The Florida Keys

After meeting up with Dick Cheney and negotiating our exit from Miami (a long, arduous experience that does not need spelt out as it involves too many toll roads and expletives), we headed south to the Everglades National park - specifically Shark Valley. We've always wanted to go to the Everglades - and had really hoped to make it here during our last expedition - because it's the only place in the world where crocodiles and alligators naturally co-exist. The Everglades are massive wetlands covering a large chunk of southern Florida - they used to be a lot bigger, but the growth of nearby cities, as well as a misguided drainage project started in the early 1900s substantially reduced the Everglades. These days many people are dedicated to their survival - as well as the survival of the many species of wildlife that live there - plants, birds, reptiles and animals, including herons, egrets, otters, crocodiles, alligators, snakes and panthers. We spurned the tram ride and instead rented a couple of fixie bikes and biked the 24 kms of loop road through Shark Valley. 

Within thirty seconds of hitting the road, we saw our first alligator. He was basking in the sunshine a mere three metres from us. No wall, no moat, nothing between us. Excuse the slightly blurred photo, I didn't really want to stop. 

By the end of our bike ride, we'd passed dozens of alligators, most of them were right next to us and some of them were massive. We also saw countless big turtles, a hawk hunting and ultimately eating a baby snake as well as many beautiful birds. The Everglades was awesome and a major highlight. 

We followed our bike ride with a short drive. It would have been a long drive, but the recent rain storms had washed out a number of the back roads we wanted to take, and we were uneasy putting Dick Cheney up to the task so early in our relationship, especially given the 'Danger Panthers' signs and the alligators we saw chilling out roadside. So we headed back to the main highway and turned south. Another major highlight soon followed - sunset over the Florida Keys. Just us, miles of road skipping from island to island, a rainbow coloured sky that looked just like the cocktails we were planning on drinking and the Beach Boys singing Kokomo on Dick Cheney's sound system. We dotted from Key to Key, all the way down to the bottom - Key West. Just in time for a festival, as it turned out. So we checked into our hotel and Ray, our friendly hotel attendant, sent us out to Goombay - the weekend festival that kicks of Fantasy Fest - Key West's slightly more grown up Halloween celebration, involving beer and occasional nudity and a little bit of gay pride for good measure. It was lots of fun to watch in short bursts, but the hangovers the next day would have been nasty, so we contented ourselves with some local beer, live music and a bit of seafood chowder.

The next day was a Key West special - sunny, calm and not too humid. We wandered through the local cemetery, famed for its examples of Key West local humour - the resident hypochondriac whose tombstone reads 'I told you I was sick', the cynic's 'I shall miss my so-called friends', the odd 'I'll be back' and the wife's choice 'At least I know where he's sleeping tonight'. 

At the local French bakery we had a chat with a very cool, shaggy haired middle-aged English bloke who spends three months a year living in Key West, and he looked really, really familiar. We have a sneaking suspicion he was an aging rock star, but can't figure out which one (he's definitely not a Rolling Stone). Then to Ernest Hemingway's Key West house. He lived there with his second of four wives - the house was really hers more than his, as she inherited it - he had a habit of leaving one wife for the next. The house is beautiful - situated right next to the lighthouse, so Hemingway could easily find it on his way back from the pub, features the Keys' first swimming pool, a toilet right next to a window so Hemingway could wave to his friends as they passed, as well as 44 cats, all descended from Hemingway's favourite - Snowball, the six-toed cat, and around half of which have six toes themselves. As a keen sports fisherman, Hemingway subscribed to the sailors' superstitious love of six-toed cats. It was at this house that Hemingway wrote around 70% of his works, including A Farewell to Arms (but not The Old Man and the Sea, written in Havana).

