I lived in Mexico in 1999. 27 years later, I was humbled by what I found

I am wading, neck-deep, through water tinted inky blue by the pre-dawn sky, the burnished horizon offering a glimpse of sunrise to come.

Intimidated by the idea of walking out to sea in the dark, I am about to turn back when I reach it: the Punto Mosquito sandbar, 30m offshore, gateway to the Yum Balam nature reserve.

At low tide, this ‘secret’ sandbar at the tip of Holbox Island attracts a steady stream of visitors, bags held high on heads as they cross shallow water to reach the spit. At high tide, it seems unreachable.

For four blissful hours, I was alone on the white sand… well, almost.

As if to illustrate the perils and the privilege of solo adventure, my peaceful presence on the sandbar meant I was sharing my solitude with a crocodile.

Startled by my movement, the croc slipped into the lagoon and turned to stare at me – rather menacingly, I thought – from its new position, its ridged back just breaking the surface, gimlet eye fixed on me.

Rattled by the near miss and my own naivety, I scolded myself for wading blithely into the water. I had read that this nature reserve, flanked on one side by the Caribbean Sea and the other by a lagoon, was home to crocodiles – as well as jaguars and tapirs.

Advice is to stick to the salty ocean side of the spit and avoid the lagoon waters. Most people come in groups, in daylight, or on organised tours. I had wanted to go it alone

Briefly, I wondered if this was the moment I would regret leaving the sanctity of a Caribbean sunbed in search of adventure. 

Moments later, calm restored, watching a family of flamingos parade across the shallows, the doubts were gone.

Almost two weeks earlier, I had landed at Cancún airport on Virgin Atlantic’s inaugural flight, marking the airline’s return following a six-year hiatus with a new three-times-a-week route from Heathrow. 

For me, it marked the revival of a lifelong love affair with Mexico, cemented almost 30 years ago when I lived there for 15 months, learning Spanish the way it should be learned: late nights in salsa bars and ill-advised liaisons.

Days were filled with adventure — roaming ranches on horseback, a machete tucked into my belt. Hitchhiking, hammocks, life on a dollar a day.

Given my history with the place, my return needed to offer more than the butler service and swim-up bar of Cancún’s all-inclusive resorts, though I would get my fill of those first.

The plan was simple: a week of fly-and-flop, acclimatising on a lounger, easing back into the Land of the Sun through organised tours, followed by a second week striking out alone into the Yucatán peninsula.

The fly and flop 

The flight touched down to an all-female mariachi band, Virgin Atlantic’s red-clad crew dancing alongside. The effect was immediate.

Forty minutes later, I was at The Fives Hotels & Residences near Playa del Carmen, a beachfront property woven around cenotes and mangroves, coatis parading the grounds.

For the Maya, cenotes were sacred portals to the underworld, entrances to Xibalba. There are thousands across the Yucatán, some open to the sky, others sealed and hidden, connected by miles of flooded caves.

They remain places to swim, but also to tread reverently.

That evening, dinner at the resort’s Caribbean restaurant, Muelle 8, set the tone: seared oysters, scallop ceviche, guacamole with blue-corn tortillas and cochinita pibil — pork slow-cooked underground in banana leaves.

I could easily have stayed put, slinking from bed to gym to beachfront bar, but action beckoned. Virgin Atlantic can organise a range of easy, well-run excursions – from cenote swims to jungle ziplining – the kind of organised fun I’d have once dismissed, but now welcomed as wonderfully stress-free.

A swim in the Ix Balam cenote was hypnotic. White stalactites reflected on glassy water, impossible to tell where rock ended and reflection began.

By torchlight, we swam deep into the darkness, glimpsing how these subterranean rivers stretch for miles beneath the jungle.

Lunch was tortillas made by hand over open flames, followed by ziplining and waterslides at nearby adventure park Xplor. Here, fly-and-flop can still come with a shot of adrenaline.

It was a wrench to leave the Fives, but a butler and private pool awaited at Tulum’s Grand Palladium Kantenah Residence.

Vast yet cleverly zoned, it offered sunrise walks, flamingo lagoons and an idyllic spa, as well as Temazcal (Mexican sweat lodge) and a gratitude fire ceremony, an ancient Mayan ritual of purification and healing. 

Still, there’s only so much purification one can take. The next morning, I did something that feels radical in resort land: I left.

Exploring the Yucatán

A colectivo – shared minibuses that pick up passengers along the road – took me to Tulum for 30 pesos (£1.20), instead of the $100 taxi fare.

