Tulum and Chetumal. Adios Mexico

With the Isla having given us just the tonic we needed after a bit of a slog across Mexico it was inevitable that it was with heavy heart that we bade her adios. We almost stayed another day but we were savvy enough to know that 1 might become 2 and then who knows how long we'd have stayed there. It's definitely one of those places that can rope you in, a topographical siren, so it was either ship out, or move in. We were one of only 3 couples on the 0900 ferry back to Puerto Juarez and from there we took a taxi to Cancun bus station. As we retrieved our luggage from the boot and paid our driver his 40 pesos we heard the familiar words "taxi señor?". This I felt perfectly encapsulated the past 7 weeks. We have been perpetually asked if we want something when we almost exclusively did not, though this took things to a new level. Why, when leaving a taxi would I want a taxi? There is a big part of me that yearns to walk down an English street without being asked if I want something. Then remember it will be drizzling, grey and cold and the feeling soon dissipates. Our bus was due to leave in about 40 minutes so we sat in the sweltering waiting area and took on board some fluids. Because of the humid conditions I was my usual sodden self, Kerry, who has recently begun to demonstrate the same ability to sweat as your average rail road navvy's arse crack, was likewise and several Mexicans, albeit the slightly more portly ones, were displaying varying degrees of dampness. I'm very conscious of my profuse perspiring out here so have recently taken to wearing only black in an effort to disguise it; it's the only colour that does so. Our departure was at 1015 and we had seats right at the back of the bus, unfortunately with a window which was adorned with corporate branding meaning we had no view of the passing countryside. The obligatory Hollywood film, dubbed in Spanish, started the minute we pulled away though the guy in front found comfort in sitting with his arms bolt straight above his head so we didn't see much of it. I was glad really. I find myself attracted to the screen in the way that a moth is to a lamp but I find it intensely aggravating to only be able to pick up a couple of words per sentence.  We initially thought that watching these films would help us pick the language up a bit better, which it may well have done, but it's still painful. We so wish we had spent more time learning Spanish before we came, it would have made life so much easier, but it's surprising how many travellers we've spoken to who can only say "thank you" and "do you speak English?" so I suppose we're streets ahead of them. Once we'd accepted we couldn't see around the hairy appendages of our forward neighbour we settled down to read, only to be disturbed by the cacophonous snoring of a chap across the way. One presumes he'd slept last night so his ability to nod off at 1030 in the morning on a bus was commendable. Audible snoring is a dreadful affliction, though only for those within earshot. He who snores is blissfully unaware of the racket he makes and with one of my regular travel partners being known as "the wildebeest" for his ability to wake a whole Moscow youth hostel dorm I am no stranger to it. The journey to Tulum was only a couple of hours and we were soon standing at a crossroads at the edge of town deciding which way to walk to find a room. I'd read that there was a hostel nearby which was not only cheap but included breakfast and the use of a bicycle whilst there as a guest so we made for that and checked in. We only planned to stay for one night so we weren't too concerned about the standard of our accommodation but there's no denying that it was an almighty comedown after the tranquility and comfort of life on the Isla. Youth hostels are just that; hostels ostensibly aimed at youths. For youths read 'people who are more prepared to and whose agile and nimble bodies will allow them to rough it somewhat'. Once we'd negotiated the semi-clad artist painting the wall of the stairwell with a Mayan glyph we were shown to a room with an unmade bed and an aroma emanating from it that lent more towards colons than colonies. Kerry understandably baulked and requested we be shown to more satisfactory quarters which turned out to be a room across the hall with 4 poster bed made out of sticks, an old tin bucket for a sink and what can best be described as open plan lavatorial facilities. One would disappear behind saloon-type louvre swing doors to answer calls of nature of any denomination, uno or dos. For a couple who like to keep the romance in their relationship alive by ensuring 'unpleasantness' is kept to a minimum, a diet of beans and an open plan bog would surely test our mettle. Are you familiar with the feature length episode of "Are you being served?" where the staff of Grace Bros go on holiday abroad somewhere and the lock on the toilet is broken? There is much discussion about how to deal with this and they ultimately decide that they'll sing when in there so that no one else enters when they are. We made a play on that and brought it into the 21 st century by playing loud music on our iPad whilst abluting. Tulum ruins are situated right on the Caribbean coast and there are some beautifully intact buildings remaining from around 1000+ years ago. Whoever decided to build and populate this city had their head screwed on because what could be more wonderful than to have the warm waters on hand to plunge into whenever the raging heat got too much. It was apparently a city of priests and you can imagine the appeal to the tribal elders that preceded its construction: "The gods have spoken, we are instructed to build a priestly city by the sea. It will be for the sole use of the priesthood and Xi-Balba decrees that no one may enter without his expresss permission." "So be it" It was in fact a Mayan port and trading centre complete with lighthouse and was still visited, though not inhabited, at the time of the conquest. For its setting it's one of the most memorable archaeological sites we've visited but it is incredibly hot and packed chocka full of gringos on day excursions from Cancun so not our favourite. We scooted around the ruins and then made for a nearby beach on our bikes as we were desperate to get into the sea. Our bikes were in shockingly bad condition and it was only marginally less effort to ride them than it would have been to push them through treacle. They were the "pedal backwards to brake" variety, mine had a bent pedal meaning my right leg was ramrod and my left was reminiscent of a Charlie Chaplin walk as I pedalled and when they'd last seen oil was debatable but it probably preceded the OPEC crisis in the early 1970s. At the beach we had a dip but were put off by the pounding we got from the waves and the rumblings