How safe is it to travel through Latin America and especially Mexico by vehicle?

‘You know, I opened this campsite to take away travellers’ fear of Mexico,’ Raúl tells us at his ranch in the north of the Baja California peninsula. The ranch is less than an hour away from the border between Mexico and the USA. Many people fear this border. There are travellers who believe that as soon as they drive across, they will be mugged, and a corrupt police officer will be waiting on every corner.

We are at the end of our journey through Mexico. Raúl’s ranch is our final stop before the border crossing. And to be completely honest: he doesn’t need to convince us anymore; Mexico enchanted us a long time ago. Staying with him is the unexpected, crowning final.

We spend Good Friday eating fish tacos around the campfire, together with his family and friends who have come here for Easter. The horse ranch is so idyllic that instead of staying for one night, we end up staying for another four – delaying our border crossing into the USA for as long as possible.

Is it really that dangerous to travel through Latin America?

Mexico is the final Latin American country on our journey to Alaska. Before entering the southernmost country in North America, we are warned constantly – far more than with any of the other countries. The last time we experienced this level of intensity was before Nicaragua and Venezuela.

We were told we would experience countless police checks. That the military would have a heavy presence. That we would encounter widespread corruption or indigenous communities demanding money to let us pass. That there would be many closed roads and, of course, cartel violence.

Notice a pattern? It’s essentially the same list as before. Definitely nothing we hadn’t already known or heard about.

Since we were approaching from the south, the negative reports didn’t put us off as quickly as they did many other travellers entering from the north. We had heard similar warnings about almost every country – and after more than 200 police checks in Venezuela, it takes a lot to ruffle our feathers.

Even so, just for fun, we decided to keep track of the checkpoints again. The result? In just under two months, we drove through 34 checkpoints. We were pulled over at 12 of them, and we had to open the boot at 7.

Was money demanded? Not by anyone. Not a single time. Not even remotely.

Between cartel violence and everyday routine

Mexico is not a safe haven – certainly not in certain tourist regions or in the immediate vicinity of the notorious drug cartels. All the same, the day-to-day life of most people is not characterised by violence.

The people we met have adapted to Mexico’s peculiarities. They have all been checked by the police at some point and asked for a small “donation”. There have been curfews due to escalating violence, and they too know countless stories about what the cartels are up to. Their lives are admittedly a little closer to these problems, but even for them, it is not an unremitting daily reality.

No one we interacted with told us about extortion or paying protection money – something we witnessed first-hand in other countries. That this exists in Mexico is indisputable. The fact that the drug trade and the illegal criminal underworld generate vast amounts of money, undermine politics and justice, sow violence and complicate matters is a reality. Especially in impoverished areas where young, unemployed people are promised fast cash. Furthermore, the cartel world is regularised and glamourised through narcocorrido songs, which even make it into the pop charts.

However, in a country inhabited by 134 million people, this is not the reality for the majority. It is the media’s attention that remains glued to it – and the cartels know exactly how to generate that media spotlight. A striking example was the death of El Mencho in February and the subsequent roadblocks across the entire country. If cartel members know one thing, it’s how to bring a state to a standstill in no time.

Even in the state of Jalisco, the main headquarters of the Jalisco Nueva Generación cartel, there is a life that happens entirely outside of the drug trade. The majority of people live completely normal lives – just always a tiny bit closer to the dark side than is the case in Europe.

Are rural roads really that dangerous?

Before we entered the country, we were often advised to stick strictly to the toll roads (cuotas) in Mexico, as they were safer. Hmm. If they mean safer from the countless speed bumps (topes), then it’s true – and you save a lot of time, though they are also horrendously expensive. If they mean safer from police checks, we actually encountered most of them on the toll roads rather than in the small villages. We did, however, avoid driving across the mountains where cartels are known to fight over territory.

Just like in South America, we constantly kept ourselves actively informed: by asking the police, the locals, other travellers or via travel apps. This gives you a good picture of the current situation. If you ever have a bad gut feeling, it is always best to find an alternative route.

We leave Mexico with tears in our eyes. Because here, too, we experienced the hospitality of Latin America in its absolute abundance. The long Easter weekend at Rancho La Bellota was a worthy finale. There is no better description for the people of Latin America: good food, deep conversations, plenty of laughter and an incredible warmth.

If we take a single insight home from this journey, it is this: the vast majority of people are, at their core, simply good.

On the road with stragglers, leaping pupils and a rather skinny giant off Baja California

We are almost too late – and we feel it, too. But well, we are only almost too late. Most of the grey whales have already moved on by the time we arrive in the bay of Bahía La Almeja. The fisherman takes us out anyway. To where the sea flows into the bay. On the off chance, maybe one of these whales will show up after all.

