The Armadillo Stories

As if something somewhere knew that I was on the hunt for more stories to tell...

I hold in my hands a perfect moment.

A man crouches on the dusty edge of the motorway, holding an empty sports bag open and shouting animatedly.

I stand near him, Eva next to me, our rucksacks on our backs. The sky is pink, the air warm.

We had been walking the rocky rumble strip towards the remains of the sun, changing between motorways for the next bus to San Blas. The scenery in Mexico can only ever be the stage for something captivating. But this is prime time entertainment at its finest.

Man. Motorway. Armadillo. Combine and stand back.

I am almost doubled up with laughter.

The gesticulating man's compadre is running in figures of eight, chasing a small armadillo around the empty road.

All it lacks is some comedy music with a liberal splash of whistles and bangs. I am laughing so hard I'm asphyxiating myself and that's making me laugh even more.

He gets close to the scuttling creature and it changes tack surprisingly quickly for something that looks like it's wearing its dad's armour. We jeer encouragingly, although more for the continuation of the scene than the success of either party.

The armadillo peddles its way away as fast as it can. The man dives after it.

We put our bags on the floor so that we can laugh even harder.

The armadillo is forced to perform a quick skid turn under the wild swipes of his pursuer .

The man catches up again but seems scared of actually picking it up.

The other man remains poised with the open trap that looks less and less likely to be used.

Hand and scaly skin come close. But the moment is missed.

With a final crescendo of cartoonish drama the armadillo leaps into the hedge to bury itself in our minds forever.

And Tom and Jerry sing to us the entire way home.