Tourists rarely use them and, despite swearing by colectivos 30 years ago, I hesitated briefly. I needn’t have. Cheap, frequent and straightforward, they’re how much of Mexico gets around.

As I climbed aboard to a chorus of buenos días, I found my stride again. Solo travel here doesn’t just feel safe, it feels welcoming.

Tulum itself had changed beyond recognition since I visited in 1999. Once an off-grid backpacker haven, it now draws 2 million visitors a year, its beach lined with bougie eco-retreats and cocktail bars selling $20 margaritas.

Disoriented, I sought out a local contact who urged me to preserve Tulum as a beautiful memory and head north to Holbox.

Before I did, they steered me to La Esquina, a cash-only, local favourite in Tulum town, where quesadillas arrived with fresh pico de gallo and green chilli salsa, just how I remembered them. Horchata and tamarind juice cooled the heat.

My route north would take me inland first, to Mexico’s most famous ruins, Chichén Itzá, and one of its most recently excavated sites, Ek Balam.

Coaches and limited rail services reach towns in the interior, but they lack the flexibility of travelling by road.

Instead, I hired a car (£150 for the week), despite warnings about police stops. I was stopped and searched once for a tense hour before being waved off to Chichén Itzá.

Speaking Spanish helped, as did staying calm. Less confident travellers can opt for a private driver, negotiated on the ground with local drivers. 

Mexico’s most visited archaeological site draws over a million visitors a year, so timing is everything.

Arrive at opening time and hire a guide, and you’ll stand before El Castillo in near-silence, absorbing the astonishing engineering of a civilisation that mapped the cosmos in stone.

Clap at the foot of the pyramid and the echo returns as a sharp, bird-like chirp, thought to mimic the call of the sacred quetzal. During spring and autumn equinoxes, shadows form, creating the illusion of a serpent slithering down the steps.

I stayed nearby at Hotel Mayaland, an old colonial mansion so close I could see the observatory from my balcony.

At times, I was the only guest in sight. Staff taught me a few words of Maya, peacocks strutted the lawns, and breakfast was ruby grapefruit, coffee and pan de muerto.

A gallery of eclectic past guests was immortalised on the walls. Pavarotti, J-Lo, Xi Jinping. And now, me.

That evening, resisting the ease of the hotel restaurant, I drove to the nearby village of Pisté. Locals gathered around food stalls in the warm air: tamales, tacos, grills smoking into the night.

Once I’d left the cosseted world of resorts, I ate street food almost exclusively and never regretted it.

Thirty minutes north lies Ek Balam, discovered in earnest in the late 1990s. Smaller and wilder than Chichén Itzá, it still allows visitors to climb the Acropolis, standing above the jungle canopy and imagining the power of a Mayan city that flourished between 600 and 900 AD. 

From there, it was time to head to Holbox. Drive to the fishing village of Chiquila, park for around 100 pesos (£4.20) a day, and take the half-hour ferry crossing.

Often compared to Tulum before the crowds, Holbox has no cars, just sandy roads, bicycles and golf buggies, with music drifting through the streets and coconuts wheeled along the beach. 

I stayed at Blue Holbox, in a beachside villa with hammocks and soft lantern light. Everything is close: five minutes by bike or a barefoot walk along the sand into town. In one direction, glowing beachfront bars; in the other, the Yum Balam reserve and that disappearing sandbar. 

Holbox rewards a lower gear: days drift between bioluminescent swims, stargazing, beach massages and cycling flooded lanes on rickety hire bikes.

Street food is exceptional – elotes, quesabirrias, marquesitas and shrimp empanadas – with lobster pizza the island’s luxe speciality.

Complemento, a chic cafe serving photogenic acai bowls and excellent coffee in handmade clay cups, was the only time I ventured indoors. 

Too soon, it was over. My journey across the Yucatán returned me not just to a place that once shaped me, but to the way I first learned to be there: curious, open.

Conversations came easily, and my Spanish returned, as did my confidence.

With Cancún airport only two and a half hours away, I boarded my flight home with sand still dusting my feet, leaving behind a Mexico that, despite inevitable change, still moved to the same irresistible rhythm.

Our editor-in-chief Deborah Arthurs was a guest of Virgin at the Fives residences and TRS Yucatan, but don’t expect us to sugarcoat anything – our reviews are 100% independent.

For the second leg of the trip, Deborah was on her own.

Comments


Add as preferred source