Kittys Place

Thursday 31st December 1987. New Year’s Eve.

We went down to the Post Office in the rain so that Declan could try to ring England. He wanted to call “Ducky” (Karen, pictured with Declan in Cornwall below), the girlfriend he never wanted to see again when he flew out of Britain! The friendly Postmaster promised that the weather would improve but forecast bad winter with temperatures down to 55 Fahrenheit (°F), or 13 Celsius (°C)!

We then set too with our overdue washing (laundry) in the local brown tap water. The coffee in Jayls Restaurant is great, strong Nescafé from Mexico with cream or condensed milk. The afternoon was spent swinging in a hammock drinking neat rum from the bottle and listening to Ron, the Yankie Canadian rambling on and on.

The locals scurried back and forth on the sandy paths carrying drinks for this evenings New Year celebrations. The weather remained overcast and as dusk fell, we rushed to bring in our drying laundry in a torrential rain shower.

At 18:30 hrs we started with a meal in Jayls Restaurant and walked about a mile down the beach, getting a lift for the last mile in a van, to an American woman’s new bar. This was called Kitty’s Place and was a two-storey building with colonial arches and a bar full of ex-patriot Americans.

A local band provided an average musical backdrop and we tanked into the rum and coke. We saw in the New Year 1988 and eventually I walked back to Ran’s with Diego. It was pissing with rain and my flip-flop sandals flicked red mud up the back of my legs.

At the lodge I showered off the sand and hung my dripping t-shirt out to dry on Declan’s hammock. The others came back, having got a lift, and a late-night firecracker raid almost ended in Declan and Diego coming to blows. Happy New Year!

Big Creek

Wednesday 30th December 1987

We had breakfast where we ate last night and talked to an interesting Norwegian guy. Then we went off along the main path to the “harbour”, where we found the local fishing co-operative, an electricity generator and the Post Office which was a wooden hut with two telephones, general supplies and liquor and water sport hire.

The Postmaster was friendly and after a chat he ran us out to Big Creek in his launch to visit the bank for $5 Belizean Dollars each. Big Creek or Cala Grande is the nation's second largest port, after Belize City, and is situated on the Caribbean Sea in Belize's Toledo District, just south of the boundary with Stann Creek District.

Big Creek is the main port for Belize's banana industry; citrus fruit and shrimp are also exported from here. It is also the location from which oil, extracted from the fields of Spanish Lookout, is exported.

Big Creek had a huge colonial looking bank, an airfield and a lot of derelict machinery. A deep-water port facility was to be constructed here in the 1990’s.

We changed up some money and returned to Placencia, where children played in the sand and the local Rastafarians chatted in their red, yellow and green woolly hats. The white wooden police station was inconspicuous amongst the other wooden buildings on stilts along this thin peninsula.

It is overcast and windy today, but the general atmosphere is friendly and tranquilo. We followed the beach northwards along the peninsula. The shoreline was littered with dead palm fronds and decaying coconuts. We came to an American resort where nice houses could be rented for $50 per day!

We made our way back via the red earth road and picked up two bottles of Coca Cola in the wooden fisherman’s supplies shack. Back at Ran’s we sat in the front garden and drank rum and coke as the day faded. We continued drinking in Jayls Restaurant and had another excellent fish meal.

The evening was spent largely on the beach under the wind-tossed palm trees, sitting in the shelter of a beached boat watching the phosphorescent surf. The moon was bright. We went into the disco for a beer, but it was still early and although the music was good, it was severely short of people.

We were tired and went to bed after a short spell in the hammocks on the porch. Our sleep was disturbed by amorous thrashings from the surrounding rooms.

Mango Creek

Tuesday 29th December 1987

We were very tired and consequently slept in too late to catch the 06:00 hrs. bus to Mango Creek in the south. We had breakfast and headed for the Z-Line (pronounced Zee Line) Bus Depot in Magazine Road.

The morning traders were out around the swing bridge and a few shady-looking characters asked us if we needed any assistance. We waited for 45 minutes at the ticket window for a tedious ticket issuing system that involved making triplicate copies of each ticket.

The bus had layout with three seats then an aisle then two seats across each row with little legroom. Many of the women sported plastic curlers in bright yellow and green, in Coronation Street Hilda Ogden or Ena Sharples style, and chatted happily together.

Most families carried children, cardboard boxes and ghetto-blasters (portable, but substantial music cassette/radio players). We stopped briefly at Belmopan, a seemingly small town, but the new Capital City of Belize, where I had a chance to move off of the wheel arch and stretch my legs.

Belmopan is the capital city of Belize. In addition to being the smallest capital city in the continental Americas by population, Belmopan is the third-largest settlement in Belize, behind Belize City and San Ignacio. Founded as a planned community in 1970, Belmopan is one of the newest national capital cities in the world. Since 2000 Belmopan has been one of two settlements in Belize to hold official city status, along with Belize City.

The next stretch was along a pitted dirt road through the forest to Dangriga through the Stann Creek Valley. Dangriga, formerly known as Stann Creek Town, is a town in southern Belize, located on the Caribbean coast at the mouth of the North Stann Creek River. It is the capital of Belize's Stann Creek District. Dangriga is served by the Dangriga Airport. Commonly known as the "culture capital of Belize" due to its influence on punta music and other forms of Garifuna culture, Dangriga is the largest settlement in southern Belize.

Dangriga was settled before 1832 by Garinagu (Black Caribs, as they were known to the British) from Honduras. For years it was the second largest population centre in the country behind Belize City, but in recent years has been surpassed by San Ignacio, Belmopan and Orange Walk Town. Since the early 1980s Garífuna culture has undergone a revival, as part of which the town's name of Dangriga, a Garífuna word meaning "standing waters", became more widely used, but was initially adopted around 1975.

Here we changed buses, another Z-Line (The Bottom Line!), buying more triplicate copy tickets while an elderly, and quite possibly drunk Carib talked unintelligibly to Declan. We set off and bumped along an even worse road calling in at villages along the way to pick up dusty black people in American T-Shirts.

At last we got to Mango Creek, a town that seemed to consist of a well-stocked general store and about twelve wooden houses on stilts with galvanised iron roofs. Independence and Mango Creek are adjacent villages in the Stann Creek District of Belize. For the purposes of the census, they are counted as one community.

The locals loitered on the porch of the store. We got off the bus and followed a dirt road down to the waters edge and managed to charter a boat for $30 Belizean Dollars destined for Placencia. The light was fading rapidly as we roared across the mangrove swamps in the sheltered water inside the peninsula.

A few locals rowed in the opposite direction, their oars splashing in the darkness. The night air was warm on our faces as we rushed towards the low black shapes in the distance. This was great, this was what travelling was all about.

We finally cruised down a narrow channel and pulled up at a tiny jetty. We clambered ashore and walked through the palm trees and came to the main drag, which was a two-foot-wide concrete path. The beach was only about fifty feet away on the other side of the peninsula.

We checked in at Ran’s (Ron’s?) Travel Lodge for $15.75 Belizean Dollars, a pleasant tropical wooden building with a corrugated iron roof and a nice reception lounge. We ate in a little wooden shack café almost opposite and had one of the best fish meals we’ve had so far.

We met an American and chatted over a rum and Coca Cola to the locals. They were really friendly and promised us a great party on New Year’s Eve to see in New Year 1988. The American had arrived at Belize City and was robbed by the taxi driver who took his cash and camera. “He then rolled me a huge reefer (cannabis roll-up) to smoke when he dropped me off, so it was cool”, he said.

Declan and Diego bought some cigarettes and we sat on the beach amongst the palm trees in a stiff breeze and light rain listening to the sound of the surf.

Belize

Monday 28th December 1987

Declan and I set off in order to get to the Guatemalan Consulate at 09:00 hrs. when it opened, leaving Diego slumbering in his pit. The Consulate was pleasantly air-conditioned and decorated with tourist posters of Guatemala. My passport presented no problem and I paid $10 US dollars for an instant visa, but Declan’s Irish passport was a puzzle for them. The Consul had no information on Ireland and after a few unsuccessful attempts to ring Guatemala for advice, he shrugged and issued Declan with a complementary visa.

On the way back we met Diego and grabbed our baggage. It was getting hot, and all the shops were beginning to open their shutters. Affluent Mexican holidaymakers wandered around in their best casual clothes or drove about in fancy American campervans and Winnebago's®.

