When I tell people I lived for two months in Mexico they imagine me sitting on white sand beaches, sipping litre pina coladas and burning to a crisp each night. Whilst the pina coladas are not far from the truth the reality of my time there is slightly different. One specific occasion that to me truly summarised the ‘wild side’ of the Mexican experience was our time in Tulum, specifically our day trip to the cenote.
It was a sweltering day in the middle of January and we had resolved to renting bikes as a means of getting around the place. We biked past rows of beach huts, the odd clothing boutique, restaurants and a misplaced Oxxo store. Thick bushes lined the sides of the road, accompanied by the occasional DO NOT ENTER sign, which often meant there was some breed of dangerous creature lurking there just waiting to get its paws on you. The jaguar is a regular in Tulum, so I’ve been told. Either that or the locals simply didn’t want tourists trashing the place. I prefer the former, it runs a cooler story.
Eventually the stores and restaurants faded away as we got deeper into the brush. Wolff kept periodically checking google maps to reassure himself that his navigation skills were up to par. When the sign for the cenote came into view we both breathed a collective sigh of relief and quickened our pace of pedalling.
It was gorgeous. Let me explain first of all what a Cenote is so that you might too be able to feel the full weight of the grandeur of such a natural occurrence. A cenote is a natural pit or sometimes a sinkhole that creates a crater/cave of water. All the cenotes lead back to the ocean and are simultaneously connected with each other. Imagine a giant used a big spoon to scoop out a part of the earth and then filled it with water of the deepest blue. It resembled a lake on the surface but all you had to do was pop on a pair of scuba goggles and take a peek under to see the vast world that existed within the most intricately carved landscape.
The land around the Cenote was equally as beautiful. Thick with trees and dark corners for creatures to hide in, there was a certain element of mystery that crept out from the particularly hidden areas that struck a thrill in me. Allegedly, this particular Cenote was home to one tiny crocodile that the locals had named ‘Pancho’ but there is always the chance that a bigger one decides to risk border control and immigrate, in which case we would be known as what I like to call ‘royally screwed’.
The pier had two levels so we settled on the deck above, positioning ourselves so that we had just enough shade to keep my beer cool whilst simultaneously receiving enough sunlight to bathe me in a gentle warmth. This particular cenote was not popular with tourists for a reason I could not understand, perhaps because it wasn’t located within some deep, hidden alcove or wasn’t the perfect picturesque place for a photo. Whatever the reason it worked out in our favour as the few people that were there besides us seemed quite content to lounge quietly, occasionally disappearing to take the public paddle board around the water.
At first I was quite firm in my insistence that I would not be jumping off the pier. There was a drop that I guessed was about eight metres but the water itself promised at least a further ten, meaning the drop would be around fifteen. For someone who is 157cm that is an incredibly intimidating height.
However, after the first beer I was feeling far more relaxed and open to the idea. I watched Wolff catapult himself off, whooping all the way down, and I felt a pull of something. An urge to be part of this thrill, perhaps, or maybe a deep-buried desire to prove to Wolff I wasn’t just the sheltered British girl he thought me to be. Either way, I found myself not twenty minutes after arriving peering over the edge suspiciously, calculating the chances that my top would fly off once I jumped. Perhaps, in other circumstances, my fear would have eventually gotten the better of me and I would have backed away but unfortunately for me Wolff had turned his camera on. Losing my cool is not something I want a digital record of and all it took to spur me off the edge was the imagined embarrassment of watching the video back later. So, suffocating my rising scream and casting what I hoped was a coy smile back at the camera, I took a deep breath and threw myself off the edge.
It might sound ludicrous but all of my fear broke away as I catapulted through the surface of the water. As soon as I was engulfed by the cold my mind was too busy shouting swim to worry about any of my previously obsessed-over fears, such as fish or sharks. Instead I felt myself instinctively swimming upwards, my hands grabbing to pull down my bikini top which had fallen off as predicted.
When my head surfaced I found a grin too had floated to my face, a laugh even slipping out alongside a mouthful of water. I found my way back to Wolff, trying to act cool and laissez-faire as though I hadn’t just conquered my crippling fear of deep water in under ten seconds. He was waiting for me, beaming, and I basked in his praise.
