Yucatán

#18

Costa Rica turns into a memory and I land in the next postcard. The land of Mariachi, Mezcal and tacos.

One night in Cancún seems sufficient and via the town of Valladolid I make my way to Chichén Itzá. My third world wonder.

The number of tourists I run into whilst running around the ruins nearly ruins the experience. But by being a punctual Dutch boy I manage to arrive early and avoid the majority of the “Oh my god’s” and “This is sooooo beautiful’s”.

I frame a picture of Chichén Itzá and put it on my memory’s shelf. A change of scenery, a change of coordinates: Merida.

Merida is a colonial city and part time microwave that works double shift. The 37 degrees Celsius make you take cover in either shade, pool or cenotes (sinkholes in the nearby nature).

Cenotes are great for swimming. However, when you combine a cenote with a 12 meter high cliff, a severe head injury, a love for heights and a hint of mental retardation, you tend to end up with a brand new concussion.

What an interesting and unknown feeling this is.

I slowly, but not really, recover and swap the city for Bacalar. A tiny village where numerous piers serve as viewpoints and gateways to a magnificent lagoon. The water here is bluer than balls after hours of teasing and no reward.

Days here are spent in my room writing and at the lagoon, floating in awe.

I get together with the locals and one day our daily meet up at the pier turns into a salsa class. Speakers, a professional dancer and an hour or two of intense sweating.

The minute I tell them I suffer from this condition called ‘two left feet-disease’ a lady takes me by the hand and shows me the basics: forward, back, left, right, forward, back, left, right.

I keep messing it up after the first step. Time and time again.

No matter how hard I try, I’m not willing to look back. I also don’t care what’s supposedly left and I already decided what’s right for me. All I can and will do is move forward.

The lady attempting to teach me frowns and shakes her head.

“You’ll never learn how to dance,” she says.

I dance forward and fall off of the pier into the water: I swim forward. I get stuck in the mud and feel how it tries to suck me in: I crawl forward. I see thousands of kilometres of plains filled with obstacles: I tread forward.

No matter the words, no matter the path, no matter the time, no matter the never ending pain: I walk on, straight forward.

Darkness sets in. I take a deep breath and place my left foot in front of my other left foot. Knowing that the sun will eventually also rise for me.

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