The grey whale that is a straggler

During the summer months, the grey whales dedicate themselves to feeding in the nutrient-rich Bering Sea. But they spend the winter months in the warmer waters of Baja California. They give birth to their calves in the bays, because there they are protected from killer whales.

We head out to the entrance of the bay at full throttle. Long ocean rollers stretch along the coast towards Santa Margarita Island. In the middle, you can barely feel the swell, until a larger wave breaks prematurely after all. Our captain is constantly keeping watch – for the whales and for the waves.

Meanwhile, the peak season for humpback whales is in full swing. Along the southern coast of Baja California, splashing and slapping hits the water from all sides. The young calves are learning to leap, and the adults have to show them how it’s done.

Humpback whales can be found in all the world’s oceans. We have encountered them in Central America before, but we didn’t experience a spectacle quite like the one in Baja California there. The days fly by – or disappear with the current – as we look out at the water, constantly keeping watch for the active giants.

The calves, barely five metres long, are still acting clumsily, while the mother, nearly three times their size, literally catapults herself out of the water. A splash that we can still hear a kilometre away on the beach. The exact reason for the whale breaches is unexplained; it could be against parasites, as play, or for communication. But if that isn’t loud enough, they slap their fins. Individual slaps with the pectoral fin or the fluke onto the water’s surface sound almost like a belly flop from a three-metre diving board.

A song without end

Once we’ve seen more than enough from the beach, we venture out onto the water by boat. Ideally, we would have paddled out directly on our own SUPs or something similar, but there was nothing to be found. And there it is again: mother and calf swimming peacefully along with the currents. Every now and then, a male joins them. Mostly, they are tolerated by the mother cows for protection against killer whales. Because orcas simply like young whale calves – their favourite part is the tongue.

Humpback whales are also present underwater. Albeit far enough away that they can’t be seen, they can certainly be heard. Thanks to a specially shaped larynx, humpback whales can reuse once-inhaled air over and over again to perform long songs. Yes, exactly, entire songs – even with recurring verses. And they learn them from an early age, so that the same population sings the same song – despite the annual adaptation of the hit.

The clock that urges us to continue on

For hours – if not days – we gaze out into the water. The whales, dolphins, rays and fish, the sea lions and sea turtles, the seabirds and crabs provide the best entertainment. Boredom never strikes; it is only time that flies by in a whirlwind. The clock is ticking; it is time to move on.

It is with a heavy heart that we leave the beautiful beaches of southern Baja California. We set off in search of other giants, namely those from the world of plants. To do so, we must swap salt for dust. Fortunately, we know that at our destination, a plunge into the cold sea water awaits us once more.

Then it simply swims past me. The first metre: leathery skin up to ten centimetres thick, speckled with bright little dots like water droplets. This pattern is as unique to each animal as a human fingerprint. Two, three, four metres. There fish still hasn’t passed me. Five, six, seven metres. The tail fin, as tall as a human, glides past me.

And just like that, the massive whale shark has vanished back into the murky sea. I swim after it, which requires a fair amount of stamina. Fortunately, I am wearing fins, otherwise I would hardly be able to keep up with its leisurely cruising speed of about 5 km/h.

Baja California and especially the Sea of Cortez resemble a cold, gargantuan aquarium. We spend all day at a wide variety of beaches – even the annoying sand that constantly steals into the inside of the car is absolutely worth it.

We are constantly looking out at the water. You must not let yourself get distracted, because you regret it instantly. Right by the shore, pelicans and ospreys crash headfirst into the surface in a steep dive to grab their snack and immediately safeguard it from the gulls.

Out on the horizon, sometimes near, sometimes far, a humpback whale calf practises its first, rather clumsy breaches, while the mother right beside it elegantly demonstrates how it is done. No sooner has the whale submerged than dolphins leap past, and shortly before sunset, more and more mobula rays catapult themselves out of the water like skipping stones. In between, a sea lion pops up briefly or a sea turtle comes to the surface to breathe. You quite simply have no chance of getting enough of it.

Only in the evening, when everything is dark, does it seem the right time for a break. Until a loud splash on the water somewhere serves as a reminder: the whales are still swimming past.

The story of the cowboy

It is somewhat surprising to be standing in front of the Muvaca, the Museo del Vaquero de las Californias. What could this arid place possibly have to do with the art of herding as depicted in American films? Much more, as it turns out, than we had ever imagined before stepping inside. After wandering through corridors lined with historic saddles and leather garments, we discover the fascinating story of vaqueros whose legacy travelled much further than they could ever have dreamed.