I would throw myself off several more times during the course of our day in the cenote. I found the more beer I drank the more open I became to things I was previously terrified of, which I have a sneaking suspicion is how drunk people die in stupid ways. Regardless, I was having fun and the shock of the cold water kept me conscious and aware of my actions at all times.
There was a paddle board there which we assumed was for the use of the people, alongside a free pair of snorkel glasses and of course an oar. Another confession - I had never been on a paddle board before. It’s not a common hobby to take on when you spend most of your life in a town whose largest body of water was the farmers trough for the horses.
Wolff explained the basics to me about balance and all that nonsense. If I’m being honest it all went in one ear and out the other as I clambered on, eager for my next adventure. Jumping in the water had been a big step for me - again, cannot emphasise enough how bad my fear of water was. I was on a roll, my next goal being to paddle out to the centre of the cenote and actually put my feet in the water. This, I was hoping, would be a step closer to my next big fear on my things-to-cure list, that being fish and all other under-water dwelling beings (mermaids are not, of course, included in that term unless they resemble less ‘princess Ariel’ and more like their prehistoric depictions, in which I will place them right at the top of my list of creatures to avoid contact with).
Wolff, however, had bigger dreams than me. He paddled us right out to the centre, as promised, and then turned to me with a shark-like grin and slowly slid himself into the water. I gasped, thinking him a man overboard, until he resurfaced a moment later and demanded I pass him the snorkel. All this was fine and well, of course, until he then told me to get it. I looked down at the cenote, up at him, down and the cenote again and back up at him. I let out a nervous laugh. He did not respond.
“You’re serious?” My voice was a squeak.
“Why not? It’s just water.” He shrugged. Exactly, I thought miserably as I peered down at the mysterious land of below-the-paddle-board. Water and I had only just become friends and I was afraid that if I rushed into things too fast I was going to ruin the beautiful thing we had going on.
Still, after a little more persuasion - not the sort of peer pressure I was warned about at high school by the way - and a few threats of turning the board over if I didn’t get off, I begrudgingly dipped my toes in the water. After a few moments of dangling no deep sea predator had rushed to chew my feet off and I determined it was safe to slowly lower my whole leg down. What I did not anticipate, however, was the rest of my body following down the worlds smallest slip’n’slide as I was launched into the water with a pathetic yelp. Luckily I managed to grab onto the board and I clutched on for dear life as my feet paddled precariously, Wolff watching on with an entertained expression.
It takes a further minute of me clinging to the board like a limp and Wolff coaxing me away with praises and assurance - my kryptonite - before I find the courage to let go and swim towards him so that we are both floating together. It doesn’t help his case that I have noticed everyone from the other cenote clubs are wearing life jackets and it appears to be only our £2 pier group that aren’t granted the luxury of buoyancy.
For a moment the location floats away as I let the natural high of cold water flood my senses. Such a high, I have recently discovered, is far more enjoyable for me when paired with a nice cool beer to aid in my relaxation. Wolff hooks one arm around me to help keep me afloat and it is here that I get the sudden, overwhelming urge to give him a little peck on the nose. I do so and he blinks for a second before breaking out into a big, beaming smile. Everything in my world goes quiet as the only thing I can focus on is that smile and the person it belongs to.
My advice to anyone who doesn’t want to accidentally fall in love with another person is to avoid going swimming in a potentially dangerous place. The cold water will get to your head and before you know it you’ll be another hopeless victim of Cupid’s cruel bow. Over my time in Mexico I began to fall in love with Wolff all over again, but that’s what travelling with another person does to you. It bonds you to them in a way that’s deeper than just living together, both united against the same common enemies of airlines who charge too much for baggage and people who never learnt that it’s rude to stare when someone looks different to you.
Wolff offers the snorkels to me and I refuse instantly. It’s all fine and dandy that I’m in the water but I’d prefer to be able to get in a few more times later in the day and actually being able to see what was swimming under me would eliminate that possibility completely, I could already tell.
After a while of floating my muscles begin to tire. I say a while but what I really mean is three minutes later, I just wanted to make my bravery sound a little more impressive than it actually was. The thing about freshwater as opposed to saltwater is that you don’t naturally float in it. It’s more effort to hold yourself in and I have never been good at endurance exercise, always tending towards the more high-impact in short-bursts sports myself. I nearly fainted after running the 200m in a school sports day once and had to lie on the floor with my legs in the air, arse on display for anyone who cared. There’s an actual reason for it according to ancestry.com, I have the gene that means I am 80% more likely to prefer sprinting to long-distance running, so my complete distaste for anything that requires effort over long periods of time is justified by biology and no one can argue with that logic.