Then a walk along the Waterfront, through Mallory Square and back to our hotel - we'd planned on doing a bit of laundry but a series of unfortunate events lead to nearly two hours lost in the launderette. Tempers flared (mostly mine. Mark was his usual calm self). Short swim, quick shower and off for a romantic dinner on a wide veranda of an old villa on Duval Street, surrounded by fairy lights, with a good view of the shenanigans going on by the barely clad festival goers, but no too close either. We jumped aboard the Ghost Train at 9pm, for a ghoul-filled history of Key West. Its past as a godless, yellow-fever infested pirate haven made for some great stories. The best two were definitely the story of the guy who fell in love with a tuberculosis sufferer on her last legs as he was giving her radiation treatment, who then stole her dead body and hid it all over Key West until the chase was up seven years later (her current burial plot is unknown, leading many to believe he stole her body again before his own death), as well as the story of Robert The Doll - a three and a half foot sailor doll - he's roughly the size of a four year old - whose creepy history inspired Chucky, and the Child's Play films. We met Robert at a creepy dark museum that night - he's a beautiful, eerily calm looking doll, with a wall of testimonials and apologies form people who didn't follow his rules when they met him, who then had a series of mostly harmless if somewhat creepy events befall them.

We were really sad to leave Key West the next day. We both agree that  given the opportunity (and the cash), we'd happily live in one of its picturesque wooden villas and beautiful climate.

Introducing... Dick Cheney

Our new travel buddy, and Winston's successor, Dick Cheney, so named because he is a Dodge Charger, robust, grunty, an older model and looks like he wouldn't shy away from gunfire.

Miami

We were a bit sorry to say goodbye to Mexico - mostly because we'd just started coming to terms with the fact everyone speaks Spanish. So it was a relief to find out that 60% of Miami's residents have Spanish as their mother tongue. And it really was awesome to find ourselves back in the States - even if the rain washed down our taxi windows the whole way to our hotel in the north end of the art deco district of South Beach. It was after 8pm by the time we got there - so we grabbed a quick bite at Jerry's Famous Deli on the corner (I was overjoyed to be reunited with my long lost friend, root beer, I'm hoping it's available in Dublin) and then wandered a wee way along Lincoln Road.

Next day was still raining, so we decided to forgo the walking tour of the art deco district that I'd planned out and booked a bus and boat tour of Miami. It was touristy, but good choice - kept us out of the rain and showed us the entire city, including Little Havana, where Elian Gonzales lived for the period he stayed in the USA and where we watched cigars being hand-made Cuban styles (unfortunately the cigar factory in Havana was shut when we were there). We also jumped on a boat and saw Miami from the water - including the numerous celebrity homes that pepper Miami's islands: P Diddy, Elizabeth Taylor, Gloria and Emilio Estefan, Rosie O'Donnell - the biggest house was owned by the head of a pharmaceuticals company, and some German businessman had an air conditioned backyard. We spent the evening drifting along art deco Ocean Drive - an incredible combination of art deco glamour and neon styling. After a beautiful sea food dinner, we grabbed pina coladas at Clevelanders a massive bar, with outdoor counters lit up in neon pint electric tiles, fairy lights climbing every tree, a dance floor over a swimming pool and eighties fabulous music. The other patrons were almost as good as the decor - a bunch of local gals who came running up when they heard their (pretty obscure) favourite song and did a massive choreographed dance, as well as a pretty drunk Dad-aged guy, beautifully dressed in his Ralph Lauren polo and chinos, who started cutting some serious shapes and getting low on the dance floor.

Waking up the next day, we were relieved to see the sun had finally come to the party. So we finally did my art deco walking tour (and also saw Dash /Miami and Miami ink, for those who share my secret shame, and Gianni Versace's former home - he was killed on the steps above), and ended up sitting on South Beach watching the waves roll in. It looked so enticing that we raced home, suited up and came back for a swim. We could have spent hours just watching people on the beach, watching various tourists, the cold water spruikers getting chased away by the 'official' refreshment sellers, the over-inflated local women (For me, Miami will always mean fake eyelashes and massive boob jobs - even the mannequins in the stores have them). We were keen to be rested for the next day - our introduction to our new travelling companion - so after a last wander around our neighbourhood and a slice of pizza for dinner, we were early to bed.

