Mexico
Mum needn't have worried
Derek Draper
My mum was worried. While I was in Mexico the country hit the British head- lines twice. First there were reports that it was snowing, then that foreign tourists were routinely being kidnapped. I was glad to reassure her on my return that neither phenomenon had claimed me as a victim.
But that's not surprising. The official name for this Central American country is the United States of Mexico and there are great regional differences in culture, cli- mate and politics. My girlfriend Catherine and I stayed on the Yucatan peninsula. It boasts Caribbean weather, stunning pre- Hispanic ruins and one of the world's most beautiful barrier reefs. But not much kid- napping and no snowstorms at all.
Our journey started in Primrose Hill. The summer holidays had been interrupted by the impending deadline of my book Blair's Hundred Days and so we had decid- ed to spend any royalties on a pre-Christ- mas break. One Saturday afternoon we vis- ited the local travel agent, Andrew Blair, at Blair Travel (I kid you not).
We described our desires: a mixture of sun and sand with some cultural distraction on the side. Both of us would be bored of the beach after a few days. Mr Blair recom- mended Mexico, reeling off a tantalising itinerary and lending us two guidebooks while he sorted out the details.
On 13 December we set off. After an appalling journey (including a six-hour wait at Houston airport) we arrived at Cancun airport. The Hotel Maroma had sent a car to pick us up and its driver stood with a sign saying, 'Mr Derek Draper and Mr Jonathan Powell'. I thought it unlikely that the Prime Minister's chief of staff was a fel- low guest, until I remembered that our hideaway hotel was popular with Washing- ton politicos, and Powell had been sta- tioned in the American capital before joining Blair's team. Sadly, the Powells, whoever they were, never turned up, so I assume that it was just a coincidence — unless they were first out of the plane and on seeing the sign just couldn't face getting away from it all with me in tow.
The Maroma was built by a local archi- tect and nestles in a bay surrounded by miles and miles of jungle. Each room has its own sea-facing balcony with hammock for two and the restaurant rivals the best London can offer. The usual activities are on offer: horses can be ridden through the surf, and the aquatic can snorkel or scuba- dive. However, apart from walking by the sea, sunbathing and reading a couple of pages of Underworld a day, we did nothing. Five days of sybaritic relaxation.
We were then collected by Marco, our Mayan tours guide, and changed pace with a day-long visit to the pyramid and temples of Chichen-Itza — the mouth of the well. Behind the colossal ruins, a hidden lime- stone cenote, or well, was once used for human sacrifices. As we entered the area I asked Marco how many visits he had made to this sinister spot. Two thousand five hundred, he replied, since he began as a tour guide 30 years ago.
We spent a night nearby at an old hacienda, in chalets built at the beginning of the century for the American archaeolo- gists who stayed for years unearthing and reconstructing the stonework. Originally sold to an American businessman for $20, the site was eventually nationalised, but by then much of the most impressive masonry had disappeared, along with the golden treasures found when the sacrificial well was explored by divers in the Thirties. These, though, have now been returned, although sadly they are housed far away in Mexico City museums.
The next day we headed west to the colonial city of Merida, whose shady squares provide a refuge from the often fierce heat of the peninsula. It's worth walking down the narrow back streets to see the beautiful brightly pastel-painted 19th-century family mansions, tucked away beside prefabricated Pepsi stores and dilapidated garages. The Casa Mon- tejo in the main square was home to the Montejo family from 1549 until a few years ago when it became a branch of the National Bank of Mexico. After cashing your traveller's cheques, you can visit the bank's imposing boardroom.
The next day Marco took us to the mar- ket, where Meridans were stocking up for Christmas. Brightly coloured, star-shaped decorations made from tissue paper covering old newspaper hung from stalls. Counterfeit branded goods were everywhere. The most poorly made leather sandals, with old tires for soles, carry half a dozen Nike flashes, and Sony labels are stuck onto every cheap plastic radio. As a street trader tried to sell us a hammock, Marco explained that most Mexicans sleep in these, and as a result, have rounder heads than us. Western heads are squashed by sleeping in beds. I still can't fig- ure out if he was joking.
Eventually we had had our quota of sightseeing and headed for Cancun, the computer-designed resort that has grown from one hotel in 1974 to a sprawling com- plex catering for two million visitors a year. This was our going home treat, two nights at the Ritz Carlton. We didn't leave the beach-front compound the entire time, apart from a trip to a huge shopping mall The Yucatan is only a small part of a big country, but offers a perfectly balanced holiday. No need to choose between cul- ture or crashing out — do both.
Derek Draper writes a political column every Saturday for the Express.
Previous page
