Southern Comfort: Day 21

If anyone has wondered what life as a more mature backpacker is like, then you might want to picture the following; have you ever seen those movies where a grizzled veteran war correspondent is sat at a grubby bar, constantly swigging from a beer bottle, dressed in a sweat stained white vest, fag hanging out the side of the mouth? Occasionally he’ll stub one out in an overflowing ashtray, while tapping out copy with a furrowed brow on an ancient typewriter to be wired to Reuters in the hope of gaining a Pulitzer Prize, but knowing deep down he’ll end up on page 6 just below the horoscope column. Well that’s not a bad proxy for an average evening compiling this blog. You’ll need to change a few minor details; my MacBook Air for the typewriter for example, and the ashtray is no longer an essential item I’m pleased to say, but that picture, in the round, remains largely intact. I very much see myself as a slightly more butch, actually, make that equally butch Kate Aidie than a studio-bound Walter Kronkite anchorman figure and reasonably happy with that fantasy.

I’m pretty sure the Pulitzer people don’t have a blog prize, and if they do, then I’m sure the competition is very stiff. That and all, I’m confident I fit the visual stereotype fairly well, even if the writing itself is a little rough around the edges at times.

I had a long bus ride yesterday from Tampico to Veracruz - about 9 hours. I’d quite forgotten how stressful getting a long haul bus in a completely alien environment is when you only have two and thank you to help the conversation along. There then follows a very sweaty wait to see if the bus lane you’ve selected is the right one, see your rucksack on safely, then keep checking to ensure it isn’t being ransacked while you find your seat on the opposite side and of the bus to where the bags are stored and being rifled through below. As for the ride itself, you grab a snooze, avoiding dribbling on the chunky Mexican lady beside you if possible, and do your best to avoid her dribble in return. Other than that it’s the tense wait for your stop, and then grab what remains of your belongings and troop to the centre of town to look over the hotels on offer. Once you’ve got a feel for the place - am I going to stay just the night because it’s awful? Am I going to stay a couple and try to recharge batteries? And a budget, it’s time to go in and negotiate with an entirely new non-English speaking chunky Mexican lady on the reception desk.

So last night I booked in for three nights at £16 a night in a 4 star (2 by any reasonable standard) beach hotel.

I forgot to add that making Blu-Tak animals while reading your Kindle is an integral part of the creative process