My mind on this line of thinking, I began to worry I would not be able to hold myself much longer in the water. Wolff, on the other hand, looked like he was just getting started, which only intensified my worries out of fear he was planning some deep-water diving for us. To drop a hint to him I began to move closer to the paddle board and yawning. He cocked an eyebrow at me.
“You want to get on?” I nodded sheepishly, fearing I had not achieved the level of subtlety that I was going for. He held the board still for me whilst I grabbed on and pulled myself up in the manner of a beached whale wobbling itself onto the sand. Once I was safely on he grabbed onto the head and elegantly vaulted on in one swift motion, a move I decided he must have practised in advance of the trip. No one is meant to look that good climbing back onto a paddle board.
I made the mistake of assuming that because we were on the paddle board we would be heading back to the pier. Wolff, however, had other ideas.
Just before jumping into the water for the third time we had overheard a group of Spanish teenagers mocking British girls and their accents. Of course we understood and I, brimming with indignation at the stereotypes that were only half true, wanted to make it known what a grave and ignorant mistake they had made. So I prompted Wolff to talk to them and tell them what’s what, which he interpreted as ‘agree with them and make friends’.
Against my will, the five of us were soon all chatting and laughing. Three minutes went by and suddenly two of their friends raced up to us, faces bright red and panting in exhilaration. They spoke so rapidly to each other that I couldn’t understand and the others let out cries of delight as they talked. It took Wolff a moment to get the memo that I couldn’t keep up with their words before he translated for me.
“They’re saying they saw the crocodile, Pancho.” He explained and pointed to the corner of the cenote where the alleged sighting had occurred. I shivered and made a mental note to stay far away from that area.
So imagine my rising fear when, fifteen minutes later, I was sitting at the helm of a paddle board headed straight to that direction.
“Wolff,” I ground out through gritted teeth, “I don’t want to go crocodile hunting. Turn around and take me back to the pier please.”. Wolff either didn’t hear or didn’t care as he continued to paddle along merrily. I repeated myself three or four times to no response so I spun myself around and hissed at him to take me back.
Wolff rolled his eyes and said “It’s only a small crocodile, relax.” I gaped at him in disbelief for a second.
“Take me back now please.” Suddenly the spirit of a stern primary school teacher overtook me and I met his defiant gaze with what I hoped was a piercing stare. He did not flinch, simply picked up the oar and continued to row in the direction of the crocodile.
I had been left with no choice. Taking a deep breath, I plugged my nose and rolled off the side of the board into the water, beginning to doggy paddle the twelve metres back to the pier. Wolff called after me to come back but I was fed up and there was a final can of beer beckoning to me.
Wolff was gone for thirty minutes. I lay on my back on the deck, eyes slowly closing, mind lulling into a sleepy haze. When Wolff finally did appear back I was half unconscious from the sun, acting like a heated blanket to my tired body. Apparently Wolff had taken it upon himself to go around all of the connected cenotes in the area hunting for this crocodile. He went through some that were completely alone, complete with abandoned piers and overgrown jungle surroundings. Seriously, if you were ever wondering why the death rate for men was so much higher than for women all you have to do is speak to my boyfriend for five minutes and you’ll understand.
“I searched all of them and did a full circle back here. Nothing! It was gone! They must have lied and made him up.” He sulked as he settled himself beside me. Mentally I thought that the poor little thing must have seen him coming and fled for cover. I would too, if I was being hunted by a lunatic with a paddle board and a long sharp oar (That was a joke, Wolff would never willingly hurt a part of wildlife in that way, please do not sue me for defamation of character). I pictured Pancho quivering in the bushes as Wolff paddled ominously passed, calling out to him in a menacing voice like the villain in a marvel movie, taunting the hidden hero. The image brought me a warm flush of joy. Supervillian in a marvel movie is exactly the role Wolff was born to play.
We lay on this pier for a while longer, our chat lazy and edged with sleep. We probably would have dosed off here too had the arrival of a large group with a speaker not jolted us from our daze. With them they brought the harsh realisation that we still had to cycle back to the hotel and that we should probably get going before it was too dark.
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