Cancun

Cancun was supposed to be the sun-sand-sea part of our trip. But just after we arrived, a tropical storm hit that lasted for most of the time we were there. After catching up on the sleep we lost as a result of our early exit from Havana, we went into Cancun town to get some genuine Mexican for late lunch. The burritos and tacos were definitely worth the walk in the rain.

The next day we were picked up by the tour bus at 7am for the trip to Chizen Itza. We were the first to be picked up - not much fun when the other people ARE NOT WAITING at the lobbies of their hotels as they are meant to be, and you end up waiting for them to be chased to the bus, which takes, oh, I don't know, forever. As a result we'd been in the bus for nearly two hours before we drove back past our hotel on the way out of Cancun. I was nearly homicidal, even Mark departed from character and was mildly irritated.

The drive out to Chichen Itza was over two hours long - broken up by a visit to a 'genuine' Mayan market, where La Bamba was (finally) playing on the loud speakers. Then finally to Chichen Itza, one of the seven wonders of the modern world. It's a former Mayan city, but its crowning glory is the pyramid, whose ridges and steps and stones tell the time in five different ways - by hours, days, months, years and the 144,000 years or so it takes for all the planets to line up. There is another pyramid built inside the big outer pyramid, and when the sun hits the pyramid at the equinox and solstice, it's built so that strong rays of light appear to stream from the pyramids. 

It's also a bit of an acoustic feat - the top of the pyramid is a very early loudhailer, which allowed the chief to address the whole city. Also, if you stand directly in front of the staircases and clap, a sound effect is created so that your clapping sounds like the call of the colourful bird that lives in the area and that the Mayans held sacred. There's also a temple where (human) sacrifices were made, as well as a beautiful cenote (a sinkhole/watersource). Off the main courtyard of the town, there are less visited ruins which you can touch and walk among. After five minutes of looking around the day was disrupted by a massive rainstorm - and there's nowhere to shelter. Mark bartered a spruiker down to 30 peso (from 50) for a flimsy emergency poncho, which was reduced to tatters before it was out of its packet. It was pretty miserable, but still worth going.

Back in the bus and off for a typical tourist buffet, where you take a bit of everything and so it all tastes like nothing - only this one had Mexicans dancing with beer bottles on their heads. Pretty cool. Then to my favourite part of the day - a massive underground cavern/cenote. We decided not to swim in it, because we were still freezing cold from the rain and had only just dried off. But we really regretted this decision when we got down to the cenote, one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. The photos don't do it justice at all. 

The next day started with rain, ended with rain, and rained the whole way in between. The wind was unbelievably gusty - and it all looked very beautiful from our hotel room window until it started leaking. We spent the day down in tourist Cancun - at a mall, unsuccessfully trying to use the free wifi, grabbing some lunch and checking out the local aquarium, where we got to pat a stingray (slimy) and watched people take part in a dolphin programme where they kind of rode them like waterskis. We grabbed dinner at a family Mexican joint, which was right next door to Hooters and shared outdoor seating. Considering I only have about four words of Spanish, I was very proud when my 'gracias' was so convincing the waiter told me I "could be a Spanish". Unfortunately, he told me my 'adios' could use some practice.

Another early start the next day - the only dry day of our time in Cancun - when we took a trip to the Isla Mujeres (off the coast of Cancun) on board a catamaran. We were dumped in the ocean after about an hour and snorkelled to the catamaran, about forty minutes away. There were plenty of tropical fish, despite the tropical storm which had churned up the water a bit, although the human life was pretty amusing too - especially the older American lady who hadn't figured out that flippers don't work on their own and you actually need to kick. It wasn't so funny for the wee Mexican dude who got the unfortunate job of dragging her back to the catamaran though. After the usual buffet, we sailed into Isla Mujeres. We had a bit over and hour to enjoy there, so we skipped the run of the mill looking market and rented a golf cart. We drove most of the way across the island (slight wrong turn meant we didn't see the 'main sights', but we did see a lot of genuine Mexican dogs on the alternative scenic route). Back on the boat, we cemented our friendship with Dave and Steve, a couple of Bostonian school chums who decided against their usual annual camping catch up and took off for Cancun, leaving the wives and kids at home. All three of the guys parasailed off the back of the catamaran in the late afternoon sun (I decided against... a very convincing excuse involving my contact lenses). 

