally headed for the southern border like a geographically-challenged migrant, laying over in Chetumal just long enough to be shredded by bed bugs. Passing through the Caribbean vibes of Belize in transit - time constraints innit - I scratched my way to Flores, Guatemala. This was a small town built out on an island in the middle of Lake Peten Itza. Good fun, with lake water like swimming in piss, but less taboo; warm as houses. Flores also constitutes something of a tourist jump-off point for the Ancient Mayan delights of Tikal National Park. Ruins, ruins everywhere. However, this site was unsurpassed in its scale and beauty - a massive complex of temples adhering to the Mayan calendar and fetish for sacrifice but predominantly reclaimed by the surrounding rainforest. They even had the wheel - massive stone rings - albeit horizontal and used for beheadings. Idiots. Perhaps the greatest aspect was climbing 70 metres to the top of the Big Daddy and looking out over the green sea of Guatemalan jungle, with the largest stone ‘pyramids’ (they were actually some kind of truncated species) surging up through the canopy. Yavin 4 from Star Wars: a New Hope. Jamblazing.
From there, a number of us (that number being 6) shuddered south and east along dubious roads to Semuc Champey, some kilometres (9) from Lanquín. This natural monument is a limestone bridge under which gushes the thunderous Cahabón River for 300m. Safety ropes have recently been installed following the violent deaths of certain locals and tourists. I’m ok with it. Above the subterranean, watery mayhem are plateaus of still, turquoise pools ripe for bathing. These are filled with fish which feed on your dead skin. Pleasant… mostly. The highlights of this stay, though, were twofold: a “walking/swimming/jumping/climbing tour” of a cave network by candlelight, with some hairy moments (at one point we had to scale a waterfall by a knotted rope, but with no prior information from the guide as to how high into the torrent we would be climbing… turned out just 3m); and jumping off a 10m bridge into the milky green languor of the river downstream of the rapids. Company was good, and included an amicably clueless American - this guy randomly started conversations with questions like “what do you think of the US economy… in general?” and mistook fireflies for shooting stars because they “looked like they were miles and miles away”. Indeed.
Entonces, it’s time to go - figuratively and literally - to ANTIGUA BABY. Hasta Luego.
