Days: 25
Yoga classes: 4
Bathroom doors: 0
Another ‘character-building’ night bus down and we arrived at Vivo Escondido – a hostel recommended by several people in San Cristobal building high hopes. The first thing we noticed was the communal area complete with table tennis table, swimming pool and bar area with a help-yourself beer fridge; strong start. Walking through the large building garnished with vibrant murials we were lead to the back where our private room was outside, padlocked and amongst the staff washing area. The room was basic but clean and spacious, then we noticed it. 
The bathroom didn’t have a door. With both of us recovering from San Cristobal’s stomach curse, I threw my hands over my face and thought – this is going to be intimate! Although the room was dowdy the rest of the hostel and the friendly people certainly made up for it. We headed straight to Playa Carrizalillo and slumped our weary bodies on two sun loungers repositioning the parasol to shield us from the sun’s burning glare. Although not a huge beach, and not as well-known as Playa Zicatela ten minutes away, it had a wonderful fun atmosphere and was a fantastic people watching spot. After perspiring for a sufficient amount of time, we hop-scotched over the scorching sand and plunged into the surprisingly warm sea. Our guidebook had warned us about how strong the currents can be in the area and whilst it was safe to swim at Playa Carrizalillo we instantly noticed how fierce the pull was from the waves. Put it this way, my bikini bottoms were peeled off as I attempted to clamber out of the waist deep water much to Seb’s amusement.
As we steadily climbed the thousands of steps away from the beach we reached a strip of cafes and restaurants of varying cuisines, budgets and clientele leading us to our hostel to shower and revive. Earlier in the morning we had seen the hostel offered free Yoga classes on the rooftop and although tired I thought this would be a great opportunity to de-nightbus. 
Seb had never been to a Yoga class before and although my Mum runs her own Yoga business I have only managed a few of her classes without being sent out for giggling. She always emphasised the importance of the setting for Yoga; her small classes are held in a log cabin with large windows overlooking a garden full of trees offering tranquillity and personal attention. The setting became particularly important to me when I persisted through a Yoga class of 16 in a grey gym in Stratford, East London as a woman ordered Warrior poses like an Army Officer. I delve into to this to try and illustrate the setting we experienced in Puerto Escondido and the significance it provided. Four of us placed a brightly coloured mat facing Megan, our instructor from Jersey, and a view of the horizon from four stories high. Megan’s gentle tone and clear manner allowed us to indulge in finding calm and stretching our tired torsos in ways that felt like they may have never been stretched. As we arose to a standing position we saw the sun setting and the sky become stained with purples, pinks and oranges. After 50 minutes we obediently laid down and began relaxation, Megan then one by one firmly pulled back our shoulders and softly rubbed lavender and bergamot on our temples igniting such a sense of calm and contentment I haven’t discovered in years. I left in a pleasant daze and returned every evening of our stay.
On Monday morning Seb was keen to begin the set of 5 surf lessons which I had offered for his birthday, he joined our new friend Sam, from Aberdeen, and went to Oasis Surf School and booked in for the week. 
Their first lesson was at Playa Carrizalillo so I joined them on the beach and watched with anticipation from afar. They were joined by about 8 others with 1 instructor for 1-3 people so at points it was hard to tell who was who but every now and then I’d see a flash of familiar bright blue trunks and either cheer or commiserate depending on the outcome of his wave catching ability. For a first go, he did incredibly and although I didn’t watch the last few lessons, I heard he improved. On the third and fourth lessons they were taken to La Punta on the south side of Playa Zicatela. Known to have more of a hippy vibe, we checked it out in the day time and confirmed the waves were much bigger and much stronger. Playa Zicatela – in the middle of the La Punta and Playa Carrizalillo – is world renowned for the “biggest and scariest waves in the world” including the infamous pipelines especially in July and August. No one was swimming there and only a few seasoned surfers were seen.