We all caught the bus back together - but Steve left his towel on the bus. It was hotel issued - comes with a $25 charge if you don't return it - so we tracked him down and arranged to meet up for a beer in town later and return his towel. Tourist Cancun at night is pretty synge - lots of drunk dudes, lots of little kids selling Mexican bracelets on the footpaths, but the real kicker was the dude who had a massive boa constrictor for photo opportunities. Totally put me off my pina colada.

We didn't stay out too long - we didn't want to intrude too much on Steve and Dave's manly catch up., and we had a plane to Miami to catch the next day.

Havana

Our first glimpse of Havana city was at 2am, from the back seat of a taxi at 110ks, no seat-belts, singing along to the driver's Phil Collins CD. We'd spent a fair amount of the night at the first stop on our cuban cultural experience - Jose Marti airport. With a stern "one by one!" from the robotic young female immigration officer, our visas were sternly stamped before we were sternly told "welcome", a buzz sounded and she sternly gestured towards a door next to the booth. For both of us, tired and disoriented, the door was an effort to open, though the robot provided stern midwifesque encouragement... "push!!!"

The second cultural experience was the baggage claim. Weighed down by all the products Cuban people are not allowed to buy (or are rationed), the conveyer belt inched around with bags of toilet paper, toothpaste, clothes, LCD screens, printers. Almost everything had been cut open by customs officials behind the scenes.

Waking up in next day we looked out the window to see Havana at its best. Spanish colonial buildings, set against soviet-looking apartment blocks, locals slouching about along the streets, big 1950's Chevs, Fords and Cadillacs along with dozens of more recent Ladas (the classic lego-car design).

The hotel (Parque Centrale) is right next to Havana's central park, in the old part of the city. Subsequent research reveals that it is probably owned by the Cuban military. Cuba began to open up to tourism in 1992, after the fall of the Soviet Empire meant it lost billions in aid and trade. About 5% of Havana's population works in tourism - because the ability to earn tips over and above the (very low) fixed wages mean it's the most lucrative industry to work in. This means that, as a tourist in Cuba,  you get a lot of attention from spruikers ('Hey amigos, you wanna go to Salsa festival?', 'Happy holidays amigos you wanna buy cigar?'). So our first experience in Havana was getting bullied by a horse and cart driver into taking a trip with him and his horse Marlboro. I do not use the term bullying lightly. He stalked us to the ATM and was waiting outside our hotel when we got back. We wanted to run upstairs and put some money in our safe, so took a different entrance - and he spotted us and ran after us yelling. So, beaten into submission, we took his tour. It was about an hour long and involved him pointing at buildings and saying 'Church!', 'Square!'. Not a lot of information, but it did give us a nice orientation tour of Old Havana, and the cart's hood kept the worst of Havana's scorching rays from exacerbating Mark's sunburn. 

After a short nap and a dip in the roof-top pool, we set off for an evening walk. We headed down La Rambla, modeled on the one in Barcelona - sadly, you get the feeling that if the buildings were well-maintained, this one would be much prettier. Half way along we were accosted by a young man who told us that Cuba was the best country on Earth. Then, after trying to get us to go to a salsa bar, asked us if we could buy milk for his baby in a shop he isn't allowed to use. Cuba has two currencies, the convertible peso (CUC), for tourists, which can be converted into other currencies, and the national peso (CUP) for locals, which can't - and which is also worth about one fourteenth of a convertible peso. So, if you give a local one convertible peso, it's like you've given them fourteen pesos - the gratitude for tips in Havana was a bit heartbreaking. It also means that some shops only use one or other of the currencies, resulting in an effective tourist/Cuban apartheid system in places. Anyway, so this dude wanted us to buy some milk for his baby. I strongly suspected he had no baby, so declined (later we found out that every Cuban kid gets a litre of milk per day in rations). We also found out that you go in, buy the milk for 2CUC (about $2US) and then give it to the dude. He takes the milk back, gets a partial refund from the shop owner and they're both about $1US richer - which is pretty good when you consider that most Cubans have about $20US a month in disposable income (everything they 'need' is rationed [see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rationing_in_Cuba]). 

