Arrival time was 19:27. I was still confident I was evading my pursuers. However there was a high probability they could be lying in wait in Cancun, the mega tourist destination of Mexico.
I checked into a hostel and became busy trying to prepare my dinner. I had chosen canned spaghetti at the local supermarket. I thought this choice would show a bit of class; bring a taste of the continent to Central America.
But it became a struggle. I could not figure out how to use the hostel’s can opener. It was a monstrous beast of technological advancement and what I assume they mean by idiot proof i.e. no idiot can use it. I could only assume can openers must conform to confusing standards in this part of the world.
I looked around the kitchen for a pile of battered, bashed and unopened cans. Surely there must have been others who couldn’t figure out how to use the hostel’s can opener? That is why I did not ask for assistance; I did not want to embarrass anyone. There was nothing left for me to do but soldier on.
While trying to bash the can into submission I listened to the conversations around me. A group of disparate males were preparing for a night out on the town. For US$27 you received an open bar at a number of resorts. They asked me if I want to join them but I told them I shall be way too busy. By the time they get back the next morning at 6:00 hours I should just about be sitting down to a plate of spaghetti, fresh from a mutilated can.
Besides, getting drunk was off the agenda. It would be a serious dereliction of my duties. Alcohol leads to loose lips which sink expeditions into the revolutionary epicentre of the world. They left me with my can of spaghetti in one hand and a can opener in the other. They were headed out to the resorts.
The next day I asked someone from the group, a Belgium guy, how his night out on the town went.
“It was crap” he replied.
“All night American girls with big tits were shoving their bums and breasts into our faces”.
Well how do you reply to a statement like that?
My mind was racing and I needed to cool off. I made the long trek by foot to the beach and went for a swim in the lukewarm surf. Resorts lined the beach. Having always travelled on a budget I had never been to a resort before. Why not now?
I completed a surprise, insurgent, full frontal attack from the beach and within ten minutes was wallowing in one of the resort’s pools. I camouflaged myself in a pasty white tan with the other British tourists. I felt this was the life. That was until my pastry white skin started to become a fire burn red and I had to make a hasty retreat.
Been on a revolutionary expedition it was not wise to spend too much time in any one place. The next day I took a bus south to a town called Campeche, situated on the Mexican / Belize border. The hotel I stayed in was a complete dive, the opposite of a resort, the worst maintained place I had ever seen. But it was also the cheapest and ensured my most peaceful sleep on the tour so far.
My pursuers would not suspect the revolution would be so cheap as to accommodate me in my current abode. I was safe. Tomorrow I would be leaving Mexico temporarily behind. That night I went for a walk around Campeche to contemplate. It was a town situated next to the sea with a pleasant harbour setting. The local people were in a peaceful frame of mind as they relaxed on a Sunday before the oncoming working week.
The worries of the world could not seem further away.