Our hostel, as mentioned, was very sociable and hosted some wonderful people. One evening after returning from having a pizza we were soon roped into a drinking game providing nostalgia of University antics. It wasn’t long before I pulled an Ace from the pack of cards and the group chanted for me to jump in the pool as per the prestigious rules scrawled on the back of a receipt. Respectfully and after a significant amount of encouragement (and beer) I obliged! 
At 11pm the owners said we needed to move on in line with an agreement with their neighbours and there was only one place to go – Salsa Night. I dried off, threw on a dress and jumped into the first of three cabs taking us to the strip near Playa Zicatela. Observing the locals impressive Salsa moves I suggested a round of Mezcals along with the 2-4-1 mojitos to supply some Dutch courage. After 20 minutes Seb and I were attempting our strongest salsa moves which probably looked like two people walking in the opposite direction trying to get past the other but fun was had! The bar was set on three levels with a small incline offering enough difference for each platform to have its own purpose; a place to buy drinks, a place to dance and observe or a play to sit and chat. The decor was a mix of wood, browns and greens; half covered, the other exposed to the night sky. It was understated and of course so different to bars in London – the best part was people watching.
Sadly our hostel didn’t have room for us to extend our stay so we moved a bit further away from the beach to Puerto Dreams. Although there was no pool, it was newly renovated so had a wonderful clean interior, roof terrace, big rooms and…a bathroom door! I loved it. On the Friday night it was St Patrick’s Day so with a big grin Seb brought over my Corona which was Fairy Liquid green, “here you are” he delighted. We soon met the girls behind the playlist consisting of The Corrs, Bewitched, The Cranberries and of course Boyzone – all the Irish classics. 
When the Spice Girls came on, Seb was visibly tense and I checked in to see if he wanted to meet up with people from the other hostel, “no its fine, I’m totally fine,” I knew he was secretly loving the carefree pop blaring out and even caught him singing along with perfect lyrics. It was Ladies Night at the club in town and we knew our friends from the first hostel were heading down so we joined the five girls we just met and jumped into a taxi for a free drink at a beach bar / club.
Our last evening in Puerto Escondido consisted of mixed emotions, we had fallen in love with the town but needed to move on and keep travelling. We headed to another beach to release baby turtles into the sea in order to support reproduction. This happened everyday at 5pm and attracted several tourists and locals to help. I wasn’t entirely convinced of the ethical duty it sustained but having been I was reassured that the humans involved had a strong moral compass. The lurking birds however took their opportunity to swoop and snatch the vulnerable turtles after their dangerous journey from sand to shore. As the throws of sand from humans waned, the birds picked them out of the water. Most frustratingly we learnt the birds can’t even eat them so they die without purpose. Many survive and due to the frequency of their release, the turtle population is far better protected with this initiave. The next morning we headed for Manzunte, a small town nearby…
A large group gathered and then two Mexicans asserted themselves as the guides, they themselves surprised at the large turnout. One guide explained we would split in two; one English speaking tour and one Spanish. Both would be very relaxed and offer a cultural insight to the city informing of us their recommendations of where to go, eat and drink, see and do as well as soft social and political commentary. Looking at his watch he confirmed it was 10am and therefore we would need to wait another five or so minutes to ensure we did not start on time in line with the Mexican way of life! The tour lasted over five hours including several tasting stops; coffee, soup (apparently 24°C is cold) and at the end Pox – pronounced posh – which is a strong spirit made from corn. We visited two cathedrals and paid MX$10 to climb to the top of one to capture panoramic views of the whole city. Whilst making several friends on the tour, we stretched our hamstrings and promised to reunite with the group later in the evening at a craft beer brewery.