We took a taxi to the Bus Terminal, stocked up with cakes, crisps and Coca Cola, and jumped on the “Venus” bus to Corozal in Belize. Corozal is a sleepy seaside town, located just south of the Río Hondo (Hondo River), which forms the border between Mexico and Belize. Set on a crystal-clear bay, Corozal was an important centre on the early Mayan trading routes, and the evidence remains in the ruins of Cerros and Santa Rita, and the old English Fort Barley.

The border crossing was quick and efficient, and we passed through Customs and changed Mexican money and travellers’ cheques with men waiting on the Belizian side. Two dollars Belize was equal to one $US American dollar.

Belize, formerly known as British Honduras, is a Caribbean country located on the northeastern coast of Central America. Belize is bordered on the northwest by Mexico, on the east by the Caribbean Sea, and on the south and west by Guatemala.

Belize was granted independence on 21 September 1981. Guatemala refused to recognize the new nation because of its longstanding territorial dispute with the British colony, claiming that Belize belonged to Guatemala. About 1,500 British troops remained in Belize to deter any possible incursions.

We were happy to be leaving Mexico and our spirits soared as we reboarded the bus which was now playing lively Caribbean influenced music. At the small town of Corozal we were dropped off at the “airstrip” which was more like a field. We enquired at a house and were told that it cost 50 Belizian dollars ($BZ) for the ferry to San Pedro on Ambergris Caye (Island), Madonna’s Isla Bonita, and not 26 $BZ as we had been told by Dennis.

We were directed to the Hotel Maya, a mile down the road, for more details. We started to walk and almost immediately we were picked up by a couple in a huge American car. At the Hotel Maya we got Coca Cola but very little sense from the Spanish-speaking girl on reception. We decided to continue on to Belize City and take a boat.

Belize City is the largest city in Belize and was once the capital of the former British Honduras. It is situated at the mouth of the Haulover Creek, which is a distributary of the Belize River. The Belize River empties into the Caribbean Sea five miles from Belize City on the Philip Goldson Highway on the coast of the Caribbean.

The city is the country's principal port and its financial and industrial hub. Cruise ships drop anchor outside the port and are tendered by local citizens. The city was almost entirely destroyed in October 1961 when Hurricane Hattie swept ashore. It was the capital of British Honduras (as Belize was then named) until the government was moved to the new capital of Belmopan in 1970.

We waited on the dusty verge outside the Hotel Maya. Diego donned his “John Lennon” round mirror shades and bobbed and weaved to a Belizean radio station on his transistor radio while trying to thumb a lift. A local black man walked past us with a small crocodile on a lead, taking it for a swim in the bay opposite.

At 14:00 hrs. we flagged down a “Batty” bus to Belize City and started off sitting on the floor. Fairly soon though we got a comfortable reclining seat. The countryside was flat and moderately wooded, with some reed-like vegetation. The area was originally mangrove swamp and most of the wooden shacks with corrugated iron rooves were on stilts.

Now the shop signs were in English. At Orange Walk we saw a small quiet town with low buildings around a decaying plaza. The town was reputed to be a centre for the drugs trade. Orange Walk Town is the fourth largest town in Belize and is located 53 miles north of Belize City. The town is known for its diversity and visitors come to explore Mayan sites like Cuello and Lamanai and a variety of other natural parks.

One restaurant offered “The Best Service in Town” while the next offered “The Best Service in the Country”. We continued along the increasingly potholed road through several short sharp rain showers until we reached Belize City.

The outskirts were well spread-out shacks with black families relaxing on their porches. The amount of surface water increased and for the final leg of the journey we appeared to be running along a dyke. Adverts for Gordon’s Gin and Barclays Bank appeared. Finally, the bus turned left along a canal bumping along a pitted dry mud track to a small bus station.

We got off and walked between 2-storey wooden buildings towards the central swing bridge where boats for the cayes left. The Belize City Swing Bridge spans the Haulover Creek and connects the north side with the south side of Belize City. It is the oldest swing bridge in Central America, and the only manually operated bridge still functioning in the world. The bridge was constructed in Liverpool, England, in 1922 at a cost of $84,000.00, and brought to Belize by a USA company based in New Orleans. It was installed and opened to the public on 11th April 1923.

The locals were largely of African descent and seemed to be largely Rastafarians. At the riverside we found a right dodgy collection of rogues offering expensive boat trips to Caye Caulker and Ambergris Caye.

One of them tried a trick that we had been warned about. The local claims that a moored boat is his and invites you to get aboard and load your luggage and wait. He then goes to “pick up his outboard motor” after collecting some money from you “to buy petrol”. He goes off, never to be seen again.

We decided to wait until tomorrow, it being nearly dusk, and booked into the North Front Guest House. We got a clean simple room for 21 $BZ. Belize City is probably the most dangerous place that I have visited. The manager was a friendly American. The front door of the hotel had a peep hole and was securely locked from the inside. There was a baseball bat close to hand to deal with unwanted guests. Belize City is a dodgy place indeed, especially at night.

We went to a bar opposite to try the Belikin Beer. It was good and the bar was dark but pleasant. Unfortunately, a boring local latched on to us and we retreated to our hotel for a good Italian-style vegetarian spaghetti followed by chocolate tapioca pudding.

According to Wikipedia Belikin is the leading domestically produced beer brand in Belize. Belikin is brewed by the Belize Brewing Company, Ltd. which is owned by the Bowen family. The Belize Brewing Company was established in 1969 and began brewing Belikin Beer and Belikin Stout brand name in 1971. Its tagline is "The Beer of Belize".

The name "Belikin" comes from the Maya language and means "Route to the East". This is a term which some have suggested is the origin of the name of "Belize" (although the most accepted derivation says the name comes from the Belize River, meaning "muddy"!). The Belikin label features a drawing of a Pre-Columbian Maya temple-pyramid at Altun Ha.

The most common Belikin is a light lager beer. Lighthouse Lager, Belikin Premium and a stout beer are also brewed and sold under the Belikin name. The brewery is based in Ladyville, Belize District.

Declan and Diego went out for a smoke while I retired to my room to write up my logbook. They soon returned and we sat on the balcony overlooking the street until the lure of the bar opposite became too great. We crossed the road and pushed into the dim interior where a couple of black locals were watching an American show on TV.

We went out back onto a wooden jetty over the river and drank Belikin beer while hordes of kamikaze mosquitos attacked our ankles. The night was quiet with only a few lights were visible in the wooden houses opposite.

We decided that the cays were too touristy and commercial and decided against going out to them. Instead, we decided to head to a small, undeveloped resort called Placencia, which was mentioned in the South American Handbook.

We learned that prior to the European colonization of the Americas, the Placencia Peninsula was inhabited by the Maya. Archaeological evidence suggests that the Maya in this area produced salt and traded it with other settlements along the coast.

In the 17th century, Placencia was settled by English Puritans, originally from Nova Scotia and Providence Island. This settlement died out during the Spanish American wars of independence in the 1820s.

The Placencia Peninsula was resettled in the late 1800s by several families. Placencia prospered and soon became a village, earning its livelihood from the sea. The Spaniards that travelled the southern coast of Belize gave Placencia its name. At that time Placencia was called Placentia, with the point being called Punta Placentia, or Pleasant Point.

In the late 20th century, it became a significant tourism destination, and is now referred to as Placencia Village, or simply Placencia. We decided that it would be a good place to see in the New Year 1988.

We retired to our clean wooden room and turned on the ceiling fan on full to combat the mosquitos. It was reminiscent of the opening scenes of Apocalypse Now ("Saigon, shit. I'm still only in Saigon. Every time I think I'm going to wake up back in the jungle. When I was home after my first tour, it was worse. I'd wake up and there'd be nothing...I hardly said a word to my wife until I said yes to a divorce. When I was here, I wanted to be there. When I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle. I've been here a week now. Waiting for a mission, getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room I get weaker. And every minute Charlie squats in the bush he gets stronger. Each time I look around the walls move in a little tighter. Everyone gets everything he wants. I wanted a mission, and for my sins they gave me one. Brought it up to me like room service").

Chetumal

Sunday 27th December 1987

We were up at 06:00 hrs. despite the failure of my alarm clock to produce a sound. We bid “adios” to our host, Juan, at the hotel and made our way quickly to the Bus Station. We boarded a comfortable first-class coach and were soon winging our way towards Chetumal.

The road was good and the terrain was flat. The clouds drifted like smoke across a vast expanse of blue sky. Semi-tropical forest with palm trees and scrubland stretched away on either side of the road and odd, isolated hovels offered services such as “Foto Service” or “Electronic Workshop” in otherwise apparently deserted areas.

