Caught the eight o’clock bus to Valladolid. My bike luggage again cost me extra, this time almost as much as the ticket itself. The journey was uneventful. The roadside scenery in the Yucatan is horrendously monotonous and flat. Thick, impenetrable shrub, looking like it struggles against the dryness of the place lines each side of the road. I’m glad I didn’t ride here.

Valladolid is a sleepy town; a pleasant, laid back sort of place. In the bus station I was standing with my bike, copying down the timetable for buses to Playa Del Carmen. A little guiltily I must add, as I felt that it was quite insulting to the town; I’d barely just arrived and I was already plotting my escape. A gorgeous Latina, about my age with light brown, curvy hair, approached me and asked me if I could speak Spanish. Her name was Cecilia, though she pronounced it in a way that it rang sweetly off her tongue; in a way that I couldn’t quite pronounce it. She said she’d come up to me because she’d seen me with the bike and thought I’d be different. Cecilia asked me a lot of questions about my trip and my luggage before I could get a chance to find out anything about her. She was from Columbia and was on holidays with her boyfriend Carlos, who was from Venezuela. Carlos approached us shyly, moments later, with a likeable grin. She was an artist and writer, he was a Communications student in Cuba and they were both trying to settle in Havana. She told me why she liked the social system in Cuba; she may not be able to have a fancy camera or a fancy car, but she had health care and when she has kids (“I want to marry and have kids and watch them grow up in Cuba”) they would get free dancing, singing and art lessons. She said with a scorn how she sees so many children and old women on the streets of Mexico, selling small trinkets and begging for change; yet Mexico is such a rich country. Cecilia agreed that some European countries also have social healthcare and education systems, but people live their lives by stepping on and crushing others in order to always get ahead.

I told them how I wanted to go to Cuba and they encouraged it, especially since I would be on the bicycle and people would look at me in a different way (instead of being a rich, white, foreign tourist I would be a rich, white foreign tourist on a bike, I thought realistically). We swapped emails and went to part ways. I shook Carlos’s hand and as I was about to shake Cecilia’s, she pulled me in towards her in what I thought was quite an intimate and sexy manner, and kissed me on the right cheek, leaving me plenty of time to reciprocate the gesture. Sigh…What a way to start the day. I left the bus station with a grin as wide as a bus.

I wandered off on my bike trying to find a cheap hotel near the plaza. After the bike accident that very nearly killed me, I said I’d never ride helmet-less again, but here I am riding about a lovely Mexican town with the wind in my hair. Damn it felt good. The respectfulness that Mexican drivers have given me while on the bike has definitely given me a false sense of security.

I posted my well-read copy of Che’s Motorcycle Diaries to my friend Stef (the person, not the bicycle…) in California. It was an adventure trying to buy an envelope without knowing the Spanish word for it; sobre, and everyone kept pointing me to the post office (which had none). At the newsagent it took five minutes of bad sign language before the man realised and pulled out the envelopes stacked just behind him. The book cost almost as much to send as it did to buy it, but it’s Che, I thought, and well worth it.

I bought a good coffee at a cafe overlooking the main plaza and then headed off to find the oldest Christian structure in the Yucatan, the church of San Bernadino. The church was at the end of a wide and cobbled street, Calle 41A, running diagonally from all the main streets. The street was bordered by the colourful walls of residences; blues, yellows and reds. It was quiet, empty of cars and only a few people around.

Caught the ferry across to Cozumel at lunchtime. On the jetty, I stopped to look at one of the many stands advertising diving packages. Immediately a bloke approached me and asked if I wanted diving and accommodation. I told him I wanted the three day dive package but only really cheap accommodation. He offered me his apartment for a cheap rate, and I hesitantly agreed without even seeing the place.

Alberto walked me to his car. He obviously doesn’t spend any of the money he makes on his car; the Chevy had door handles missing, inside panels falling off, no rear window and useless seats held together with the seatbelts. He read my mind and explained that he spends all the money he earns as a dive instructor on travelling. That explained why the car was in such bad shape; he had been in Spain holidaying when the last hurricane had swept its way through the island, leaving the Chevy as a rust bucket. Every time we hit a speed bump, the sun roof would come off. I dreaded to think what the apartment was going to be like.

The apartment was on the edge of town, a block away from a large supermarket/cinema complex. Surprisingly, the apartment itself turned out to be pretty nice. He invited me to a dive in the afternoon, gave me directions and left me.

Alberto picked me up from the apartment this morning in the clapped-out Chevy full of divers. We did a fantastic wall dive and saw a turtle. There was a Latin-looking woman on board with her much older American boyfriend. She wore a tiny bikini and had the most amazing cleavage I think I’ve ever seen. We had a long boat ride back to the marina for new tanks and waited for the dive master to show up. He didn’t show, so a young guy who didn’t know any English at all was asked to escort us. Another nice dive, along a colourful reef with large angel fish everywhere.

In the afternoon I set off on the bike for the forty mile ride around the island. It’s not really around the island, only the Southern part. There are no paved roads to the North, only a beaten track on which they do four-wheeler motorbike tours on. The road heading South out of town was mostly quiet, the odd tourist in a rented jeep.

Woke up last night to Alberto throwing stones at the window above my bed. I thought someone was trying to shoot at me. I grabbed my bottle of “León de Tarapaca” vino tinto that I’d bought earlier and hopped into the clapped-out Chevy, now sans sun roof, or rather, now with a star roof. We picked up Carol, who is from Argentina and used to live near the largest mountain in the Americas; Aconcagua. We headed to the East edge of the island where there’s nary an electric light bulb about, and the stars come out in force, a garbled array of diamond dust thrown across the sky.

The party was just getting started. Alberto and I shared the wine, drinking it from grande-sized paper cups. He introduced me to his friends. I met Jesus, a skinny, gnarly triathlete.