Intrigued as to what Mexican wine tastes like we asked the two girls and boy next to us and they recommend the Merlot. Two glasses and an invitation to the craft brewery later we returned to our hostel briefly to change into jeans for the first time since England. It felt good! We headed over and one by one formulated some of the tour including our new Dutch friends from the wine bar and were quickly introduced to a rainbow of Mexican spirits. Undecided whether I would rather understand their Spanish descriptions of the shots or if I was blissfully ignorant, after one too many I called enough enough and insisted we eat some dinner. Five of us wandered to a nearby restaurant, recommended on the walking tour, and enjoyed a lovely meal with every intention to return to the bar. Inevitably a day of walking, an array of alcohol and a large meal sent us straight to bed seeking a pillow not pox!
We packed our jumpers and discovered our friend was ill so we clambered into the mini van and made the hour journey, almost all downhill, to the Canyon. On boarding the bus (not in the ticket information / guide) they informed us the Canyon is around 45°C, we should wear hats and apply mosquito repellent. First thoughts; how helpful and timely. When we arrived there was of course a huge hat stand filled with sweating tourists, I joined them and bought the cheapest hat I could find for MX$50 (£2) and risked not buying more insect repellent. We lathered on suncream like milk on cereal, grabbed a life jacket and gingerly jumped into the boat with thirty or so other tourists ready for their day out. The open boat sped off at a good pace only slowing at points of interest, the first being vultures. Around six hunched and scuttled along the dry ground by the water reminding me of the latter scene in The Jungle Book; we marvelled, photographed and sped off again. The tall walls of the Canyon steeped over us, using grandeur to intimidate those who passed through. Then pointing and gasps filled the boat, there it was, stop number two – a crocodile. The prehistoric beast sprawled it’s full length on a bank surrounded by naive birds, it’s mouth ajar displaying bone-crunchable teeth whilst maintaining a deathly stillness. Tension consumed us as a bird neared close to the jaws – “WILL IT SNAP? WILL WE WITNESS IT SNAP?” – total stillness responded our eager questions and alas, the boat sped off. We saw several another crocodiles, birds with a wingspan as wide as a sofa soar above us and of course, more and more of the Canyon itself. Requiring windscreen wipers for the amount of sweat we perspired, we returned to the dock after a two hour tour and not one mosquito in sight.
After a shower and rest at the hostel, we headed out for a low key evening meal and an early night. We went to a fantastic restaurant and had one of the best meals in Mexico to date – competing with the culinary delights of Bacalar – I had flank steak tacos and Seb had something with every kind of meat you can imagine. Full and satisfied we headed to bed. The next morning, you guessed it, Seb became incredibly poorly. After a forceful request to leave, I explored the city solo whilst Seb continued to be ill for the entire day. We spent the evening in the hostel, Seb recovering and me on hand for anything needed. The next day was night bus day and after a slow, cautious morning we realised that several people in our hostel were also ill. In fact, since leaving the hostel we’ve heard about 12-15 cases of San Cristobal related illness all of whom had street food. Our last day consisted of walks to the market and a visit to the textile museum before boarding our 14 hour night bus to Puerto Escondido. The sharp winding roads tested both of our stomachs but by morning we made it and walked off the bus covered in relief and coastal sunshine.
Resembling a human woman again, we explored the town of Palenque with ambitions of seeing the waterfalls in the afternoon and the ruins the next day – Seb’s birthday – leaving for San Cristobal in the evening. Then, Seb’s researching skills came to fruition as he discovered a tour which takes us from the waterfalls to San Cristobal for an extra MX100 (£4) rather than coming back on ourselves, with further relief but more determination and energy to hold back tears of joy, we settled on having a ‘pool day’, ruins as planned on Seb’s birthday then a trip to the waterfalls on Tuesday with the end stop in San Cristobal. We booked a wonderful boutique hotel for Seb’s birthday night nearer to the ruins and leapt downstairs to be horizontal on a sun lounger and order afternoon cocktails. Bliss!