We arrived at Chetumal at 13:00 hrs. and got off the coach in a brand-new Bus Terminal, more like an airport departure lounge than a bus station, on the outskirts of the town. We had to get a taxi to the centre of the town and spent a while touring the hotels looking for a reasonably priced triple room.

We eventually settled for an upstairs room at the back of the Pasada Margot on “Cinco de Mayo” Calle, for 20,000 Mexican Pesos with an ensuite toilet and a shower. Cinco de Mayo is an annual celebration held on May 5th. The date is observed to commemorate the Mexican Army's victory over the French Empire at the Battle of Puebla, on May 5, 1862, under the leadership of General Ignacio Zaragoza. The victory of the smaller Mexican force against a larger French force was a boost to morale for the Mexicans.

The town is nicely laid out in a grid pattern with wide avenues, each with a grassy central reservation lined with palm trees. The seafront was a mass of green surrounding a fountain. Grass, palm trees and hedges were overlooked by the New State Government buildings.

The town seemed to be deserted but it was a very hot Sunday afternoon, and it was siesta time so sensible people would be slumbering in their hammocks. We spent the afternoon with a couple of cold “Corona” beers and a search for the Guatemalan Consulate, which was at Avenida Heroes de Chapultepec 356, Colonia Centro Chetumal.

We also asked at the small harbour to see if it would be possible to get a boat directly to San Pedro on Ambergris Caye but were told that it was unlikely. “I fell in love with San Pedro”. Warm wind carried on the sea, he called to me. Te dijo te amo. I prayed that the days would last. They went so fast… If you’ve ever heard Madonna’s song “La Isla Bonita”, you know that Belize’s San Pedro Island holds the power to bewitch those who visit it to the point where they never wish to leave.

The bay was shallow and dotted with rocks so only the local fishermen really docked here. The Customs Officer and the sailors on the naval patrol boat were very friendly and helpful. Back in the garden of our hotel a vast long line of huge red ants carried bits of leaf bigger than themselves down from a tree and along a line that disappeared into the distance. It was like an insect version of Metropolis, which is a 1927 German expressionist science-fiction drama film directed by Fritz Lang. In the future, in the Million-acre city of Metropolis, wealthy industrialists and business magnates and their top employees reign from 50 to 1,000-story skyscrapers, while underground-dwelling workers toil to operate the great machines that power the city.

The night air hummed with bird and insect noise. We walked down towards the Guatemalan Consulate and stopped at a restaurant under a huge, thatched roof. It sported a juke box and Christmas decorations and a little black kitten. We had a reasonable meal here and then set off for the Pool Hall next door to our hotel.

Enroute, I stubbed my toe on a shadow-hidden curb and had to stop at the hotel to administer some first aid. In the Pool Hall we paid 1,200 Mexican Pesos for an hour on a well-worn pool table with huge pockets, from which the balls were retrievable by hand.

A fat man who was playing dominos with his friends supplied us with a heap of talcum powder and a set of pool balls and chalked up our starting time on the blackboard. The Pool Hall was packed with Mexican teenagers dressed to kill, who seemed to be playing about 4-a-side American Pool. Our European (English?) style of play attracted some curious onlookers.

After the pool session we retreated to the bar near our room for a final session on Mexican beer – cold “Superior” cerveza. Back at the Pasada Margot the ants had packed up for the night and only a few small lizards were in evidence. We went to our room and queued for the bathroom. Much to our surprise the cold water was still running and only the toilet cistern was inoperative.

We went to sleep in the sultry heat surrounded by posters of a Mexican pin-up girl on the walls. The ceiling fan fought a losing battle, wobbling from side to side, to produce and effective draft.

Boxing Day

Boxing Day. Saturday 26th December 1987

We had American style breakfast in “Pops” on Calle 57. I washed down some Lomotil tablets with my orange juice to combat the shits. It must have been something I ate yesterday. This medication is used to treat diarrhoea. It helps to decrease the number and frequency of bowel movements. It works by slowing the movement of the intestines.

All the shops are open again, and busy. Diego went to the Consulate to get a visa for Belize and Declan and I returned to our room. We have heard good reports about the coastal resort of Playa del Carmen so we will probably go there next.

Diego came back from the Consulate and we decided to go to the Bus Station and get tickets for Chetumal in order to get to somewhere nice in Belize for New Year. The usual massive queue was tailing out of the Bus Station, but luckily for us nobody wanted to go to Chetumal and it’s dedicated ticket window was vacant as usual.

We got tickets for tomorrow departing at 07:00 hrs. at a cost of 14,500 Mexican Pesos each. Diego sobbed at the prospect of getting up so early to get this bus. We went on to find a bar that Dennis had recommended by the cinema on Calle 60. Here, in an internal courtyard we got “Dos Equis” beer for 800 Mexican Pesos per bottle and chatted to an American in a strange green outfit. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and Bermuda shorts from Africa.

He was here writing a book about the Mayan Indians and earning 5,000 Mexican Pesos per day doing translations. He had apparently lost all his money when a night raider slashed his tent with a razor blade and relieved him of all his valuables. He borrowed a busker’s guitar and gave us a tune.

At 15:00 hrs. we moved on to the Zócalo and chatted to the hammock sellers as small children chased the pigeons. We bought some peanuts from a young boy and chatted idly. After a siesta doze at the hotel we went out for a couple of hamburgers and then joined Diego drinking coffee while he ate his meal. Then we moved on to the Video Bar where we sat drinking rum and cokes under the bizarre paintings and watched Pop Videos. The New Order one was best.

We went back to the hotel at 22:30 hrs. and discovered that one of the other residents had killed a black scorpion on the balcony where we usually sat. The squashed corpse was quickly covered by a writhing mass of ants and overnight it was dismembered and carried away in pieces.

I talked to a Canadian guy about the perils of snakes and insects until the Tres Amigos got restless and decided to hit the Zócalo for two more late night beers. We sat and chatted, watching the local dogs and horse and trap drivers going home.

Urkan and Sabine appeared at 23:30 hrs. and told us that they had had a great time at the Flamingo Reservation. We knocked up the hotel reception boy at 00:30 hrs. and went to bed with an increased awareness of possible malevolent insects. It was a warm and restless night.

Xmas Day

Christmas Day. Friday 25th December 1987

We got breakfast (eventually! Bad service) at 11:00 hrs. Two semi-boiled eggs served in a cup and washed down with Coca Cola! Back at the hotel we did some laundry and then went out into the sun. Most places were closed, and we ended up in a bar on the Zócalo drinking cold beer. Tina (who Declan hadn’t murdered) joined us for a Coca Cola and a chat.

At 17:00 hrs. we went to the “Restaurante Mérida Internacional”, our regular eating place on Calle 62. I had Chicken Escabèche which was chicken casseroled in an onion sauce. We returned to the hotel and sat on the balcony where we polished off our meagre Bacardi supplies with the American Vietnam War Veteran, Dennis.

We bought some small but powerful firecrackers and were cheerfully lobbing them into the street until the hotel manager, Juan, expressed his dismay! The Mexican people seemed to think they were great, however, when our Bacardi rum ran out we soon got bored and went out in search of another bar.

Dennis knew of a video bar in the Hotel Trinidad on Calle 62 and we drank rum and coke while watching Rock Videos indispersed with hideous American commercials (adverts). The bar had comfortable chairs in a dimly lit room with a high ceiling and pictures covering the walls. It was a good night out.

We returned to the casa at midnight and managed to persuade Declan not to lob a banger (firecracker) into the patio before hitting the sack.

Xmas Eve

Christmas Eve. Thursday 24th December 1987

Danny awoke on the floor and complained about Declan’s snoring. “Jesus man, you sound like a fuckin’ cougar”! We got up at 08:00 hrs. and went shopping with Danny at a local supermarket. It was packed with Christmas shoppers, and it was a battle to shove our shopping trolley through the masses.

We were buying food for Danny’s party tonight on Calles 60/79. We carried our cardboard boxes back to his digs in a garage where he worked as a mechanic on cars and boats. A great 1939 Mercedes stood in the driveway.

We had breakfast in the usual place and went out onto the hotel roof into the sunshine. Diego joined us with a collection of Spanish books and newspapers. We stayed here until 16:30 hrs. when the “tres bandidos” went to the liquor store and bought some beer which we drank in the Zócalo.

