South of the Border

It has long been said that travel “broadens the mind”, although Mark Twain didn’t have The Lonely Planet Guides, TripAdvisor or Instagram to consult in his day. Try as we might to keep an open mind, we still bring our own baggage, intellectual or otherwise, along for the journey.

The contemporary obsession with having an “Experience” also allows less time and space to explore and discover. The local path all too quickly becomes the road less travelled which sooner rather than later becomes a four-lane superhighway.

Last year I visited Mexico for the first time, a country whose image has long been filtered by reports of migrants stuck in limbo on the border with the USA, hyper violent drug cartels and for readers of a certain age, Spring Break on MTV.

That's without mentioning Frida Kahlo and Pancho Villa. Nor Tequila or Tacos. The dangerous, sexy and sublime cliches all served up in one dish, south of the border.  

It was my first long haul flight in well over a decade, I flew Air France via Paris to Cancun. The airline has a distinctly retro attitude to in-flight hospitality as well as to the uniforms of its flight attendants.

“Cognac, Sir?” “Champagne, Sir?”

“Yes, please” alternating with “Oui s’il vous plait” were the only answers that came to mind. As the flight progressed the latter took on a distinctly Del Boy accent as the hospitality kicked in with a vengeance.

Only Fools and Horses meets ‘Allo ‘Allo at 37,000 ft above the Atlantic isn’t a mash up I ever expected to be a part of.   

I landed in the evening, and it was already dark, hot and very humid. Customs and immigration, although heavily staffed with a bewildering array of colourful uniforms, couldn’t have been friendlier or more efficient, which was in stark contrast to the transfer in Paris.

I went quickly through the arrival hall and outside to the family and friends pick up area. My sister, who was living in the Yucatan Peninsula at the time, had arranged to meet me along with a contact of hers who runs an informal taxi service.

We had to be very discreet and careful not to arouse the suspicions of the taxi drivers or airport staff, by all accounts, they don’t take kindly to competition for the all-important tourist dollars. We headed south on Federal Highway 307, which runs parallel to the coast all the way down to Belize.

I couldn’t see much out of the windows; we were driving fast, and the combination of tiredness and French hospitality had taken its toll. All I did notice was what seemed like an endless string of American owned mega resorts and huge, illuminated billboards, whizzing past every few hundred metres, advertising day trips, nightclubs or the mega resorts themselves.

At major road junctions there were heavily armed gun trucks, of the local, state or federal police variety with an occasional Mexican Marine Commando unit thrown in every now and then, just to keep you on your toes.   

We drove for about an hour and the gaps in between the mega resorts, billboards and gun trucks became longer and longer.

We arrived at my sister’s apartment, dropped my bags off and even though it had been a long day and an even longer flight, we headed out for a drink. On the small strip of land between her place and the sea, there were open air bars and restaurants.

The heady combination of cocktails and music, the excitement of being in Mexico for the first time and catching up with my sister meant it was all a bit of a blur. Frozen margaritas served in fishbowl sized glasses didn’t help with the clarity. 

I was, however getting an overwhelming sense of “Déjà vu”, I was being reminded of another time and place but couldn’t quite work out where.

Daylight and my first Mexican sunrise provided the answer.