A brief exchange of our story was told, although oddly when we mentioned #Brexit they were out of the loop completely. We gave a rapid overview evading the ‘details’ of Johnson and Farage, then the inevitable question arrived. “So what is the feeling of our new President back in London?” quizzed the man with a Utah drawl. Seb and I glanced at each other then back to the American, “um,” I started, “I think London is predominantly a Remain city which therefore doesn’t align with many of Trumps views…” Seb agreed adding to this notion before I concluded, “so I think it’s quite negative from what we’ve seen and heard…” Politely nodding, the American appreciated our diplomatic but honest approach and explained how Trump is a new breed of President, how he is offering America an escape route out of a winding spiral of destruction and how where he comes from, everyone is thankful he’s President. The American emphasised the importance of the coal industry and how Trump has offered to re-visit this and how he was particularly riled by Obamacare which had quadrupled medical bills for hard-working people like himself and those in his town. It became an interesting trade of different but respected opinions, perhaps a taster ahead of our month in America.
We climbed the Templo de las Inscripciones and peered inside it’s cold, damp interior; low, narrow corridors lead us to a tomb and small rooms which were netted off. The smell was prominent and cemented the notion that what we were standing in is thousands of years old. After a more cautious clamber down the fragmented steps we climbed six or seven more temples each a different structure with unique inscriptions of serpents, jaguars and Mayan life. The temples are set within the jungle which made for a more mystical exploration around the grounds, so many brightly coloured birds, vibrant flora and fauna and echos of howler monkey’s calls. After several hours of scrambling stairs in the scorching sunshine, we retreated back to our new sanctuary and cooled off at the poolside with a birthday cocktail to quench our thirst.
Tuesday morning awoke us gently after a restful sleep, we bargained with the hotel manager to reduce the waterfall tour price by MX200 each and set off in a mini bus to the first waterfall, Misol-ha. The 12 seater ploughed through corner after corner, ascent after descent; holding a tight grip on the handle in front of me we arrived after an hour with a strong appreciation for being flat and still. We explored the powerful waterfall for an hour including a torch-lit trip into a cave, ducking for bats. The waterfall was impressive but the tourist packed, narrow path distracted us from pure enjoyment. Reluctantly we returned to our seats in the mini van, took a deep breath and continued our journey to the second waterfall; Agua Azul.
Although difficult to put this aside, when we arrived at Agua Azul the waterfall offered such natural beauty we were helpless but to focus solely on the view. Almost completely unpolluted, the water was a vivid turquoise with white cascading water crashing down from several low falls. We stripped off and plunged in to the surprisingly cold (fresh!) water and used ropes to pull us through. The water is known to have strong currents so we cautiously swam around the corner and witnessed the vibrancy from a captivating perspective. We had three hours to explore the much bigger Agua Azul however we wished we could have stayed longer.
I need to explain at this point that any preconceptions of a lake, especially a British lake, need not be applied to this Mexican treasure. You could be forgiven for thinking it was the Caribbean sea as the scale and colours combine to create a delightful spectacle of nature. We settled in to the Blue Monkey hostel which whilst inside was as basic as a cardboard box, outside the garden stretched onto a pontoon inviting us to dive into the sea, sorry lake, which is what we did immediately. Known to be a lake of seven colours, we swam in the clearest section and within an hour knew we wanted to extend our stay.
He settled on a three hour paddle boarding tour of the lake which started at 6am on our last day in time for sunrise and covered three key points; two cenotes and a pirate ship. I experienced a ten minute taster of paddle boarding on the second day, starting on my knees (as advised) I maintained balance and was encouraged to try standing. Glancing at Seb gliding across the water as elegantly as a figure skater, I agreed. Immediately my legs transformed from sturdy human flesh and bone to the consistency of a mango smoothie. Remarkably I paddled without falling for at least 2-3minutes before retreating to the security of the kneeling position. Assured the water in the afternoon is much more difficult to navigate and balance on than the calm of the morning, I reluctantly also signed up for the tour with Seb the next day.