Mexicans took photographs of each other with the Mexican flag and the cathedral in the background. We chatted good humouredly with hammock sellers and Declan “pssst” the girls and swigged from an ice-cold bottle of black beer. Mexicans use the “pssst” sound to attract attention, especially a customer beckoning a waiter in a restaurant.

The sun slowly sank and there was a pleasant breeze. A young urchin boy in a scruffy T-shirt and shorts with broken waist elastic ran around kicking his rubber spider, his arse showing above his trousers. His mother walked endlessly around the plaza carrying his younger sister.

At sunset the army arrived to play some dreadfully amateur music and lower the Mexican flag. We went back to the hotel to meet Tina, another German, and await Danny who said that he would call for us at 16:30 hrs. By 20:00 hrs. he still hadn’t arrived, so we went to the off licence anyway and bought some beer and a huge bottle of Bacardi rum, which cost only 10,000 Mexican Pesos.

At 22:00 hrs. Diego and I went to call for Danny and met him en route in a pickup truck with two friends. We jumped in the back for a tour around the city and back to pick up Declan. Tina had got bored and pissed off so the 3 Bandidos went to Danny’s. Diego pestered Declan, believing that he must have murdered Tina! Declan got fed up with these accusations and returned to the hotel.

Diego and I tucked into the food, pasta and diced vegetable salad, and listened to a Deep Purple music cassette tape before returning. I walked back with Diego, who was by now absolutely legless. He staggered down the middle of the road clutching his bottle of “Corona” and shouting.

Back at the hotel I sat with an American Belizian resident and a Canadian on our usual balcony and drank dark Bacardi and Coke until the small hours. Danny came to the hotel and pretended to call people on a portable telephone. I went to bed and fell asleep instantaneously.

Let’s Get Harry

Wednesday 23rd December 1987

We didn’t emerge until 11:00 hrs., having slept in until 10:00 hrs. I showered and then we rushed to the main bank on the square to change up some more money. Luckily, this Casa de Cambio set in a very pleasant garden courtyard, did not shut up shop at noon.

We went on to have breakfast at 12:30 hrs. in the café with the Mayan Ruin murals. Browsing through Diego’s “El Nacional” newspaper we saw that the weather forecast was for continued temperatures of 30-35°C and a light breeze. Hardly Christmas weather for us Brits!

Next, we went back to our hotel to do some washing and sit on the roof sunbathing. Unfortunately, drifting cloud blocked out the sun most of the time. When it finally dipped below the walls around the roof, we made our daily trip to the off license (liquor store) to stock up for the day. A small 250ml. bottle of tequila cost only 1,600 Mexican Pesos, so I got one for later.

The evening was spent in idle chatter drinking “Sol” beer on the balcony opposite Radio Yucatan. At 19:00 hrs. we went out into the town where well-dressed young Mexicans were starting their evening promenades, mainly window shopping. We had a ropey meal and bought tickets for the cinema at 21:30 hrs. I then had my second shave of the trip, battling to scrape off the extended stubble with a blunt razor.

As we entered the cinema, we encountered our drunken Mexican amigo, Danny, in the foyer. Luckily, today he was sober and quite lucid, and he joined us to watch the film which was called “Let’s Get Harry”, a 1986 American action film. It was quite good, and appropriately set in Colombia where a party of Americans went to rescue a friend held hostage by cocaine runners.

After the film we had a piss-up in the hotel, polishing off two bottles of tequila and some beer on our favourite balcony. Danny slept in our room for the night.

Progreso

Tuesday 22nd December 1987

We got up and went for breakfast at the usual place on the corner of 61 and 62. The huevos (eggs) Mexicanos weren’t up to their usual standards, but the coffee was good. From here we went to the off-license! (liquor store). We purchased a big 940ml. bottle of “Superior” beer each and then settled on the balcony of Diego’s (the German) room in some old wooden chairs for a morning shant (drinking session) and a good chat.

Diego suggested that we went to Progreso for the afternoon, so we moved our bags into his room and set off for the Bus Station on Calle 62. Progreso is a port city in the Mexican state of Yucatán, located on the Gulf of Mexico in the north-west of the state some 30 minutes north of state capital Mérida by highway.

Progreso is a centre for both the fishing industry and the container industry. All containers arrive in Progreso and are distributed to Yucatán, Campeche and Quintana Roo. Progreso was founded in 1872, to create a seaport closer to Mérida than the older port of Sisal, Yucatán. During the months of July and August the beaches fill with thousands of mostly local tourists, as it is traditional in these months for residents of Mérida to leave the city and spend the summer in the cooler seaside environment.

The 40-minute bus journey cost 2,100 Mexican Pesos for a return ticket. At Progreso we found a golden beach with a long concrete pier that juts out into the Gulf of Mexico, enabling ships to dock despite the shallow bay. A line of palm trees followed the beach into the distance, passed several redundant hotels and derelict bars.

We walked along the shell-littered beach along the surf line until we came to a café on the front which served beer. It was here that we encountered “God”. A sand-covered dark-haired girl in a black one-piece swimsuit came over and sat at our table. She told us that she was God and the Devil and Marilyn Monroe. She obviously wasn’t the “full shilling”, or drugged up, so it got increasingly tedious as she followed us along the beach repeating her spiel.

A pleasant wind was blowing, and the sun was setting as we turned inland and walked back to the Bus Terminal. The town looked as if it had seen much better days, but a few wooden shacks were open for business selling household goods.

The other buildings were the standard single-story block houses with barred windows. The silly bitch was still following us, but luckily, she was more enamoured with Diego and asked him to kidnap her. He sat on a bench and gave her yet another fag (cigarette) as Declan and I fled to the Bus Station and jumped on a bus to Mérida.

A thin crescent moon and a single star were in the sky. On the journey back we realised that we could be stranded in Chetumal for Christmas if the Guatemalan Consulate was closed for Yuletide. We decided to sell our bus tickets and stay in Mérida over Christmas.

We then spent a merry hour at the main Bus Station with a jolly Mexican man who had three tickets for the same bus to sell. Sadly, Chetumal didn’t seem to be a very popular destination, but we eventually sold our two for 20,000 Mexican Pesos to a mother and child.

Back at the hotel we got a new room, number 5, and went out on the town with Diego, who had got a later bus back to Mérida. Imagine our surprise when we found that the liquor stores shut at 21:30 hrs! We scoured the town for a bar which would sell beer without food at reasonable prices.

At 22:30 hrs. we found one and sat for an hour drinking “Negra Modelo” cerveza at a very modest 1,000 Mexican Pesos per bottle. A lively Mexican in Bermuda shorts yelled greetings as he delivered some stuff from a taxi. We sat under a mural of Indian ruins until the owner hinted strongly that he wanted to shut up shop.

We retired to Diego’s room to share a big bottle of “Corona” cerveza and listen to Mexican pop music on his transistor radio. The “Super Radio” jingle drew out the super to soooop-air rahhh-dio with much rolling of the “R”s.

We didn’t turn in until the small hours, when our new room had been well fumigated with a mosquito coil. We evicted a cockroach and crashed into oblivion.

mosquito espirales

Monday 21st December 1987

In the morning several dead mosquitos lay about us, probably killed by the high volume of alcohol in our blood! We went out and met Urkan and Sabina on the Zócalo and we went for a cheap breakfast in the corner of Calle 61 and Calle 62.

From there we marched to the Office of the British Vice Consul to get visas for Belize for Declan (Citizen of Eire) and Sabina (Citizen of Deutschland). These cost $10 US dollars, and we were told to come back this afternoon. Amazingly nobody at the British Consulate spoke English and the visa application forms were in German!

We spent the rest of the day browsing the vast air-conditioned supermarkets and megastores. Sabine took several street photographs of trussed turkeys, tethered pigs, men unloading sacks from a truck, and the vast swarm of flies in the bakery window attacking the bread.

Declan and I split off at 14:00 hrs. and headed for the main Bus Station to buy our tickets for Chetumal. There was a fucking massive queue for the main ticket window, but luckily there was a separate, empty window devoted to Chetumal. Tickets were 15,000 Mexican Pesos and the only available coach departed at midnight tomorrow. It was a six-hour 242.2 miles journey.

Chetumal is a city on the east coast of the Yucatán Peninsula in Mexico. It is the capital of the state of Quintana Roo and the municipal seat of the Municipality of Othón P. Blanco. Chetumal is an important port for the region and operates as Mexico's main trading gateway with the neighbouring country of Belize where we were ultimately heading.

