Having learned that a local skipper offered camping charters to the progressively smaller islands to the north, we were sorely disappointed to learn he was out to sea. As a consolation, a day-trip was hastily arranged which turned out most impressive given the world class skin diving. Our captain somehow located a mooring float in what seemed the middle of the ocean. Plunging in I found myself in a forest of some of the largest, most dramatic coral formations I’d ever seen - one of those ‘magical undersea realms’ you hear about too often from fellow divers but never come close to finding or are sorely disappointed with once you do. The captain joined us, deftly spearing a mackerel that he served up for lunch at one of the very islands we had hoped to camp out on. But he would not agree to maroon us there despite the promise of a handsome payday. All our gear was back in the car anyway.

With an early start, the following morning we returned on the ferry to began travels far south on the mainland, tearing through all the touristaville awfulness, firmly committed not to return this far north again until the very hour our plane was due to leave. Beyond the monolithic resorts the sidewalk disappeared, four lanes became two, and everything began giving way first to farmland which, in turn, transitioned into jungle that swallowed up everything except the road itself. That’s right!, we recalled – we’re in the tropics! We’d all but forgotten. Then it sadly dawned on us that all this untrammeled lushness was what everything we’d seen so far had looked like until only recently, until the damnable developers came. But all that crap was behind us now, getting further.

Hours further on a sign pointed the way to Tulum – the only major coastal Mayan site ever constructed. True, it lacked massive edifices, but its location on the edge of a turquoise sea was unmatched in Meso-American archeology for magnificent vista’s,  calling for a full morning’s exploration, though too many others – arriving in what seemed whole fleets of bloated buses - had the same intentions, in effect forcing us onward after only a cursory viewing. Given this experience and our mandate for more intimate scenarios, Chichanitza was immediately scratched off our priorities. The highly detailed topographical map we’d brought was peppered with countless other little pyramid symbols, each representing the promise of more personal experiences we hold so precious. 

Still further south the highway veered inland while an enticing unpaved diversion hugged the coast where through the palms and shrub we could just make out an exquisite shoreline. A kilometer or two on, we got out by some hand hewn mud and thatch huts edging a sandy berm along with a scattering of palm-leaf lean-to’s. The Caribbean showed crystal clear through tiny ripples as a flock of sanderlings performed a synchronized aerial ballet darting about rocky outcroppings at the waters edge. A light skinned girl with dark red hair emerged from the one tent pitched down the beach a ways, buck naked, followed by her male companion. The only audible sound emanated from the light breeze nipping at the palms as it attempted in vain to mitigate a relentless sun intensified by its’ reflection off the water. This will do quite nicely, gracias. 

Inquiring with the padrone - an affable fellow in no hurry for anything and sensing we weren’t either, he invited us to pitch tent near by hoping we’d be tempted by the smell of his wife’s cooking at dinner time to pick up a few extra peso’s. We set up camp with soft sand to bed down on, though once erected the tent proved stifling, enticing us toward the long curved beach, having it to ourselves save for a couple strolling casually along the waters edge from the opposite direction, the woman’s tanned bare breasts making it apparent they (the couple!) had been enjoying it here a while.

The luxuriant water was pure therapy and made up for the scarcity of marine life - but who cared given the endless string of empty coves to choose from – each of which proved perfect jungle-fringed playgrounds, each just a little more remote. By the third or fourth one we were frolicking in the buff with heaven on earth to ourselves.

Some mornings following we headed west to explore Coba, a massive Mayan temple complex requiring a serious day’s commitment. At its vacant, dusty parking lot a preppy- looking couple watched with no small envy as we copiously fogged on the DEET spray showing prudent, if hard-learned foresight. Falling in behind us on the main trail they inquired if we were staying at Club Med of all places - a singularly insulting supposition. “Club Dome Tent” Silvia recoiled. The guy was clearly impressed, the gal clearly thought we were nuts, cautioning “You mean right on the beach!? You know the police down here carry machine guns!” “That’s just ‘cause the grunion are running…”  I shot back, but by then they were too inundated with aggressive mosquitoes to appreciate rapier wit. Then, to rub it in - but mainly just to lose them, we veered off the trail to follow a spectacular vermillion tanager deep into the brush, totally impervious to the cloud of critters we were stirring up.

That afternoon we scaled Coba’s tallest pyramid, relishing the finest panorama imaginable - a sea of tree tops all the way to the horizon. The Maya had it right.