Serving exquisite cactus tacos, plantain juices and other vegetarian delights, our initial impressions of Bacalar being eco-friendly and holding strong hippy vibes were gradually being confirmed. The cafe we enjoyed so much was also a hostel, with Seb aware of my thoughts of our cardboard box, we enquired about our second nights stay and snapped up their last Cabana. “How cute!” I thought naively.
Impressed we watched her spread the dough and flatten it in an iron clamp creating a long, narrow shape eager to be filled with cheese, avocado and frijoles. The centre of Bacalar was small, square and maintained the relaxed vibe of the lake; not too busy but with enough people to watch the world go by, it was obvious why many stayed far longer than they intended. For me I found Bacalar so relaxed after three full days I needed to either commit to a semi-vegetive state or get up and move on.
At the back of the restaurant was a cream, shingled area amidst a mini jungle of overlapping trees, lanterns and soft, soul music leading us to our wooden table with peeking views of the lake between leaves. We ordered a tuna cerviche tostada dressed with sesame seeds and avocado, along with Chipotle shrimp tacos – the largest, juiciest prawns around – and tomato, mozzarella and basil empanadas. All of this washed down with a beer, good conversation and a cheers to our food critic Kenny made for a delightful evening. So delightful in fact, we went again on our last night and ordered the same!
It turns out the small cafe is a regular hangout for locals and seasoned travellers alike, the food on offer was fantastic quality and served in an inviting, rugged setting – just what we were after. A particular highlight was a playful introduction to a gorgeous black kitten; naturally we named him Carlos after the bartender who gave us our first beer of the trip in Cancún.
He happily agreed (phew) and we cycled on possibly the worst hire bikes we’ve ever ridden towards the beach, clanging over the pitted road is one thing but these rusty old boys didn’t have working brakes and with Mexican driving etiquette surrounding us it was terrifying – or exciting, depending on your outlook…
Feeling relaxed I enjoyed a third of lunch compromising of guacamole, steak strips, juicy prawns – both chargrilled – fried fish and cheesey quesadillas; delicious. Over our meal we exchanged our reflections so far and agreed how lucky we are to have such an opportunity as this. Remembering grey views from our offices, wishing 5.30pm would come quicker as if it were stuck in traffic, we discussed how to make the most of our trip for both of us. With differing experiences, preferences and comfort-zones (mine abandoned at Heathrow) we are both mindful of the challenges we face, as with most couples travelling together. *Touches wood* so far we have agreed and compromised where best amicably and respectfully with no big disagreements of our route so far.
Mezcal is a Mexican tequila-esque drink which has can been consumed as a shot served with orange segments or sipped depending on the quality, apparently it when things are good – you drink Mezcal and when things are bad – you drink Mezcal. Suffice to say, it’s bloody brilliant but two or even three is enough! Bidding farewell to our new friends, I stressed the importance of needing food immediately to Seb in a desperate quest to soak up the indulgent alcohol digested. The only places open were more casual tacqueiries whereby Seb liaised with our waiter in Spanish to provide with whatever tacos he had left. It turns out he had three chorizo and two cow brain tacos left. I was so hungry and in need of substance, I ate it much to the comic surprise of Seb. This was several days ago now and he continues to enjoy reminding me of it.
Smaller and less famous than Chichen Itza our expectations weren’t high but we were still keen to go. Once through the gate and ignoring the initial tourist sprawl of Starbucks, Hagen-Daaz and other overpriced establishments, the ruins were indeed not ruined by the tat as we found at Chichen Itza but instead offered a spacious, lush green environment in which to gawp at the incredible structures, and of course plentiful iguanas. We took in vibrant jungle-like trees, bright birds and a vivid turquoise coastal backdrop. This is where we both chimed “oh that’s Tulum beach,” realising we had visited a small hotel orientated beach the previous day!
