I should write more about it. I really should. Mexico was magical. In short, during the whole trip I was background-boy. Twice a day I had to show myself and splash some water or rub some oil on the remarkably funny modelgirl from good ole South Africa. A holiday it was.

Upon arrival the warm wind reminded me of the Curacao days. A pleasant sweat was filling my flamesneakers while I looked for a calm presence amongst 683750 cab drivers that wanted to take me straight to the tequila and prostitution of Cancun. Raul stood there to pick me up. The first pleasant surprise was the following almost two hour drive to Tulum, nice and far away from Cancun, the second surprise was in fact Raul. A Mexican, who lived in Paris for seven years yet returned home, because he missed the surf. He missed the relaxed speed (lach thereof) of his home. We drove to our home for the next four days, and also the old home of Pablo Escobar. Before the USA took him out, he built two houses on the beach: one for him, one for the President of Mexico. Somehow they were friends, who would have thought. We had the Presidents’ place. More importantly, we had the beach, we had the ocean, we had the sun.

In bare feet I limped towards the ocean, feeling the sun burning my white white white skin, the warm wind licking my face and the water surprising my toes. The color of the ocean, the color of the sand, it all hurt my eyes, yet I refused to dull the colors with sunglasses. Raul had to pick up the others, so he left me there alone. In my gorgeous room. With the crew that came with the house. The awkwardness of the language barrier and the fact that they were working there while I was being lazy was established in no-time.

The crew arrived from Paris late at night, the crew-minus-two that is. The photographer and stylist found something fun to stare at in Miami and missed their connecting flight. The next few days I heard so much French it hurt my ears. Not just the sound, but the topics. Handbags drugs dirty cups ex-husbands gay lovers ParisMilanNewYork complaints sighs money. I tried to join them the whole time,wanting to be a nice and social guy, but sometimes I had to grab a snorkel and go. Underwater there are no complaints. No fish was cooler than the other because of a Gucci handbag. Wouldn’t that make for a messed up sequal to Finding Nemo.

The feeling of snorkeling. The feeling of freedom of movement. Having a beat up mask that keeps on filling itself with water. That damn barracuda that wouldn’t stop following. Causing bubbles for the shear reason of feeling them go back up to the surface brushing past your body. Not feeling pain in my ankle. Holding your breath and annoying the crap out of a pair of angelfish (how beautiful is it that they always, always live in pairs) by following them wherever they choose to go. Flipping upside down on the bottom and peering under a rock, knowing a lobster is in there, fearing the same fate as his whole family, and checking if I am carrying a speer gun. Taking a kayak with Raul and going to the outer reef, not caring how far we drifted. Hanging behind the kayak while Raul continued to paddle to a better spot, loosing myself in the bubbletwirls the paddles were creating, figuring out he must be righthanded due to the difference of force between the strokes. The lack of gravity was filling my heart with feelings that made me doubt whether it really was my mask leaking.

The last few days were stunning. At those moments people were suffering. Countries were at war. Nature was getting destroyed. Innocence lost. Yet that moment, I was untouchable in simplicity.

More than a holiday it was.