The other home

Its hard to describe the feeling as I fly over the turquoise shores of Quintana Roo. Something bordering on ecstasy, but far too calm for that word to fit.



I am alone again - and instead of feeling lonely I feel full. High on myself. Elated. The warm wind that hits me as I exit the airport at Cancun is the same wind that blew me here in the first place. It whispers to me and I shyly yield to its touch like a lover.

I just cannot believe how happy I feel.


I packed Mexico away into a neat box in my head, barely sniffed at in six months, and yet in just a few minutes it tumbles out; a surprise party, bursting with song.


Dogs, casually roaming. Dirt roads, playgrounds for the happiest children I've ever seen. Smells, pulling me in every direction. Old men, gossiping toothlessly from their chairs in the roadside shade. Shrieks of tropical birds, with something to say every minute of the day. People, everywhere, smiling.

And that wind, that soft, warm wind.

I avoid Cancun altogether in favour of the more genuine Puerto Morelos, checking in to a beautiful room at Casitas Kinsol. It is a haven under the shade of fruit trees and the baleful wide eyes of a chihuahua.

I borrow a bike and ride through a few kilometres of mangrove swamp to the white beach, where one of many of today's contented sighs slips out to join the wind. In moments I am paddling the shallow turquoise water, washing myself clean of my 60-hour journey. I make some friends, who buy me a beer. I sink my toes into the sand.

Tonight is full moon. It is as bright as the sun in England. I honour it with enormous prawns a la diabla, re-anointing my mouth with the familiar chilli fire of Mexico. I frequently pause my baptismal meal to tend to a small child, whilst the mother and grandmother serve the locals around me and the father, grandfather and uncle lean back with machismo.

I eat slowly, and afterwards spend a long time sitting at my table, facing the street.