Back in Merida, in the main square, a man is conducting a survey with another man sitting on the bench next to mine. The survey man turns to me and asks where I’m from. "Reino Unido", I say. “Wheeey!” he says pumping his fist in the air, clearly thinking hard for a suitable verbal accompaniment to the action. Fails. Goes back to asking questions to the other man.

A few minutes later he says "Ringo Star" at me. I look over.
“Ringo Star. You look like Ringo Star”.
"Uh-huh."
“No. More like Oasis, you know, Gallagher”.
"Uh-huh."
“You like rock-and-roll? You play music? You play an instrument?”
"No, no toco nada."
“Relax” he tells me, and waves his hands downwards as if trying to calm a suddenly volatile goat.

A few minutes pass.
“You know, there’s a party here tonight.”
"Sí, lo he visto," I say pointing to a large balloon floating above the square advertising the party.
“You can meet the large hipped women.”
"Bueno, gracías."
“You’re welcome,” he laughs. “Welcome to my city!”

I cross the peninsula today to Tulum on the Caribbean coast. The town is essentially a strip of gift shops, gringo bars, hotels, and scuba diving tour operators.

My hotel is run by Italian hippies. When I arrive a spaced out dude is super-reclined on a couch, open-eye-blind and deep-stroking a dog with his bent left hand. He's friendly enough, shows me to my room and hands over the keys. In the room there is a small bed, a large bed, a hammock, and two towels rolled up phallically.

When it gets dark I leave to stroll. At the bar where I have a tequila there was a refrigerated counter which contained the following (in this order): a carrot, some chocolate cake, a pomegranate, another carrot, a sponge cake, and an apple. For further illumination, I should mention that both the carrots were large, unpeeled, and nobbly in all sorts of unattractive ways.

On Tulum beach the sea plays out its resigned repetitive (infinite) churn: affecting weariness but secretly, unsubtly, thoroughly content. In other places where there are rocks, there is a more determined level of business to its ebb and flow; its work is harder here leaving no time to ponder the metaphysical.

About 200 meters before the ticket booth at the Tulum ruins there’s a false entrance with a kind of souvenir mall, more souvenir shops and a few restaurants that advertise “happy hours” [sic.]—2-for-1 beers—with no prescribed time range. There’s a roundabout around which brightly coloured trailers get pulled by tractors so the visitors can get to the ruins without using their feet.

In the middle of the roundabout is a naked blue flagpole around which sit several Mexicans on rocks, wooden planks, or plastic chairs. They’re dressed up kind of “traditional” with white shirts, embroidered red sashes, red trousers, and black boots with cuban heels. A few are blowing into wooden flutes without melody or rhythm or any purpose beyond the need to respirate.

A group of six Americans in sunglasses and cameras sit down on one of the benches nearby and without any hesitation or communication all the “tribesmen” jump to attention and make their way towards the flagpole. Their instruments coalesce into a kind of tune and the two of them that have little drums on the end of their flutes bang them. They walk in a stuttering circle, occasionally pausing, lifting a leg, and changing direction. Sometimes they make synchronised deep bows towards the paint-spattered base of the flagpole.

Eventually the marching ends and they high-five and fist-bump each other. One of them takes something out of a plastic bag and sets it on fire causing much smoke and a strong smell of burning plastic. Another walks up to the seated tourists and asks for some money. The ceremony now over, they return to their previous positions.

Walking along the beach—white sand, turquoise sea—wearing a large black backpack, black jeans and black boots, I couldn’t but help feel like a pervert.

Back in Cancun!! The final stop before I leave the peninsula.

With an afternoon to spare in the dullest of downtowns, I head over to the hotel zone, a long, narrow stretch of land running north-south along the east coast. On one side is a murky-green lagoon and on the other is the turquoise Caribbean sea. Yet for the entire length of this strip there’s no sign of any sea or beach because the coastline has been completely obscured from the road by giant, balconied, hotels. The only way to the sea, it seems, is through their lobbies.

At the northern most point of the strip several giant-mouthed nightclub venues face each other looking grubby in the intense sunlight. There are also several malls filled with shops selling infinite repetitions of the same small trinkets. Between a nightclub and a mall I find a dark and dirty alleyway with a blaze of blue peeking at its end. I follow it and am suddenly thrown onto a beach with a spectacular rendition of living colour.

On the packed bus back to the downtown area a man gets on carrying an amplifier. He puts the amp on the luggage rack and begins to fiddle around with some cables and a microphone. After a few minutes of this fiddling we hear his voice, amplified and with a stadium-style reverb. He tells us he wants to talk about God—the particulars escaped me—but first he wants to play us a song. More endless knob twiddling as he tries to get his phone to play through his amplifier.

When finally he succeeds, the whole bus—mostly tired hotel employees—is put upon by a one-dimensional power ballad about how wonderful things happen when some guy raises his hands. As all things eventually do, the song ends, and our on-board evangelist does the switch-back-to-microphone trick with his amp. When he’s done doing that he starts talking again. I can follow almost nothing of what he’s saying and no one else looks like they have even noticed him. Fifteen minutes later and we’ve arrived back in town. He thanks us, begins to dissemble his equipment and eventually gets off the bus.

I rise in darkness this morning to get to the airport in time. In the hotel lobby the receptionist is asleep and the front door is locked. His head is resting in both hands and he's sleeping heavy; I have resort to knocking on the desk to wake him up and let me out.

He eventually comes to, looks distressed and goes to unlock the door. My taxi is waiting outside and soon we’re driving fast through the dark and empty streets of Cancún. This afternoon I arrive in Veracruz airport, get a bus to Xalepo where Eric meets me and we drive to Coatapec to meet Oonagh, Sam, Anne, Lily and Cora.