Though our campsite and environs proved nothing short of invigorating, scanning the map and noting its scale we began to realize just how ambitious the territory we intended to cover was and hit the road south early the next morning where civilization diminished to an occasional outpost or local Mayan farmer out on the shoulder patiently awaiting the daily bus - somber face, signature compact build, ubiquitous slung machete – essential for hacking and back-tracking through the unstoppable undergrowth to wherever it was in that thick forest they’d started from, even if only a day or two later. 

Wheeling in to one humble pueblo, we rejoiced finding its only caf? open, having skipped breakfast. On its walls stuffed exotic birds, an ocelot and a jaguar were on display - victims of local hunters or, who knows, poachers. In the middle of our huevos a nominally hung-over young fellow overhearing us shuffled over, plopping himself down at our table complaining of a major headache, expressing a sincere desire to practice his English. Engaging and harmless, though less than informative, we inquired about the rest of the road to Chetumal - what of interest might be between here and there. Basically more jungle, he offered, and did we have any aspirin?

An hour or so further the outskirts of Chetumal gradually thickened around us as foliage gave way to flat brush land and proliferating dwellings, and before we realized it we were in the town’s center – a single wide boulevard totally overwhelmed by pedestrians if absent of vehicles - not particularly charming, though not pretentious in the least. We only accidentally found the one hotel in town while walking the main street amidst the crush of shoppers, many of which appeared to be Mayan unaccustomed to and intrigued with ‘big’ city distractions judging by their fascination with the plethora of trinkets on offer. The hotels’ fa?ade was as inconspicuous as some fictional 1960’s secret spy headquarters – unmarked double-doors that lead to a Spartan lobby where we were told to park around back in what turned out to be a maximum security compound, replete with barbed-wire fencing and a posted sentry. From the outside, you’d think the place was a NATO installation, not some $15 a night flophouse firetrap reeking of mildew.

After showering we ventured back out via the ‘secret’ front entrance only to find a complete ghost town; what only an hour earlier had been bursting at the seams with humanity now approached post-nuclear desolation - not a single soul in sight, every shop and store front bolted shut. Those folk took the concept of siesta to a whole new level.

Heading due east parallel with the Belizean border the following morning we skirted rain forest along what seemed an abandoned highway, turning off onto an unmarked dirt road for a kilometer or so that terminated at the entry to majestic Kahunlich - a Classic period Mayan center few but archeologists have ever heard of, and had the entire complex to ourselves save for an aging gatekeeper stationed there to collect a token entry fee, eager to talk our ears off in testimony to the few visitors he sees. We intimated interest but understood little, and were patient with his little ticket processing ritual – third-world bureaucratic nonsense out in the jungle. What ever. It helped keep the obscure, perpetually smiling Ejunio and his family fed. 

Wandering the sites’ central plaza we were distracted by a magnificent crimson trogan perched proudly above the thousand year-old plaza, surmising the beautiful birds’ ancestors must have likewise impressed the ancient Mayans what with its spectacular plumage – some of which may have ended up in ceremonial headdresses. There was little danger of that now; in one of those ironic twists of history the birds had been spared - a high culture had been wiped out.

Colossal temples built to withstand the ravages of time or secure some ancient royals’ place in the afterlife were positioned about symmetrically and it was joy having them all to ourselves, embracing Silvia as we dangled our legs over dizzying ledges taking in views that stretched across northern Belize - a kingdom of our own as it were, even if only for a day. I thought of the humbling, intimidating impact the still-imposing remnants of Mayan civilization we’d seen just in these past few weeks must have had on the intruding 16th century Europeans, let alone what they ran across elsewhere throughout the rest of Meso-America, and how certainly it had to have challenged their notions of ethnic supremacy, possibly even fostering the mindless violence, destruction and desecration that followed everywhere they showed up. 

Returning northward, Silvia kept a lookout for the turn off to Cenote Azul – a large spring-fed crystalline lake where, according to local legend, in days long past pirates took refuge after terrorizing western Caribbean shipping lanes, or so we were told. Finding the lake and a place to stay proved an easy enough, if impromptu, diversion. 

Seeking refuge on our smallish inn’s rooftop patio that afternoon we met a couple heading north from Belize who generously offered icy Cuba Libre’s under the blazing sun overlooking the azure waters of the former pirates haunt. Both retired embassy workers originally from Georgia, they had stumbled upon Belize years earlier and made it their home after trying other off-shore alternatives that hadn’t worked out. Not that they were overly-enthralled with Belize either, as was made apparent through sarcastic anecdotes; “Now, if you want to make a small fortune, and I mean a small fortune!” the fellow advised as he poured us another drink “...bring a large fortune to Belize”.