On the way back we bought some mosquito espirales (coils) and some bananas and settled down on the hotel roof for the late afternoon sun. At 16:00 hrs. we returned to the British Consulate to pick up Declan’s visa for Belize. We then toured the city with Urkan searching for replacement watch batteries and anti-malaria tablets, before returning to the hotel with a couple of freezing takeaway bottles of “Superior” cerveza (beer).

We sat on the cast iron balcony overlooking the street and watching a vast colony of ants swarming about on the floor. We were joined by a German guy who brought his own bottle of “Corona” beer and we were soon chatting away in the fading light of the evening.

Urkan and Sabine and the Californian couple came to call for us at 19:30 hrs. and the German joined us for an expensive meal of chicken and chips in a Lebanese Restaurante. That evening deteriorated into a piss-up, much to the disgust of Sabine, who wanted to watch some traditional Mexican dancing.

At last knockings Declan, the German and me were drinking bottles of “Dos Equis” on the Zócalo. At midnight we went back to the German’s huge single room with Victorian furnishings and polished off his supplies of “Corona” beer before returning to our room.

A couple in the next room to us were humping and moaning in ecstasy as we lit our mosquito coil and retired to bed, drunk and happy.

Casa de Huéspedes

Sunday 20th December 1987

We breakfasted on cakes in the Zócalo where many Mexicans were taking a morning walk amongst the trees and hedges. Old men sat chatting on the benches and the shoeshine men were starting another day’s work.

We walked around the market and shops but couldn’t quite find the leather belts that we were after, as seen in Oaxaca. After a fruitless search for a food shop, and there were an infinite number of clothes, hardware and chemist (farmacia) shops, we went back to our hotel to doss about for a while.

We went out again at noon and walked through the bazaar area which was in full swing. Indigenous Indians squatted in the street selling fruit and sweets outside the established stalls (tiendas). We went on down to the huge, air-conditioned Blanco Supermercado and walked around the aisles with our mouths watering amongst the imported western foodstuffs.

Back at the Zócalo there were two sideshows, one on each side. Crowds watched the singing and acting, and a general holiday atmosphere prevailed. The central Mexican national flag flapped lazily in the breeze.

We returned to our hotel and went out onto the roof to enjoy the afternoon sun. Our sunlit corner of the roof got smaller as the sun went down behind the wall around the roof and eventually, we were left in shadow. Then we showered and went down to the Zócalo where a huge expectant crowd was gathering.

The roads were blocked off from traffic and speakers and discotheques were being setup. Children in fancy dress scampered around the electric Christmas tree as we sat and drank Coca Cola in the warm evening. A half-drunk Mexican beseeched us to join him for a few beers in a nearby bar but we declined his kind invitation and went off to a posh looking vegetarian restaurant.

Here we met Urkan, a Turkish Cypriot from Tottenham in London, and his girlfriend Sabina, an attractive German girl from Hamburg. They had just flown into Mérida after touring the United States of America for three months. Urkan had a great mop of curly hair and a character reminiscent of Danny Baker.

Danny Baker is an English comedy writer, journalist, radio DJ and screenwriter. Throughout his career he has largely presented for London's regional radio and television. Baker was born in Deptford to a working-class family and raised in Bermondsey. He is a keen Millwall fan ("No one likes us, we don't care."). From 1977, he wrote for the punk zine Sniffin' Glue, and from there was hired by the New Musical Express, where he worked as a writer, reviewer, and interviewer, moving into television in 1980.

We joined this couple for dinner. An eye peered around the corner of the patio, followed by a smile. Then, our alcoholic Mexican acquaintance from last night sidled up to our table clutching a bottle of beer in a plastic bag. He sat with us at the table and took surreptitious swigs from his bottle while going through the same song routine as last night.

We paid for meal and fled while our new amigo went to the bog (toilet). From here we met a Californian couple who knew Urkan and Sabina and we went to a restaurant that boasted four beers for a $US dollar. Sadly, they only had eight bottles of the offer beer in stock, so we retired early at 22:00 hrs. The mosquitos in our room were active all night long.

Mérida

Saturday 19th December 1987

We began a wild goose chase through the dark, deserted streets of Mérida in search of a hotel room. At reception after reception we knocked up bleary-eyed receptionists to find they had “no hay cuartos” (no vacancies). The only one we found which did have cuartos wanted 25,000 Mexican Pesos!

So, we settled down on a park bench in the plaza where we remained relatively unmolested apart from one friendly chap and one dodgy looking gay bloke and his companion who invited us to walk 3 blocks with him to the Hotel Trinidad. We declined his offer and at 04:30 hrs. we went to an all-night café for chicken soup and use of their toilet facilities.

Dawn eventually came and we were back on the benches as a bugler blew the reveille and the Mexican flag was raised in the square. We found somewhere for breakfast and booked into the Casa de Huéspedes, a magnificent (now “boutique”) looking 200-year old hotel with rooms around a wide balcony overlooking the patio.

It cost us just under 10,000 Mexican Pesos for a huge double room with high ceilings and an electric fan. The balcony has a black and white tiled floor with arched stained-glass windows, simple classic dark wooden furniture, and some huge old pictures. It all looked very colonial. The sun is beaming into the central courtyard at last!

Now we had a pile of washing to do, both clothing and ourselves! We spent a couple of hours in what looked like a Victorian kitchen scrubbing and kneading our laundry in cold water. Once the gear was hanging out to dry in the warm sun, we sat out on the roof with a 940 ml. bottle of cold “Sol” beer each.

A brief sortie into the town showed us that all of the shops of one kind were grouped together in the same area. We were in the hardware and pharmacy area, but a few radical shops are selling nativity figures and Christmas decorations.

The Belize Consulate is closed for the weekend, but Mérida seems a very pleasant place to spend a few days. We caught up on a bit of sleep in the afternoon and in the evening, we went off to explore the market.

It was a very touristy affair in a purpose-built building. As soon as we stepped through the door we instantly became “amigos” and invited to look at a myriad of, largely useless, knick-knacks. Declan bought a “Dos Equis” T-shirt after bargaining the price down from 10,000 to 6,000 Mexican Pesos.

We left the market and looked for a decent restaurant and finally settled for a café which was offering two hamburgers and a coke for 2,200 Mexican Pesos. From here we went on to a spacious open bar with ceiling fans and a colonial style on Calle 60, opposite the 17th-century Iglesia de Jesús which was built by Jesuits in 1618. The church was built from the stones of a destroyed Maya temple that occupied the site.

Like all the even-numbered streets, Calle 60 crosses town from north to south, through the Zócalo. This is a fun place to stroll and unwind at a sidewalk cafe or listen to some music. Concerts are often held in the Parque Hidalgo and on Plaza de Santa Luciá, which you can enjoy in the cool of the evening.

Here we met an inebriated young Mexican who was pretending that his transistor radio was a walkie talkie. He spoke English but mainly stuck to singing American songs and saying “Hey, do you know that one”?

We were then joined by an American businessman who was down here in “the Taiwan of the 1990’s” exploiting the cheap labour. “These suckers work for peanuts”, he enthused, much to the disgust of our drunken Mexican friend, who left us. “You can butt fuck the President of this shitty country for $50 bucks”, he went on, “and if you were lying in the gutter, incapacitated and dying, one of these people would come over and butt fuck you”.

We went on to “Poncho’s Bar” with the American and found our Mexican friend ambling around in a shuffling dance by the bar. Mexicans in silly sombreros served affluent gringos as we sat at a mock beach bar. The air was filled with the scent of burning mosquito coils and the sound of pop music.

Drinks were ridiculously expensive at 2,500 Mexican Pesos for a bottle of “Dos Equis” (2X) but Declan managed to work a flanker and we only ended up paying for three of our twelve beers (drunk between the three of us). At midnight we stumbled back to our hotel and collapsed into a drunken slumber on our beds.

Chiggers

Friday 18th December 1987

It was still raining in the morning when we went to the restaurant for breakfast. The two girls behind the counter sang silly songs and giggled as they served. I was pretty empty after several trips to the bog (toilet) in the night, so I tucked into an omelette with white Bimbo bread.

Grupo Bimbo, S.A.B. de C.V., known as Bimbo, is a Mexican multinational bakery product manufacturing company headquartered in Mexico City, Mexico. It is the world's largest baking company and operates the largest bakeries in the United States, Mexico, Canada, Chile, Peru, Colombia, Guatemala and Spain, and has some of the widest distribution networks in Mexico and the United States.