We wandered along the waterfront - which like most of Havana was filthy but beautiful. Old men fishing off the stone walls that surround the port, others floating in inner tubes on the water trying their luck with their fishing rods. Then back up the plaza in front of the stunning Spanish Embassy and the Museum of the Revolution - the former Presidential Palace in the Batista days and before. Kids were playing soccer, old men were hanging about looking Cuban. 

Past the Granma invasion monument - complete with aircraft and vehicles used in the invasion, and protected by young Cuban soldiers with an incredible ability to remain completely stationary. Then on to Central Park, where the elderly had perfected the art of sitting on park benches looking Cuban and smoking cigars, past the massive Capitolio building (very similar to its estranged cousin in Washington D.C., only as every Cuban will tell you, it's over a metre taller). The Capitolio has a huge garden in front of it, with statues of heroes of the American continent - including Abraham Lincoln, who is much revered in Cuba, although not as much as Che, Camillo Cienfuegos, and nowhere near as much as Cuba's greatest hero Jose Marti who accounts for almost every statue, bust and painting in Havana... or so it seems.  We sat down for what we hoped was a quiet beer under the massive veranda of the Hotel Inglaterra opposite Central Park, however we were soon interrupted by the strains of Guantamera played live from further down the veranda. This was to become a constant theme in our time in Latin America (although, interestingly, we were away for more than a week before we heard La Bamba). Back to the Hotel before midnight, to find a wee note from the lady who cleaned our hotel room saying hello. Over our three days in Havana, we struck up a pleasant correspondence with her. Mark also spent a fair while watching the garbage collector men, who parked in the back alley behind our hotel and went through the rubbish they'd collected, carefully placing the valuable things (partially finished toilet rolls, for example) to one side.

Next day we went to the lobby for our guided tour of Havana. It was the best tour we've ever been on. You're given your own guide, who answers all your questions (to a certain extent) and takes you to the main places and wherever else you want to go. We started by driving to Revolution Square - the largest public square in the world, where the iconic pictures of Che and Camillo gaze down on you from the Military buildings which surround it. 

It is here that the locals celebrate the Triumph of the Revolution, and where Fidel has made most of his celebrated (and lengthy) speeches. Off to the public park in Havana, where the Santeria practice their faith (we saw them playing with beads near where a chicken had recently been sacrificed) and then around the waterfront, past the Hilton which was taken over by the Revolutionary government pretty much just as it was finished - meaning the Hiltons never got to make any money out of it, the Swiss Embassy, which also deals with US immigration issues and which was the scene of protests during the Elian Gonzales days. We then started a walking tour of Old Havana, most of which dates back to the Spanish colonial period. It is ornate, filthy and absolutely beautiful, with large squares surrounded by old hotels with wide, shady verandas, churches, and museums.

Many of these buildings were previously wealthy families' homes and apartments, but were reclaimed by Castro's government in the days following the revolution. Some people are able to continue to occupy these buildings for as long as the family member who owned it prior to the Revolution survives, and then it is taken over by the government, either to use as offices, or to house other Cubans (people who have served the country well are rewarded by being housed in prime real estate). We enjoyed beers and pina coladas with our guide on the rooftop of the Hotel Nacional - Havana's oldest glamour hotel (the Pope stayed here during his visit, and so did Jimmy Carter) with incredible views of the port and the old city. The Hotel Nacional is not far from the Hotel where Ernest Hemingway wrote The Old Man and the Sea, which is set in a village outside of Havana. Apparently the 'Old Man', discussions with whom formed the basis of Hemingway's novel, only died in 2002 at the age of 104, and sat and enjoyed a drink at the same bar, where he met with Hemingway, regularly until he died. You can see why people want to get in tourism - the tip we gave our guide was half the average Cuban monthly wage, but Americans would probably have felt slighted by the tip. We'd been given strict instructions as to what a maximum tip could be - after our guide's stellar effort, we thought he deserved the maximum.