Further north several mornings later, while snug in our tent pondering ambitious plans for that day and immediately after I’d lit a match to establish it was already 4:00 am, we hauled ass breaking camp not even taking the time to boil water thinking there’s got to be coffee and food on the channel ferry – assuming we make it there in time. The scramble to the terminal took close to an hour and we were gratified not having arrived any later what with the long line already snaking out from the ticket shack, and that wasn’t even counting the half-dozen diesel rigs off on the side.

Waiting in line in the cool darkness was one of those scenarios that promote casual bonding with total strangers that, like us, Mexicans never need an excuse for. As we waited and joked and stretched and yawned, the line slowly doubled again in length, and now the ferry didn’t seem big enough. And all I could think of was how hungry I was as my blood sugar levels plummeted.

Attracted by the only light for miles around, huge nocturnal insects bounced off the naked light bulb inside the shack where the fare collector, seeing Silvia and I were together, found my ticket request for  “Dos hombre’s” hilarious. She laughed too, then, pulling a swatch of her hair down as a mustache, spouted “Si - dos hombres!” in a hoarse, mannish voice. Piling back into the car, we fell in behind the diesels when some unseen signal started the line moving. The ferry was so mammoth it required a host of crewmen to direct traffic below decks where we all had to pull in tight enough to bump the next car ahead. The lower deck was soon a densely-packed garage, its choking fumes forcing us to retreat up narrow stairways to the very top semi-enclosed passenger deck where I was praying to find a food concession. Nada – not even a vending machine. 

To avoid boisterous family groups and to ensure some fresh air, we grabbed seats in the very back row where we were bowled over by an overpowering stench. Peering over the rear railing, a large stake-bed truck on the deck just below bristled with monstrous grunting hogs jostling for space ankle-deep in their own shit. The remaining passenger seats filled so fast any chance to change ours evaporated. 

We sat gagging for close to an hour before departure as the lumbering behemoth accelerated to well over 3 blistering knots while hoped against hope for something approaching actual movement that never materialized. Cozumel, meanwhile, tantalized us from the horizon – not even 10 miles away - but progress was immeasurable. As time passed my hunger intensified, my disposition blackened. We conspired to get down to the car to tap into our camping provisions only to find all lower deck doors locked shut. 

Over five grueling hours later we finally closed in on and ran along the islands’ flat, unremarkable shoreline, where we witnessed casually strolling pedestrians easily out-pacing us. By then I was ready to incite mutiny. 

After all that, neither Cozumel town nor its outskirts looked like anything special at all, made even less so by the immense popularity of the place - a well known diving destination where the Palancar Reef – the second largest contiguous reef on earth - was the big draw, just a short hop from its over-developed shoreline. 

After scarfing down trail mix from our packs we set off, ultimately concluding that, for lack of shade or remote enough natural settings, pitching a tent just about anywhere on the island was out, then wandered through a labyrinth of backstreets, ceding finally to a modest hotel walking distance from the town’s overrun center. 

To its credit, and true to its reputation, the coastal waters on the islands protected western coast did look most promising. Finding a secluded beach that afternoon, we snorkeled out over a deepening sandy bottom where the water clarity approached infinite. Spotting the single obvious feature - a diminutive coral outcropping - I descended deep for closer inspection to find a lone octopus guarding its lair as damsel fish fussed about. Looking up to signal Silvia, her tiny figure kicked at the surface looking as though a mile above. This water was truly extraordinary. Rushing back up, I urged her to go down for a look, but after trying it was a bit beyond her lung capacity. We plodded along further out, disappointed with the dramatically increasing depth until getting down to it was way beyond my own ability. It was no wonder we had the place to ourselves.

Out of the depths two barracuda’s joined us– at least four foot each and not the least bit shy, their toothy smiles as imposing as an angry Doberman’s. It was like having protective escorts as they followed us attentively all the way in to shore where it finally occurred to me that they were just a couple of pelagic freeloaders expecting hand-outs, conditioned to feedings by visiting divers anxious for some close interaction with oceanic denizens – a primary draw to this place, one of the few we could appreciate.

We splurged on an elaborate dinner that night which we surely owed ourselves after the morning’s ferry-from-hell fiasco, and afterwards toasted Cozumel; anticlimactic and over-rated; one more facetious ‘destination’ island thick with hapless, often rowdy gringos invariably found in close-knit circles effectively insulating themselves from any chance of a genuine cultural exchange.