The name Bimbo was first coined in 1945. The main hypothesis is that it resulted from the combination of Bingo and the Disney film Bambi. Although described as soft and having the delicious taste of soft wheat Bimbo® bread made with enriched flour, wheat bran, and whole wheat flour, we found it to be insubstantial white fluffy pap.

Declan was tempted to look for magic mushrooms in the surrounding fields but was deterred by the fear of chiggers. Americans say that just the mention of chiggers is enough to make any outdoors-loving person itchy. These tiny bugs can be difficult to see when they're on you, but once you've suffered chigger bites, you'll never forget them. Chigger bites are so itchy, they are said to make grown men cry. So, what are chiggers, and where do they live?

Chiggers are nothing more than young mites, specifically the parasitic larvae of mites in the genus Trombicula. Mites belong to the class Arachnida, along with ticks and spiders. We put on long trousers and tucked our trousers into our socks, just in case.

We returned to our hammocks and watched the hippies come and go until the rain stopped. We were bored stupid by 10:00 hrs. so we got a Collectivo into Palenque village. There was only one bus per day to Mérida in the Yucatán and that was at 17:00 hrs. We bought tickets 12,000 Mexican Pesos each and set out to kill seven hours.

Unfortunately, there was little of interest in Palenque. We browsed through the hardware and leather goods shops in the “high street” and changed up some more money as we only had about 100 Mexican Pesos between us after paying for the bus tickets. As before, the queue for the cashier was painfully slow.

Now, with Mexican money replenished, we checked our rucksacks into “Left Luggage” and wandered from café to restaurant drinking coffee and Coca Cola. At 14:00 hrs. we had a chat to an American couple and the sun came out. We sat in it’s rays on the pavement opposite the Bus Station and watched the traffic.

Unfortunately, the cinema with it’s vast array of Sylvester Stallone posters, does not open until 20:00 hrs. At last 17:00 hrs. crawled along and we boarded a battered, but comfortable, bus destined for Mérida.

Mérida is the capital and largest city in Yucatan state in Mexico, as well as the largest city of the Yucatán Peninsula. The city is located in the northwest part of the state, about 35 kilometres (22 miles) off the coast of the Gulf of Mexico.

As the state and regional capital, Mérida is a cultural centre, featuring multiple museums, art galleries, restaurants, movie theatres, and shops. Mérida retains an abundance of colonial buildings and is a cultural centre with music and dancing playing an important part in day-to-day life. The famous avenue Paseo de Montejo is lined with original sculpture.

On board the bus we met our first Englishman over here, a student of ecology from Manchester University. He had been doing voluntary work on a new National Park in northern Belize. He was enthusiastic about Belize but said that it was expensive compared to Mexico.

The bus hurtled through the night, darkness making it difficult to see the passing landscape. We glimpsed only trees and rivers on a flat plain. We eventually dozed off until we arrived in Mérida at 02:00 hrs., which was two hours later than expected.

Palenque

Thursday 17th December 1987

At the Bus Station we met a German couple who we had seen on previous buses, who seemed to be on a lightening tour, with money no object, staying for just half an hour in each place. The bus, which cost 4,530 Mexican Pesos, left the station at 06:10 hrs. just as the sky was lightening. Mexicans in cowboy hats waited for buses along the roadside.

Yet again we wound our way into the mountains, but the landscape was darker green and dank this time. The cloud was low, and the jungle-like vegetation seemed to be steaming. We crossed more rivers on this trip and at places the road deteriorated into little more than a muddy track.

Workers with shovels looking like navvies (a labourer employed in the excavation and construction of a road, railway, or canal.) the world over, worked to clear the road. The bus driver kissed and petted two buxom harlots as he fought to keep us on the road. Meanwhile his buddy, a mute that we nicknamed “Elvis”, combed his quiff frequently and bounded up and down the aisle.

We gorged on wholemeal bread and jam, making a great mess. When we arrived at Palenque at 11:30 hrs. the German bloke tutted at the overcast sky and muttered about abandoning visiting ancient relics and moving on in search of the sun.

We grabbed our bags and walked out of town on the 8-kilometre road to the famous ruins (ruinas). We were passed by two boys on a horse who we had an amicable exchange with. They told us that “Mirabel Trailer Park”, our destination, was “muy lejos” (very far away).

Luckily, after walking a few kilometres we got a lift in a pickup truck which sailed passed the campsite and dropped us at the Palenque ruins. Here we found a collection of gimcrack stalls selling showy but cheap or badly made ornaments, novelties, gewgaws, bric-a-brac and trinkets. A group of indigenous Indians in traditional dress and training shoe were selling bows and arrows.

We got a Collectivo VW Campervan back 2 kilometres to Mayabell Camping where it was 1,500 Mexican Pesos for a wall-less cabana with a palm thatch roof in which to swing our hammocks. The campsite man chortled at my small nylon mesh hammock and Declan’s large but poor-quality hammock and spent an increasingly tedious 45 minutes trying to sell us superior quality hammocks “made by his family”.

We sat and peered out below our low palm fringed roof at bright yellow birds. The area buzzes with insects and rock music is audible from the hippy encampment on the hill. We decided to investigate Tucan Camping as a source of cheap food and beer. It was recommended in the South American Handbook, but if it ever existed, it doesn’t now.

We jumped into a Collectivo to the Ruinas and the driver tried to rip us off for double the fare. Declan gave him short shrift, paid the correct fare and not the “tourist price” and we jumped off and went into the Palenque Ruins.

These were once again the stepped pyramids of the indigenous Indians, but this time in better preservation and amid a greener setting. The central building in this ancient city had a tower in the middle and we clambered up a worn staircase to get a good view of the site and take some photographs.

This was The Palace, a complex of several connected and adjacent buildings and courtyards, which was built by several generations on a wide artificial terrace during a four-century period. The Palace was used by the Mayan aristocracy for bureaucratic functions, entertainment, and ritualistic ceremonies.

The most impressive building was the the Temple of Inscriptions which had begun perhaps as early as 675 as the funerary monument of Hanab-Pakal. It was off to one side and required a bit of effort to mount the steep staired front.

The Pyramid measures 60 meters wide, 42.5 meters deep and 27.2 meters high. The Summit temple measures 25.5 meters wide, 10.5 meters deep and 11.4 meters high. The largest stones weigh 12 to 15 tons. These were on top of the Pyramid. The Total volume of pyramid and temple is 32,500 cubic meters.

Once at the top more stairs descended steeply into the central crypt where we arrived, dripping with sweat, to the Sun God's tomb. The tomb itself is remarkable for its large carved sarcophagus, the rich ornaments accompanying Pakal, and for the stucco sculpture decorating the walls of the tomb.

The Temple of the Cross, Temple of the Sun, and Temple of the Foliated Cross are a set of graceful temples atop step pyramids, each with an elaborately carved relief in the inner chamber depicting two figures presenting ritual objects and effigies to a central icon.

We walked back to Mayabell Camping and encountered a motley trio of Canadians who had been out harvesting magic mushrooms. Magic mushrooms are wild or cultivated mushrooms that contain psilocybin, a naturally occurring psychoactive and hallucinogenic compound. Psilocybin is considered one of the most well-known psychedelics, according to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administrations, so it was right up their street!

We had a beer with this group, a tall woman, a tanned shaggy man and an older “Uncle Rufus”-type character in a straw hat. They told us that they didn’t stay at the beach resort of Puerto Ángel as they felt “bad energy” there.

After several attempts to light a fire in our cabana we returned to the Mayabell Restaurant for chicken and rice. Our fellow campers were a strange assortment of hippies and freaks, so after a few “Superior” beers we went back to bed in our hammocks at 21:00 hrs. It rained all night.

Rick’s Café American

Wednesday 16th December 1987

We were up early and walked around looking for somewhere to get breakfast. Everywhere seemed to be shut at 08:00 hrs. but we found a touristy place for a very pleasant “Desayuno Americano”, a treat to be served something without the dreaded refried beans (frijoles) that looked like a pile of shit on the side of your plate.

We sat in the zocalo and watched the shoeshine men while local indigenous Indian girls tried to sell us shawls and ornate woven wrist bands. We went on to climb a daunting number of steps to a church on a hill which dominated the town. At the top we found an unusual crucifix made entirely out of car number plates.