We enjoyed a few beers and a frank discussion with locals at a bar in Central Havana. The arrival of tourism and limited, slow internet in Cuba has opened people's eyes to the comparative luxuries the rest of the world enjoys. There seems to be some desire for change, but also a large amount of apathy. The main desire seems to be the ability to visit other countries - which is near on impossible for Cubans. Mark showed one guy pictures of himself snowboarding on his iPhone - the combination of snow and an iPhone nearly set the guy off. Not to mention their amazement when we told them how Mark sold his car on TradeMe before we left - the internet, the ability to own a car, and then sell it yourself with zero government intervention was incredible to them.

We thought we'd try some genuine Cuban food that night, so headed to a place recommended to us by our guide. It was very meat-centric... and unfortunately the meat was almost unchewable. But the seasoning was good. I was a bit distracted by a waif of a dog with a badly broken leg, who hung around the outside tables. It was a really cute wee thing, but its entire lower leg was bent under and its foot was splayed sideways. As a result its walk was a weird, painful looking lumber. It was heart-wrenching. Our waiter (typical young Cuban man - very tidily dressed with an army-style hair cut)

saw how worried I was about the puppy and gave me a wink - later we noticed as he was clearing our plates he surreptitiously knocked a few pieces of uneaten meat on the ground for it (it was quite chubby, I suspect this happens a bit). Unfortunately, the cleaning lady swept them up not long after - luckily we had saved some in a napkin and left it for the puppy next to a pot-plant. The waiter also got a near rule-breaking tip for being a top bloke.

Next day was hot - again. We got up early to go for a walk before the heat of the day kicked in. We headed for the Museum of the Revolution. Neither of us is hugely clued up about the why and wherefores of the Cuban Revolution and its subsequent relationship with the USA. The Revolution Museum was an interesting (if somewhat text-heavy/exhibit light) way to be shown the official Cuban line on it. Lots of "Triumphs of the Revolution", "Imperialist tyrants" etc etc. There were a few highlights - Che Guevara's beret, Fidel Castro's fabulous wayfarer sunglasses, Raul Castro's jackboots. It's quite hard to know the fact from the propaganda, from any perspective. There was a literacy drive in Cuba in the 60s (I think it was the 60s), which apparently reduced illiteracy to nil... while it is apparently true that Cuba has one of the highest literacy rates in the world, a nil illiteracy rate seems a big call. The Museum was followed by a turn in the rooftop pool, complete with Cuban cocktails. The view overlooking Havana is really curious - many of the old Spanish colonial buildings in Old Havana are unoccupied, and appear to have been hollowed out. It's not clear whether they've just been cleared of any dangers, or whether they're being prepped for something. Apparently Raul Castro is more open to tourism and international interests than his brother, it may be that they're planned for hotels or more museums. Big blue plastic water containers sit on top of most buildings, amid washing lines and kids beating up their little brothers.

After a short siesta we headed off to the Spanish fort overlooking Havana - right as a thunderstorm hit. Big time. While trying to find shelter from the relentless rain, we stumbled across a) a weapons museum which contained both a battering ram and a catapult and b) Che Guevara's post Revolution office, and an interesting exhibition in his honour. There's no denying the man was photogenic. 

Our flight to Cancun left at 7 - so our pick up from the hotel was (dun dun!) 3am... so after a pizza, a beer and the big fat Cuban cigar Mark bought earlier that day from the Cigar factory, we tried to get to sleep in spite of the raucous Havana night that erupted outside our window. Cuba was fabulous - I wouldn't want to live there, but I definitely want to go back and see the whole island next time.