Returning to the cramped, un-air-conditioned hotel, the nights stifling heat mandated open windows and even some doors, marginalizing any chance of privacy which resulted in some unavoidable eavesdropping, first on a couple of indiscrete or oblivious lovers - soon depleted - who were immediately upstaged by the pronounced groans of anguish emanating from sickest gringo I think I’ve ever heard, power-vomiting what sounded like his last several meals and half his intestines deep into the night as we skulked in the darkness scarcely able to refrain from exploding in cruel, unsympathetic laughter. Each time we thought he was at last purged, the heaves of gastric convulsions resumed as loud and emphatic as ever, preventing any sleep long after the amusement factor had worn off, sounding now a lot more like amebic dysentery than a simple case of what’s-his-name’s revenge. I’m certain everyone within ear shot hoped to God they hadn’t eaten at the same place he had.

And that little episode may have been the highlight of our Cozumel excursion. We’d become bored with the place in less time than it took to get there. We knew of more luminous horizons that beckoned across the channel. 

By the following afternoon we were back on the mainland and far south, closing in on what ultimately proved as close to paradise as we thought we’d ever get - about halfway between Belize and where we’d first camped weeks earlier, where a choice of the most sublime, most desolate bays were on offer. After all the ground we’d covered we now longed to stay put, to limit any further forays to hiking distance from this point on, what with the few days remaining seeming ever shorter, ever more precious. Where we made camp had everything we’d been seeking since day one, now that we’d been sated, indeed overwhelmed, by what the Maya had left for the ages. 

That night we rolled out a towel close to the waters edge and laid back, taking turns with the binoculars scanning a bejeweled sky effortlessly finding unimaginable arrays of stars and planets and even nebulae. I’d never witnessed infinity in such personal proximity – I mean, for the very first time it became a dynamic entity that was part of the real world - that universe they taught us about back in grade school on audio-visual day or in those science museum films. Clearly, we had found our place in the cosmos.

Strolling a dirt swath of road that cut through the thick foliage the following morning, as Silvia posed seductively across the arching trunk of a palm tree a rainbow-billed toucan appeared in my viewfinder high on a branch behind her - the most exotic thing either of us had ever seen in its native habitat, further testimony to the distance we’d come, the magic of the terrain we’d entered - just like the night before, and together they epitomized everything we travel for: beauty, exoticism, escape, transcendent encounters, proof of God. Here all the really important things were on offer: a rekindling of child-like wonder, integration with nature; a semblance of command over our destiny – each justifying the effort needed to experience what can collectively result in a true revelation and compelling enough to recalibrate one’s personal priorities, like those stories you hear where some straight-laced urbanite chucks a high-power job and trades in his ranch style home to fund a teak-decked sloop or to reconstitute a rustic inn or an abandoned farm in some banana republic. Only now could we appreciate why such adventurers go out on such a life-changing limb acting out such impulses. 

And so this sweet idea was born in our heads later that same night as we lie caressing on the beach just feet from the gently lapping waves as the stars and constellations worked their magic: escape - pure and simple. We had busted our butts getting as far as we had with our careers - which looked promising; setting up house in San Diego - which was quite livable; cultivating a select circle of friends - who were supportive, if not a little envious, of our undeniably enviable relationship. But we wanted something else, something a little further from the safe and predictable and a lot closer to nature, where meaning had a little more meaning to it. And now we knew what. 

But these notions would remain embryonic and secretive, at least for now. We were not quite in a financial position to pull it off just yet, and we learned through further excursions that the farther afield we got, the better it appeared – ‘it’ being a world hidden to but a few; remote, real, void of ludicrous cultural pretensions and expectations, and full of wonder. Quite possibly our being so far from responsibilities and everything else we were familiar with for over a month played no small part in such free-form thinking. That’s how these things start; once removed from the predictable, you’re easily seduced by the fabulously unexpected which can stir long dormant emotions and ideals of what life – at its absolute best – can be all about.

But in the final analysis, isn’t that exactly what discovery is suppose to do? 

The following are John's previous articles for the magazine:

• Adventures In The Caribbean ~ Tobago, Trinidad and Grenada
• Late Autumn In Laos ~ In The Laotian Jungle
• Explorations In Nepal ~ Deep In The Hinderlands
• Indonesia ~ Adventure
• Explorations In The Amazon Basin ~ Into The Unknown
• Adventures In Surinam ~ Into The Jungle
• More Adventures In Surinam ~ Explorations