Coming down a grubby urchin girl ran out of a hovel and grabbed my thumb and little finger, refusing to let go even when I lifted her feet from the ground. Declan chortled and took her photo as she dangled from my fingers above the steps. I gave her 100 Mexican Pesos and she let go and gleefully scampered off.

In the town many indigenous Indian folk were carrying live chickens and turkeys upside down by their legs on their way to market. Others sold nasty plastic household goods. We bought some “Carta Blanca” beer which cost 1,600 Mexican Pesos for 940 ml. and retired to our hotel room in boredom.

We have bought tickets for the bus to Palenque tomorrow at 06:00 hrs. Palenque, also anciently known as Lakamha (literally: "Big Water"), was a Maya city state in southern Mexico that flourished in the 7th century. The Palenque ruins date from ca. 226 BC to ca. 799 AD. After its decline, it was overgrown by the jungle of cedar, mahogany, and sapodilla trees, but has since been excavated and restored. It is located near the Usumacinta River in the Mexican state of Chiapas, about 130 km (81 miles) south of Ciudad del Carmen, 150 meters (490 ft) above sea level. It contains some of the finest architecture, sculpture, roof comb and bas-relief carvings that the Mayas produced.

This place is deadsville. Our hotel manager has taken a liking to us. “Margaret Thatcher is the Iron Lady”, he said gleefully, “she showed Colonel Gaddafi what for”! In 1986 The UK Prime Minister made the decision to support the United States military action against terrorist targets in Libya by bombing.

We lay about until we got bored and then went on another walkabout. We had coffee in a dead café where the waitress was playing a game of Patience with a pack of cards and we watched The Smurfs on television. We found a nice-looking Chinese restaurant and decided to return later for a meal.

We bought some bread, jam and cheese spread in a huge supermarket to make sandwiches for tomorrows long coach journey. At 19:00 hrs. we set off for the Chinese restaurant. The town was quite lively for once, everybody seemed to be out shopping and shutters had been removed to reveal cavernous department shops.

We had a great chicken curry with rice and vegetables and then popped into “Rick’s Café American” for a tequila and a coke. It seemed to be a brand-new establishment with simple wooden furniture and good music. Unfortunately, it was devoid of clientele.

We retired for an early night and slept well until the alarm clock buzzed at 05:00 hrs.

San Cristóbal

Tuesday 15th December 1987

I was feeling a bit rough as we got up and packed at 06:00 hrs. On the way to the Bus Station I stopped and puked (vomited) into the gutter, which made me feel much better. We boarded the 07:00 hrs. bus and were soon, once again, winding our way tortuously up into the mountains.

The landscape was like a huge, badly crumpled parchment. Brown mountains with scrub trees and bushes towered all around us. We stopped several times at Cristobel Colon Bus Company Stations, but I thought it wise not to eat, but to stick to Coca Cola until my stomach had settled.

Later in the day we descended onto a broad coastal plain. The road stretched out into the distance between windswept palm trees and wooden shacks with porches like you would expect to see in the southern states of the USA, the “deep south”.

The road was not busy, the only other traffic was a few lorries, a few open back trucks (pickups) and the ubiquitous Volkswagen Beetles. The bus was comfortable although we were unfortunate that although we had a change of passengers in front of us three times, we copped the only bastards on the bus who insisted on fully reclining their seats forcing us to sit diagonally to fit our legs in.

As the evening fell it started to rain (shock horror!) and we began to ascend into the mountains again. At 20:00 hrs. we finally pulled into San Cristóbal de las Casas and booked into the “Posada y Alimentacion Colon Hostess”, right by the Bus Station. It cost 6,000 Mexican Pesos for a tall dark room with double doors overlooking a patio.

We then went for a walk around the town. There were a few more indigenous Indian faces about, but apart from this, it appeared to be a smaller, duller version of Oaxaca. We had an evening meal which turned out to be a debacle when the young waiter deliberately misunderstood our order and brought us a large inedible meal instead of soup.

We ate a plate of rice washed down with Coca Cola and left in disgust for a night’s sleep.

Riviera Oaxaqueña

Monday 14th December 1987

We met the New York girl and her companion Bruce at the “Cafeteria Alex” before spending a frustrating hour trying to cash a traveller’s cheque. The cashier continued counting his float of money, apparently oblivious to the steadily growing queue of customers.

From the bank we went to the 2nd Class Bus Station to find a bus to our next destination, San Cristóbal de las Casas, which is a city and municipality located in the Central Highlands region of Chiapas. We discovered that the only bus ran from the 1st Class Bus Terminal on the other side of town.

A van with a loud public address system broadcast the virtues of Pepsi Cola as we trudged along the grid of roads to the north of the city. We found the bus station on a wide road with large American-style gas stations (petrol stations).

There was only one bus a day which departed at 07:00 hrs. for the 12-hour journey, so we purchased tickets for tomorrow at almost 14,000 Mexican Pesos each. We then stopped off for couple of delicious “Noche Buena” beers, a cerveza especial brew made to celebrate Christmas. It tasted like a sweeter version of the English Newcastle Brown Ale.

Back at the hotel we did some sunbathing on the hotel roof until the early evening when we walked around the covered market and Declan bought an excellent leather belt for 7,000 Mexican Pesos. I invested in a small leather pouch (coin purse) to keep my many coins in and save my pockets from undue wear.

In the zocalo we met Mary Trigger at our usual haunt in the corner. “You must be psychic”, she said, “I have just left you a note to say I’d meet you here.” We found the note which started “Dear Pommie Bastards” when we got back!

We went on to meet the Outward Bound Volcano Climbing Party for a jovial meal. At 22:00 hrs. we all split up and walked around the town. It was pretty dead, so we had a coffee with Courtney and Mary before returning to bed, leaving Mary to see Courtney off at the coach station on the 23:00 hrs. Express to Mexico City.

Monte Albán

Sunday 13th December 1987

We were up early for a hot shower and joined Mary for an excellent breakfast of huevos rancheros in spicy tomato sauce in a café just around the corner. We then went to the Hotel Meson del Angel and were first in the queue when tickets went on sale at 09:00 hrs. for a trip to visit Monte Albán.

The cost for a return visit to the site, which is approximately 9 km (6 miles) east of Oaxaca City, was 1,400 Mexican Pesos, bringing us back at noon. Monte Albán is an ancient Zapotec Indian ruin which thrived from 500 B.C. to 750 A.D. The top of a mountain was artificially flattened to create a plaza 200 metres by 300 metres and this is surrounded by flat-topped square pyramid-shaped buildings with stepped sides.

The view around, of the surrounding mountains was superb. We wandered around and sat on the steps chatting and taking photographs. Besides being one of the earliest cities of Mesoamerica, Monte Albán was important for nearly one thousand years as the pre-eminent Zapotec socio-political and economic centre. Many other groups had guides to explain the nature of the various buildings, including the central observatory, but we remained happy in our ignorance, cheerfully imagining uses for the various utilities.

We returned to Oaxaca City via a steep winding road with more “Curvas Peligrosas!” and we stopped to watch a brass band in the zocalo. An overly romanticised scene was being shot for a film or a commercial and we watched for as long as we could stand. Model women smiling dreamily and being handed flowers by strange men.

We went to a pizza place for lunch as the local, cheaper places were closed for fiesta. The afternoon started with a visit to the rugged church and former monastery of Santo Domingo de Guzmán (Spanish: Templo de Santo Domingo de Guzmán) which is a Baroque ecclesiastical building complex in Oaxaca. The complex includes a substantial sanctuary and an extensive system of courtyards, cloisters and rooms that formerly constituted the monastery. It was expected to double as a fortress when it was built in 1575.

It was a huge, impressive church but was unfortunately closed until 16:30 hrs. so we went back to our hotel to wait for it to open. At 16:20 hrs. we met Mary Trigger at her usual table in the zocalo and joined her drinking coffee surrounded by the pedlar children. They had made us a Christmas card out of a serviette.

We walked to the church which was now open to the public and went into it’s dim interior, much of which was gilded in gold. The ceilings were highly decorated with paintings and religious carvings. Horribly graphic statues of Christ in torment dotted the walls, spattered with blood and gore on his way to the cross.

The whole altar end was a gaudy mass of gold reaching up to the ceiling. Declan sobbed with terror as I walked across in front of the altar without crossing myself, getting flashbacks to his education by the Christian Brothers in Ireland.

We mucked about trying to get decent photographs in the semi-darkness, as flash photography was forbidden, and then returned to the zocalo for some chicken tacos and a few beers. We chatted about music as the local Indians tried to sell shawls, musical instruments and Chiclets from table to table.