North America and cowboys seem inseparable, forming the very soul of the Wild West. However, the iconic silhouette of the rider with a hat and spurs did not originate on the plains of Texas, but in viceregal New-Spain, what nowadays is Mexico. Before they were cowboys, they were vaqueros.

Upon their arrival in the Mexica land, the Spaniards encountered dogs and turkeys. The indigenous peoples were unfamiliar with nomadic pastoralism and dedicated themselves to hunting local wildlife and agriculture and they transported goods by sole human force. In South America, meanwhile, they had domesticated alpacas and llamas and bred guinea pigs.

Caiman steak, maize, tomatoes, a brown drink called cacao, and who knows what other delicacies were put in front of the first conquistadors. I picture them looking utterly lost before a table brimming with exotic foods. Unsurprisingly, it did not take them long to bring their own things over.

On subsequent voyages, Columbus brought his livestock with him. Pigs, cows, sheep, goats, and poultry disembarked, making it seem as if a European Noah’s Ark had arrived in the Americas. One might wonder whether this was a biblical rescue or a descent into hell for the indigenous peoples of the Americas. However, without a doubt, it was the dawn of the cowboy era.

‘To the right of the Indies there is an island called California’

Inspired by these myths, the Baja California peninsula was ‘discovered’ by Europeans thanks to expeditions funded by Hernán Cortés. Nevertheless, Cortés did not set foot in what is now the Bay of La Paz until 3 May 1535, on his third attempt. The first expedition failed, and on the second, the crew mutinied under the command of Fortún Jiménez, sealing the tragic fate of the journey. They believed they had reached an island rich in pearls and gold, inhabited solely by black indigenous women. Following the arrival of the Europeans, which spelled catastrophe for the Pericú women inhabiting the southern part of the peninsula at the time, the locals fought back and killed the mutineer.

European settlement of the Baja California peninsula was slow to develop. The extreme aridity, rugged terrain, and lack of supplies discouraged colonists from settling there. Thus, they had to innovate — and who was better suited to the task than the Jesuits?

In 1683, the first Jesuit mission was established in Baja California, bringing with it the first cattle ranches. In these vast, arid expanses, the missionaries realised that they could not herd cattle in the traditional way. Fortunately, however, they were not entirely out of their depth, as the hacienda system was already in place in the Iberian Peninsula, where large herds needed to traverse vast lands to find sufficient forage. So, rather than driving the livestock on foot, they did so on horseback.

The Mexican-American War of 1848 ended with the cession of vast territories to the United States, including California, which became the 31st state in 1850. Ranch culture and the vaquero lifestyle were already deeply entrenched in the region, and having adapted to modern life they endure to this day. Vaqueros in California and the Great Basin region still call themselves ‘buckaroos’ — an English adaptation of the word ‘vaquero’.

Meanwhile, in Spanish Texas, expert horsemen drove Longhorn cattle — a breed highly resistant to drought with immense horns spanning up to 2.4 metres. From 1860 onwards, cattle were driven along long trails northwards to meat commercialisation hubs. A single journey from Texas to Montana could last up to six months.

It was at this time that the role of the cowboy became even more significant in safeguarding the interests of the ranchers. They drove between 2000 and 5000 head of cattle from various owners, each bearing its own brand. It was like a massive jigsaw puzzle, and the cowboys emerged with stories rather than money. It was by no means a well-paid job.

Ultimately, vaquero culture became so deeply integrated into American culture that the cowboy and the buckaroo blended seamlessly in, to the point where cinema and myth erased their Latin roots entirely.

However, here in southern Baja California, a museum tries to set the record straight on this small piece of history.

A small stream winds its way under the bridge, losing itself in the stony, rugged terrain. A simple archway marks the entrance to the recreation area. The ticket booth – a small, rather dilapidated hut – looks deserted. Although the price is posted (5 pesos per person), there is no one in sight to collect the money.

The only neighbour in sight seems to be driving away. I manage to flag her down. ‘The owners are at a party and won’t be back until tomorrow,’ she explains. She adds that it should be absolutely fine if we just stay. Is this our free pass for an overnight stay?

Despite the nearby main road – the only thoroughfare through this area – the spot feels idyllic. Conifers and oaks frame the meadow, and the stream babbles over the rocks with such consistency that small, natural pools have formed over time. There are fire pits and benches.

We knew that we were highly unlikely to find the extremely rare Ambystoma mexicanum here. Yet the mole salamander family has other fascinating members. In Mexico, the word axolote is often used as a general term for salamanders that remain in their larval stage. Many of these species possess the ability of neoteny: they reach sexual maturity without ever shedding their larval form (gills included).

One such species is the plateau tiger salamander (Ambystoma velascii).

