Everywhere Sammy and I travel, we hear things like “leave [insert major metropolis where actual people live and love and have families and work] as soon as you can!” We tend to heed the advice, knowing how touristic and fake places (like the resort side of Cancún) are basically Vegas-like colonial projects where Americans and other wealthy folks can escape their everyday lives and shop and eat and muse elsewhere.
What I’m trying to say is: yes, we drove by the Vegas strip of Cancún on our way to the hostel we are staying at tonight. We saw glitz and glam and steakhouses galore.
We listened to the blonde American woman in front of us complain endlessly about the colectivo minibus that drove a group of us to our respective resorts / hotels / hostels and I remembered instantly where we were: in the belly of the capitalistic neocolonial first world vacationing in the global south beast.
Sammy and I do our best.
As two Americans with a lot of privileges, we do our best to be quiet and grateful and honor every local person we meet. These are the hotel workers and bus drivers; the servers in restaurants and coffee shops; these are the maids and the mothers, students and teachers and artists. Everyone whose livelihood is connected to the tourist industry, and those who have nothing to do with it. And we do our best to honor their lives while we are in THEIR land, THEIR country, THEIR home.
I didn’t know I would write this, as I lay on my top bunk in our hostel, w Sammy resting below me. These clean white sheets (thank god), the air conditioner, and four other travelers asleep with night masks on (I have mine too).
But there’s a way in which the stark whiteness and / or privilege of tourists screams really loud in Mexico (and many parts of the world). Cancún, Quintana Roo, the Yucatán and Riviera Maya are perhaps the most notable cesspool of this in all of Mexico.
But still, we are here.
And I’m glad we are.
Because just like every other city I’ve been to that others said don’t stay long, I see the beloveds who live their lives here.
We are staying away from the hotel zone, in the center of Cancún. It feels a little like the streets of Veracruz where my family lives. Hot and humid out, metal bars protecting sweet homes. Tropical leaves, a plaza filled with benches and new lovers every few blocks. We even stumbled upon a festival of sorts…an open market with music, food, poetry readings from books at a coffee stand, kids driving little electric bumper cars, kids flinging into the air in bungee chords. Moms eating sweets. Newborns. Aisles of shoes for sale. The smell of burnt sugar. Elote. Nativity scenes still up from Christmas.
I cried as we watched middle aged men and women read from their favorite poetry books into the night, at the mic, with a tiny audience. I felt their faith, their warmth, their depth. I felt the soul of this place open up just the tiniest bit for me. When I feel that, I know I’m exactly where I need to be.
So even though we are leaving Cancun tomorrow, I’m grateful we had the night here (and will be back for a couple days at the end of our trip). I see this place. And maybe it’s also that I haven’t been in Mexico in so long. To hear their sweet, slow, lilting Spanish is like a hug; I hadn’t heard it in a while and it’s comforting.
Amazing to feel long tucked away memories come back to me after 14 years. Traveling to visit friends and family in Mexico with my tios when I was 19 had an impact on me that I recall now. Even just the humidity wrapping around my skin, and noticing the grace and kindness of the folks who call Cancún their home. It all feels more familiar than I expected, and I am grateful for that.