At 20:30 hrs. Mary called for an American friend and we returned to the square with this lively New York girl who was an “Outward Bound” instructor over here on a volcano climbing course. The Outward Bound Trust was founded in 1941. Since then they have helped over 1.2 million young people to unlock their full potential through their unique approach to learning and adventure in the wild.

We sat at another corner of the zocalo by some amateur clowns who were performing in the walkway. We had a coffee and then wandered around the city but more or less everything was closed. We went back to bed at 22:30 hrs., seemingly the last few people in town still awake at this time on a Sunday night.

Cerviche

Friday 11th December 1987

This place is already becoming a bit routine, so we decided to move on. Breakfast of huevos rancheros, swim, loll about, walk along the beach, repeat. We chatted with Eric over a Pepsi at midday and had showers despite the water shortage.

We chatted to Eric and the Australian girl over a farewell beer before boarding a taxi at 14:30 hrs. It was a long haul over a bumpy, dusty track to Ángel followed by a fast-downhill run along curving roads down to San Pedro Pochutla.

From here we quickly transferred to a tatty but rugged bus bound for Oaxaca which cost us 4,800 Mexican Pesos each. Our next destination was the city and municipality of Oaxaca de Juárez, or Oaxaca City, which is the capital and largest city of the eponymous Mexican state.

It is located in the Centro District in the Central Valleys region of the state, in the foothills of the Sierra Madre at the base of the Cerro del Fortín, extending to the banks of the Atoyac River. Heritage tourism makes up an important part of the city's economy, and it has numerous colonial-era structures as well as significant archeological sites and elements of the continuing native Zapotec and Mixtec cultures. The city, together with the nearby archeological site of Monte Albán, was designated in 1987 as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The city is also known as "la Verde Antequera" (the green Antequera) due to its prior Spanish name (Nueva Antequera) and the variety of structures built from a native green stone. The name Oaxaca is derived from the Nahuatl name for the place, Huaxyacac, which was Hispanicized to Guajaca, later spelled Oaxaca.

We were hauled slowly but surely up a tortuously winding road with one signposted “Curva Peligrosa” (dangerous curve) after another. For the first couple of hours there was no more than 50 metres of straight road. The green tree-covered mountains spread into the distance like a child’s drawing of a multipeaked mountain range.

We passed in and out of the clouds and eventually we must have reached a plateau. By now I had a dodgy stomach and was praying that I wouldn’t shit myself. The bus went on and on through various towns with squat single-story block house buildings and bumpy dirt tracks instead of roads.

New passengers came and went as I dozed and waited for a toilet stop. Eventually at 23:30 hrs. we pulled into Oaxaca Bus Station where expectant passengers huddled sleepily under blankets. The city was dead at this hour, but luckily, we quickly found the cheap Hotel Lupita charging 4,800 Mexican Pesos for a double room.

This was designed like an English prison with rooms around a range of balconies overlooking a central atrium or courtyard. Our own “cell” was simple and clean, and we immediately crashed out snoring. Only a couple of explosions, that were probably fireworks, disturbed the night.

There seems to be quite a few late-night festivals and processions at this time of the year. In July it is the site of the month-long cultural festival called the "Guelaguetza", which features Oaxacan dance from the seven regions, music, and a beauty pageant for indigenous women.

Huevos Rancheros

Thursday 10th December 1987

We awoke to find a group of chickens and white-flecked black fowl scratching and squawking in the dust below our hammocks. We had a breakfast of huevos rancheros (ranch eggs) and beans before setting off for the beach at 09:00 hrs. before the sun got too strong.

Huge gaily coloured butterflies fluttered about, and pigs and goats grazed in the grass by the local football cum basketball pitch. We had a refreshing swim and did some body surfing outside the Pelicano Beach Café where we sank a couple of Coca Colas before returning for a morning siesta.

At 13:30 hrs. we braved the heat of the sun to walk to the vegetarian café again. The view was magnificent from the cool, dark cave-like interior but it was very quiet. We listened to Bob Marley as we demolished yet more Coca Cola and then headed back through the naked bathers and sun worshippers on the beach.

Back at Suzanna’s we buggered about until Eric appeared and suggested that we returned to the far end of the beach for a vegetarian supper. We’d previously spent a pleasant hour swinging in our hammocks chatting to an Australian girl who had come up north from Argentina.

We walked along the beach as the sun was setting, and the surf crashed and tumbled up the beach. I was reminded of the philosophical story about a little wave, bobbing along in the ocean, having a grand old time. He's enjoying the wind and the fresh air-until he notices the other waves in front of him, crashing against the shore. "My God, this is terrible," the wave says. "Look what's going to happen to me!"

Then along comes another wave. It sees the first wave, looking grim, and it says to him, "Why do you look so sad?"

The first wave says, "You don't understand! We're all going to crash! All of us waves are going to be nothing! Isn't it terrible?"

The second wave says, "No, you don't understand. You're not a wave, you're part of the ocean.”

Tiny crabs scurried for cover as we passed. We arrived at the vegetarian café and had a good meal called “bohdi” which was a combination of rice, vegetables and cheese al horno (baked). It was very quiet in the dimly lit interior. Sade sang from the sound system. Sade, byname of Helen Folasade Adu, is a Nigerian-born British singer known for her sophisticated blend of soul, funk, jazz, and Afro-Cuban rhythms who enjoyed wide critical acclaim and popularity at this time.

We walked back under a sky flooded with stars, passing nervous night promenaders. Back at base we tucked away another couple of “Corona” beers each and a smoke in Erics room before setting out to the local “disco”.

About 20 Americans and Europeans drank at tables outside and empty room with flashing lights and blaring rock music. The Disc Jockey hunched over his tape deck with his headphones on like a desperate radio operator in a war film frantically twiddling his knobs to make contact. Or perhaps he thought he was Robin Williams in “Good Morning, Vietnam”!

The “Bohemia” lager was strong, and we walked back singing "Chanson D'Amour" ("Song of Love") for a late supper of chunky vegetable soup before retiring at 22:30 hrs.

Oaxaca

Saturday 12th December 1987

We got up at 08:00 hrs. with our main priorities being getting breakfast and changing money. We had an extremely cheap breakfast consisting of bacon and omelette in the Hippocampo Restaurante to start with.

All the streets in Oaxaca are laid out in a grid system so it is easy to find your way about. Everything is a few blocks away from the spacious central zocalo with it’s trees and familiar band stand. Ancient well weathered churches surround this main plaza. The morning crowds were an odd mixture of Mexicans, local indigenous Indians and western tourists.

We changed up some money in the American Express Office in the centre and wandered around in search of a local market. Mary, the Australian girl who had been travelling in South America for two years, kept us interested with stories and advice.

We found a touristy indigenous Indian market where Declan bought some baggy black trousers, and later the big local market which sold everything from fruit, clothes, hardware, Indian rugs and shawls to leather sandals with soles cut from redundant car tyres.

We bought some bananas, peanuts and oranges, which were practically free, and returned to our room. In this town there seems to be all manner of western brand goods in open fronted tiendas (shops).

In the afternoon we went out for a coffee in the zocalo where a stream of cute children peddled flowers, Chiclets, carved swizzle sticks and cycling monkey toys. Chiclets is a brand of candy-coated chewing gum owned by Mondelez International. The brand was introduced in 1900 by the American Chicle Company, a company founded by Thomas Adams. The Chiclets name is derived from the Spanish word chicle which is the name for chewing gum. We got used to the call “Chiclets, Chiclets” from the young salespersons.

It was very pleasant to sit in the zocalo and watch the locals. Back at the hotel we studied our guidebook (we used Lonely Planet and the South American Handbook, the backpacker’s bible). The South American Handbook is a travel guide to South America, published in the United Kingdom by Footprint Books. It is the longest-running travel guide in the English language.

Aussie Mary gave us some recommended hotel names and advice. We found a good restaurant just off the zocalo and ate tacos and drank “Dos Equis” beer as Mary went through a suggested itinery for us. Traditional Mexican beef tacos are made with marinated sliced or shredded beef on soft corn tortillas.

We left at 23:00 hrs. and the streets were virtually deserted, and the shop fronts boarded up. The odd drunk staggered passed us or slumped against a shuttered door.

Earlier in the afternoon there had been a small but noisy fiesta in a street just down from the hotel. We went onto the roof to watch the ridiculously loud “thunder flash” fireworks and watch a parade with music and singing.