of an approaching storm from out at sea. We started to ride back but the heavens opened and a tropical storm was upon us in seconds, a not altogether unpleasant experience given how warm it remained. Back at the hostel and dripping wet we realised that we didn't quite have enough cash left to last us the remaining day and a half we had left in Mexico so we needed to go and visit a cash point. We opted to just go as we were, a pleasant enough first kilometre on the cycle path into town being followed by a hair-raising ride on pot-holed roads into oncoming traffic in the rain wearing nothing but swimming trunks. I was glad to get back to the hostel, if only to be able to hand my death trap of a bike back in and I vow never to cock my leg over anything like that again. Oh for my beautiful bike back home, what I wouldn't give to have that here from time to time. At the hostel we looked around and felt so completely out of place. It was full of young backpackers in their 20s and it suddenly hit us how incongruous we must have looked to them. They almost all looked filthy, bedraggled and as though they were living on a far more meagre daily budget than we were. We, meanwhile, have maintained our decorum whilst travelling. Kerry does her hair and generally scrubs up very nicely every day, we religiously wash our clothes and we absolutely shower every day. Add the fact that our packs are the wheeled variety and we could almost pass for regular holidaymakers. We just felt we didn't fit in here at all so after our evening meal, a dreadful affair where the miserable baggage serving us couldn't have looked or behaved any less interested, we retired to our depression inducing quarters and willed the clock to reach our departure time. Next morning we went down to breakfast in the communal court-yard and sat waiting for the staff to bring out the grub. Here our perception of our fellow travellers changed completely as I got talking to a guy from northern Mexico and Kerry spoke to a German couple. We also met an Aussie dive instructor who works in Belize and had taken a month out to visit the Yucatan, meeting and hooking up with a local señorita from the Isla Holbox en route. It was all fascinating stuff and a reminder that initial perceptions can be so misleading. Invigorated by our mornings exchanges we wheeled our cases over the road to the bus station at 1000 and waited for the 1030 to Chetumal, our last port of call in Mexico and the place from where we would take a boat to Ambergris Caye, Belize. I had enquired yesterday about our bus and was told 1030, Express service, $204 pesos. At 1012 this morning the same young chap arrived for work and opened up the ticket office and waiting room but was seemingly having trouble booting his pc up. By 1021 Kerry was getting a little agitated so I approached him and said I needed two tickets to Chetumal. He faffed about on his machine for a couple of minutes and by 1024 was showing me a seat plan of the bus and asking me which seats we wanted. Then he said "next bus 1300". I asked him what had happened to the 1030 and he said "ah, not from here, from main bus station in town". We leapt in a cab at 1027 and pulled up outside the main bus station at 1034 to discover that for the first time in living memory a Mexican bus had departed bang on time. The 1030 was an Express Service taking 3.5 hours, the next one, 1134, was 2nd class, had no air-con and would take 5 hours. When I broke this news to Kerry it triggered the first notable discord between us of the whole trip, pretty good going really considering it was day 96. As it turned out it wasn't too bad a journey, though it was uncomfortably hot on there and we arrived at Chetumal on Friday afternoon at about 1620. We have decided to always get a taxi to our hotel on arrival in new towns now as wandering aimlessly whilst pulling our cases has proved an unnecessary aggravation. Our driver in Chetumal looked a little surprised at the request to take us to the Hotel Juliette, an expression matched on our faces when he told us the fare would be 65p. We jumped in, set off, took a right, drove for 500 yards, did a u-turn, drove for 475 yards and pulled over. We were here, the Juliette was within spitting distance of the bus terminal and we had therefore travelled by taxi rather than cross the road. The hotel was stark but felt so clean after the hostel where walking barefoot in your room ran the risk of something crunching or squelching beneath you. Chetumal turned out to be a lovely, cosmopolitan place with very few hawkers and a very pleasant way in which to spend our final night in the country. The city was virtually destroyed by hurricane Hattie in 1961 and subsequently rebuilt so what it lacks in aesthetics it makes up for in order and efficiency. It sits on the coast although it's more of a massive estuary than anything and whilst the waterfront is quite pretty your nose will soon tell you if you get too close. Down near the promenade we came across a wide open space on which young children were driving battery operated cars. In 1999 my two were customers here and for some reason it is something that has always stuck in my mind, running around after them as they careered out of control time and time again. Looking at those kids I could see my two and it hit home again how far away they are. On Saturday we needed to tie up our loose ends before getting the boat to Belize. We needed to buy tickets for the boat, spend all our remaining Mexican currency as it is useless in Belize, find some US dollars, post a box of unwanted items home and do a bit of shopping. We achieved all of this with the exception of posting the package home as we needed to sign a customs form which wasn't possible on a weekend so we'd have to send that back from Belize. It might not sound much but a jumper, pair of shoes, our Mexico Lonely Planet book, Kerry's diary and one of the several bags Kerry has bought whilst travelling add up to a fair amount of weight and every ounce counts when you're lugging it about daily. Aside from lunch, a curious affair consisting of stringy chicken in liquidised grey beans with stinking cheese on top, that was us done in Mexico. It has been a truly fascinating 7 week journey and I really feel we have seen enough to understand its foibles and get under it's skin. From the madhouse that is Tijuana, down the tranquil and oh-so-American Baja, the Pacific resorts, the capital and down into the south and the Yucatan, Mexico has it all. The wonderful paradise of the Isla Mujeres aside I don't think Kerry has fallen for it the way I have and the way I thought she might, but that is mainly to do with her perception that the people were less than friendly towards us. That should change as we head south, beginning in Belize, our first stop in a 6-8 week whistle stop tour of Central America.