Playa del Carmen

There's not a lot to write about the first couple of days in PlayaCar, without losing our faithful readers (thanks Mums!) through boredom or jealously. Suffice to say, our time at the "all inclusive" resort involved lying on the beach or by the pool, following overweight Americans around the buffet loop, getting a bit sun burnt, a few margaritas, mojitos (made by bartenders Jesus and Angel), cervezas (beers), etc. While working at the numerous resorts is a thankless task for low-paid Mexicans, tourism is basically the only industry here on the Yucatan Peninsula. Around 70% of the numerous hotels are owned by the Spanish, and there are a huge number of them enjoying the fruits of their "second conquest" as the locals call it.

We had one day away from the largesse of the resort, where we took a tour of the Tulum Mayan village, about an hour along the coast. The Mayans were there more for the kai moana than the view, but as you can see from the photos it is beautiful. The Mayans never ventured over the horizon or discovered that wind could power their boats, but they did manage to devise a series of fire-powered light houses to guide their canoes through the gap in the reef and safely to shore.

Just outside the wall of the city was a flea market - inevitable in these sort of places. Aside from all the cheap pseudo-mexican tat, there was an iguana breeder, who also happened to be a talented photograph salesman. With one hand he flung the iguana (now named Iggy Pop as we can't remember its actual name) over my shoulder and the other extracted 50 mexican pesos from my hand. It was surprisingly heavy, soft, and docile.

Internet access in these parts isn't great, so we've been a bit out of the loop on various things. Following the RWC has been particularly difficult though we did manage to catch the AB/Argentina game with a couple of Welsh people in a quiet resort bar.

LAX - Tex - Mex

Thanks to some excellent sleeping pills, we arrived in LA almost unaware that we'd even been on plane. Logic would suggest that, since it was 11am LA time and we'd just slept for 8 hours, we'd be fighting fit to start the day. Logic was quite wrong. We checked into our hotel and then slept for another two hours.

We only had a 20 hour stop in LA (and most of those hours were at night), so had to be near the airport. The unfortunate side to this is that there isn't a whole lot to do near LAX. The closest place of interest was Venice Beach, so we decided to get a bus there. Well, actually, at first we decided to walk. Usually, in our typical (slightly arrogant) Kiwi way, we think everything is close enough to walk and ignore the (mildly overweight) locals telling us to get a bus, and usually it's fine. Luckily, we were too jet-lagged to walk and listened to the advice for once because it would've taken us hours. And we would have missed the delightful cellphone conversation of the gangsta on the bus whose mother had just kicked him out of home by throwing all of his stuff outside. He was also giving helpful advice to a friend who wanted his girlfriend back ("I'm the new Hitch, a'ight?"). Like us, he was a big fan of long distance travel ("I'm a traveller. I like going to foreign places. I'm going to Vegas tomorrow").

After stopping by an LA pet-store (carpet python anyone?) we found our way to the Venice Beach Esplanade. It was warmish, and relatively people-free. After a wee wander along the beachfront we hit the boardwalk and got some Mexican. And then, somehow, we felt tired again. Back to the hotel for a sleep - since we had to get up at 4:30am for the next set of flights. It was a dull three hours in LAX, but we changed some money, played bananagrams, and got breakfast. We slept most of the way to Texas (although I did watch the first two episodes of the Borgias) and then a quick turnaround to fly to Cancun. We flew Continental airlines, and I'm glad we're not doing that again. They had us sitting rows apart, and wouldn't move us because we didn't have children or cancer (not that we want either), the seatback TVs played nothing but ads for pay per view (and who would pay $6US to watch Rumour Has It?) and the air hostesses really couldn't care less about anything. Anyway, landed in Cancun, flew through customs and out into the balmy evening, and before we knew it we were flying down a Mexican highway with our driver, Jimenez, zipping past all the armed police and singing along to (appropriately)  "land down under" on the radio.

By 10pm we were safely at the resort in Playa del Carmen, pinching ourselves that we were actually in Mexico.

Biguana