Our afternoon activity was determined from the outset by Seb, we were going swimming in a Cenote and he couldn’t wait! Unsure of what to expect after Seb’s description of “well it’s a big, dark pool you jump in to… underground…with stuff hanging down!” admittedly I was more hesitant than he. We headed 5km out of town to the larger Cenote Dzitnup where my anxiety spiked as we were stopped by the Policia who warned us not to go to the Cenote due to a conflict between the owners and the locals – the army were en route to contain anticipated violence. It was an easy call, we turned back. 
Disappointed, Seb suggested we call in at the smaller Cenote Zaci in town. Refusing a life jacket on the basis of being too proud, we jumped in to join everyone – most wearing life jackets – and what seemed like hundreds of catfish. There were no safety instructions, life guards or obvious tourists, just a crowd of locals and travellers hanging out under the stalactites; two thirds of the Cenote underground with the rest drenched in glorious sunshine.
The latter aside, the atmosphere was jubilant, family-friendly and full of vibrant culture. We stretched our voices and sang along to a feminist band on our corner stage who donned an eclectic mix of fancy dress from fluorescent wigs, dress with public hair sewn on and a male drummer with a sequinned bra. The celebration pushed our tiredness back to at least 9.30pm where we eventually succumbed to our lovely hostel Casa Hipil ready for an early start in the morning.
early to avoid the coach loads of tourists we glided through the ticket office equipment into the world-renowned Chichen Itza – 1000 year old Mayan ruins. The experience was incredible, to witness an area whereby a community built and lived on such solid, intricate stone was truly a wonder to see after such a long time. The only thing which removed the magic slightly were the forceful market traders offering everything from t-shirts to tattoos.
As we piled into a shuttle bus to take us to our hostel, we drove past miles of huge, white hotels containing as much charm as the lime green ‘I ❤ Cancun’ trucker hat littered across all the gift shops. Gucci, Starbucks and the Hard Rock Hotel were amongst the disappointing recognisable brands drowning the beautiful beaches behind them. Relieved we were only staying for one night, our hostel was a refreshing contrast to the super-hotels we had spent the last 20 minutes gawping at. It had wonderful character, friendly staff and was awash with vibrant colours offering a clear feeling we were far away from the greys of beloved London.
A quick walk around soon revealed that our remote paradise was actually incredibly touristy too, in fact it was full of American visitors and as such meant every shop, bar or restaurant was targeted at the newbie; English translations, European menus and hefty prices. We made the most of the idyllic setting and hired a golf cart for a quick whizz around the island and booked a snorkelling trip for the following day. After a fantastic (albeit hipster) breakfast at Rooster we embarked on a tour of an underwater museum with just one other family. On with a life jacket which reassuringly strangled rather than hugged me, I gingerly jumped – well more placed myself – into the Caribbean Sea and stuck my head under the forceful waves to witness a glorious depth of clear sea, shawls of fish and intriguing Mayan statues. 
After an affirming gasp for non-snorkel oxygen, I quickly plunged under again to understand what was beneath us, can I really see moss-ridden statues of people, a Volkswagen Beatle with fish swimming through it’s windows and some kind of house? The snorkel tour was breath-taking, especially when a large wave washed over us. After 20 or so minutes of taking in the underwater world the ignored ‘please don’t get seasick, take medication’ sign at the shop lingered in my head. Rapidly the strong waves became overwhelming and nausea struck. Unfortunately (but reassuringly) S felt the same, as we retreated to the boat he looked as white as the inside of a lychee. We both clung to the knowledge we would soon return to the security of land and this feeling will soon cease. Pleasant distractions helped too in the form of flying fish and pelicans sharply diving for their dinner.
We sat with ‘dos cervezas’ on a wooden swing in a beach bar whilst the sun painted the sky orange before sinking into the horizon. Both filled with appreciation of our scenery, we clinked our Coronas “to us” and left the darkening beach to find food.
Unravel the Travel 