During his exchange programme, Ben Floyd uncovers Mexico
With a week off from class—and the ability to rationalise missing more—we said goodbye to our studies in bustling Monterrey and took the early Monday morning flight out across the Gulf of Mexico, heading for a ten-day road trip through the Yucatan. Shared between Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala, the Yucatan Peninsula serves as a biological corridor between North and Central America—181,000 square kilometres of perfectly flat jungle, just more than twice the size of Ireland. Our route found us triangulating the peninsula: Merida, Holbox, Cozumel, Tulum, Bacalar, the Chichen Itza ruins, and then back to Merida.
El Grito in Merida
First stop: Merida, the largest city of the region.
Founded in 1542 by Spanish conquistadors and built right on top of the Mayan T’Ho settlement, Merida is a sun-faded remnant of Spain’s colonial power; a grid of cobblestone roads and pastel limestone buildings carved into the jungle. Towering over the central plaza stands the Catedral de San Ildefonso, the second-oldest cathedral in the Americas, partially constructed with Mayan stones taken from surrounding ruins. Adjacent stands the Casa de Montejo, a lavish residence built by the Montejo dynasty of colonisers; within the multi-story limestone facade, two larger-than-life Spanish soldiers crush their boots into the severed heads of Mayan natives. Clear message there. Around the plaza, tourists and locals dart from shade to shade in the mid-day heat, attempting to avoid the sun god’s thirty-four degree wrath. I shield myself with guanabana ice cream.
After a siesta at the rental house, we returned to the plaza at night to see it transformed into something a bit less colonial. El Grito de Independencia, or the Cry of Independence, is celebrated on September 16th across Mexico; this year marks 216 years since Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla called the nation to arms against Spanish rule in 1810. Beside the cathedral, a grand stage was erected, booming speeches, music, and melancholic gritos through the colonial city. As the night progressed, Merida’s plaza transformed into the beating heart of a nation filled with pride; thousands of people dancing and singing in the night’s heat as traditional dancers twirled across the stage. Above, a bandera monumental the size of a tennis court floated in the wind, flashing red and green with fireworks. We danced well into the night.
Interior Jungle: Yucateca Villages
With a fresh dose of patriotism, we crammed into the rental car and set off towards a different Yucatan. Our days spent in the cities and towns of Yucatan were mostly pleasant; the picturesque beaches of Holbox and the souvenir markets of Cozumel tapped into the international culture of tourism. This was part of the Mexico so often mythologised by the world: glamorous beachside havens predicated on consumption, made possible by vendors beholden to stronger currencies. Sombreros, margaritas, and moustache jokes run amok. The social contract between tourist and vendor was hard to evade; it was our short conversations in Spanish that permitted us occasional breaks from the dynamic. We were able to learn some Mayan words from a waiter in Merida, and I got a laugh from an excursion vendor when I responded to him calling me a pinche cabron. Go figure. Yet it was our hours spent travelling through the jungle that we found the most eye-opening.
Given the peninsula’s lack of elevation and above-ground rivers, all motorways run perfectly straight, with unbroken stretches up to ten kilometres long. In order to avoid the government tolls and police checkpoints on the main motorways, we chose to travel along the rural two-lane roads whenever possible. I found them to be just as uncomfortably nerve-racking as any narrow Irish country road, with an impenetrable wall of greenery replacing stone fences.
Underneath the canopy, the sweet perfume of flowers and wet earth filled the car and clung to our skin. Black tarantulas and stray dogs appear and disappear from the roadside. Yellow butterflies float above. We evade the pressing feeling of isolation by playing car games and teaching each other words in English, German, Italian, and Hebrew. Passages from “Heart of Darkness” rise in the mind.
As we approach villages, elderly men and young boys—armed with machetes and hunting rifles—zoom past our car on their motos, setting out to collect firewood. Some stares and smiles. Villages are small collections of palm-thatched buildings that crowd the roadside; a peek through the entryway revealed hand-woven hammocks hanging between rafters. Some homes operate as storefronts of artisanal wares or—even better—roadside restaurants, serving pollo asado, empanadas, and fresh mangos. The smell of maize tortillas cooked on a metal drum floats into the road. The lifestyle here largely remains unaltered by more modern patterns; opportunities are limited. Many villagers speak both Spanish and their local dialect of Mayan.
During the middle of a four-hour drive, we were fortunate enough to pass through a village right at the peak traffic hour—school’s end! Upwards of sixty motorcycles blocked the road as children—obsidian black hair with red ribbons, collared white shirts, and Goku backpacks—ran out of a government-built school into loving arms. A cacophony of screaming children, barking dogs, and honking motorcycles cut through the droning buzz of the jungle. For ten minutes, we crept along the roadway in this herd of motorcycles; one by one, they rumbled into the jungle down fleeting trails. We waved goodbye.
We came to see that these villages are far from permanent. The through-traffic serves as a lifeline for many of these places, which live well below Mexican and international poverty standards. We passed through many settlements which had succumbed to silence and dereliction; the green undergrowth of the jungle reaches out, consuming huts, market stalls, and roads—and people, too. Familias Buscadoras de Yucatán, a community organisation, reports that 270 people have disappeared across the Yucatán since 2017. Throughout the trip, we came to recognise the black-and-white missing posters displayed all across the peninsula, and the weight they carried. While living in the tourist cities is—by no means—a significant improvement, the rural population is often last to receive government support.
Our journey through the Yucatan revealed Mayan, Spanish, and Mexican cultural practices; it also displayed the glaring disparities of opportunity that often sit upon ancient places turned commercial. I look forward to what else this rich country has to offer.