A giant American tour group bumbles about the entrance foyer of the Uxmal ruins (pronounced "oosh-mal"). They have large orange stickers on their chests with either "1" or "2" written on them. Suddenly, a short, loud Mexican man shouts that all the number 1s have to form a line, two-by-two, on this side - he points - and the number 2s have to line up on that side (points again). Then, he and his assistant go and stand at the turnstiles in front of each queue and hand out tickets to the Americans as they file past. The Americans in turn hand their ticket to the guard at the turnstile and, with permission, they squeeze their own way in. As a few start to make their way up the path, the loud Mexican shouts after them, telling them to wait for him at the entrance gate.

They’ve chosen this. Maybe they like it.

Inside I climb the tall temple. There’s something very exciting about climbing a temple. Partly it’s the view of the jungle stretching out all around, but mostly, I think, it’s the privilege. Access to the top of a temple must have been heavily restricted; the ruler and a few priests were presumably the only ones allowed to climb it. If you were anyone else you were probably on your way to be sacrificed.

Slightly strange breakfast of nachos covered in beans and a liquid, mildly sour, green sauce, topped with squiggles of yogurt. Then a bus to Campeche.

On the bus there’s a Tom Cruise movie showing called “Oblivion”, dubbed in Spanish. Not that you’d notice though because they’ve turned the volume right down: not so low that it wouldn’t disturb you, but not loud enough so that you could actually hear anything other than the explosions and gunfire. Given this and given my bad Spanish, I found it very difficult to understand much of what I could clearly see happening. (There is a happy ending though; I can spoil it for you that much at least.)

The next film they show is called Labyrinths and I’ve seen it already. This makes the language/volume issue less of an issue. But it also means that I know there’s going to be some pretty gruesome torture scenes in about 20 minutes and this coach load of innocents are all going to be traumatised (perhaps). 15 minutes later we pull into the depot and everyone gets off, saved from the gruesomeness.

Walking back along the Gulf of Mexico sea at dusk the drooping dark clouds which have been throbbing all evening eventually give way to rain: warm raindrops big enough to fill a shot glass. When the storm subsides I wander the streets looking for a shop that’ll sell beer. Were none. That evening, I learn that in Palermo, Sicily there were fireworks at noon.

It's a strange feeling when your eyes start to sting because of the salty sweat running down your forehead.

In the evening it rains again so I lie in my room watching a television. Four Weddings and a Funeral is playing (no dubbing!) so I watch it as if sipping from an oasis. Such a novel feeling to be understanding long, complicated sentences once again. But when the weather worsens and I become less inclined to go outside, the television signal cuts and Four Weddings disappears. When the weather improves, Four Weddings returns. Thus I spend the evening in a transfixed state: staring desperately at a blue screen whilw thunder and lighting rumble outside, and then, when the sun begins to shine invitingly, I am stuck on my bed, unable to turn off Hugh Grant and Andie MacDowell. I think this is what’s called a "Mexican adventure".

Before today I had not seen one sex shop on this whole peninsula. Today I see two sex shops, a few doors down from one another, within the old walled city of Campeche. One was called Sekso, and the other, written on signage that would not have looked out of place on a mother-and-baby shop, was called Tienda de Amor.

The other observation I made today, unrelated I’m sure, is that in every Mexican town, every teenager is in love with another teenager.

As I’m drinking coffee in a perfectly decaying colonial courtyard a bald man enters. He’s bald but stubborn tufts of wiry grey hair are growing their way out of the back of his bronzed, creased head. Because the tiles are smooth he can slide each flipflop quite a long way before lifting it for the next step. He makes proper use of this opportunity as he swishes over to my table (my table first).

My automatic response to these occasions is a half-smile and a “no gracias”, I don’t want to buy your woven bracelets/hat/hammock/something from the box at the front of your bicycle. My response was no different on this occasion but the offer was. This man wanted to sell me his poetry.

He held out to me a thin paperback with a photo of a cloudy sunset as its cover, all oranges and umber. I wasn’t able to see the full title but it included the word “natural”.

“¿[Something something] poemas?” he asks me.

Poems! He was selling poems. And I know they were his poems because I saw a small photo of him on the back cover as he glided off to the next table. A poet, going table to table, personally hawking his verse, an activity that seems at once absurdly hopeless and urgently necessary.

In the market, bouquets of flowers bloom proudly next to dead yellow chickens that dangle from hooks stuck into their necks. A pig’s head hangs from another hook and stares fixedly ahead. Women in front of piles of dried fish swat infinitely at the notion of flies. And someone, somewhere, sharpens a knife.