Metamorphosis on demand

In the larval stage, the true axolotl and the tiger salamander are barely distinguishable. This often leads to wild-caught A. velascii being mistakenly sold as axolotls. The surprise usually follows in the aquarium: while the true axolotl almost always remains a “child”, the tiger salamander undergoes a complete metamorphosis as soon as conditions (such as water levels or temperature) change. It loses its gills, develops lungs, and leaves the water as a terrestrial salamander.

In the river system where we ended up, however, they apparently remain in the water for life. This usually happens at higher altitudes when they grow up in a body of water free from predatory fish. And that is exactly where we finally find them: tiny, dragon-like creatures with four legs and the characteristic crown of gills. It takes a while before we spot the first specimen in the somewhat murky water, but then we see them everywhere – in all sizes, completely undisturbed in their idyllic world.

When we drive past the ticket booth the next morning to pay, we are met with astonished glances. The owners hadn’t even noticed that anyone had been camping down by the river. To them, the axolotes are simply neighbours in the stream – to us, it was an encounter with yet another wonder of nature.

Or a story about the green cow of Mexico.

The air smells slightly musty after the unexpected rain in a place where it rarely rains. The water falling from the sky has hijacked the power lines; there is no electricity. We are sitting at the bar in near darkness, a shot glass and four bottles of tequila before us. The mobile phone torch serves as a lampshade, the cap of one of the bottles sits on top, scattering the light romantically. We feel like we are in an underground bar in a gangster movie – the perfect place to talk about the unspeakable. And so we do.

José sits elegantly in a blue shirt behind the bar, his sombrero cast aside. He apologises for the lack of power and, with a smile peeking out from beneath his moustache, tells us the story of the Tequilería Casa Puntual. Seeing our keen interest, he also speaks of the reality of Mexico – particularly in a municipality where the mayor was arrested for corruption in January 2026, and where cars were set ablaze just a week before our visit following the death of Mexico’s biggest drug lord.

To understand what we are actually drinking, a look at the numbers helps: 900 million litres of tequila are produced annually. That is equivalent to roughly 360 filled Olympic swimming pools.

However, not everything is 100% tequila. Authentic tequila comes from within a 120-kilometre radius of the village of Tequila. About 20 000 litres are distilled annually in the village itself; the rest comes from the surrounding area, José tells us. Furthermore, 100% tequila may only be bottled in Tequila itself. Otherwise, the regulatory council steps in, as the name has a protected designation of origin – much like Champagne. Tequila is no longer just a drink; it is the flagship export of the Mexican economy.

The basis for this success is the agave, a low-maintenance member of the asparagus family. Yet, depending on demand, it can become a test of patience for any farmer: it blooms only once in its lifetime. As soon as its massive flower spike – reaching up to 12 metres in the Agave americana – shoots towards the sky, its fate is sealed. Shortly after, it dies. Consequently, the true art of tequila lies not in the cultivation of the plant, but in the distilling of the spirit.

A question of origin

Is it Tequila or Mezcal? Mezcal is hardly known abroad, yet the distinction is clear: every tequila is a mezcal (a spirit made from the agave plant), but not every mezcal is a tequila. While mezcal, made from various agave species, undergoes a single distillation process in the palenques, only the heart of the Blue Weber Agave (Agave tequilana) is permitted for tequila, and a double distillation is required. Aside from the white Tequila blanco, other varieties mature in wooden casks for up to three years.

But the world’s thirst is now so great that tequila is often diluted. For the pure drink, the bottle must state “Tequila 100% de Agave”. Otherwise, you are drinking 51% agave spirit mixed with other alcohols, distilled from cheaper options such as cane sugar, for example.

The Aztecs already appreciated the agave, though they mostly chewed on the fibres of the heart or used them to make fabrics. It was the Spaniards who brought the knowledge of distillation and began to burn transform the heart of the plant into a liquid.

Snakes and other reptiles in Mexico – Part II

One swings the lasso, the next takes over if the first throw misses, and a third, armed with a stick, stands guard to ensure the crocodile doesn’t get too close. We intend to catch it, certainly, but contact should only occur on our terms – when it is safe for both human and animal.

That might sound sarcastic; after all, a crocodile is always dangerous. Yes, absolutely. But even these animals can be handled with varying degrees of risk. Since we are currently in Mexico, Michael decided it was the perfect place to learn something new. By chance, he stumbled upon a crocodile-handling course. And, well, why not give it a go?

Even the tamest of animals can be dangerous depending on the situation. With these massive reptiles, the peril is staring you right in the face. Since Michael had already caught small caimans by hand in Bolivia, we now want to learn how the larger specimens are managed using proper equipment.

A Star of Herpetology

Most animals are released back into the wild as soon as they are healthy and capable of survival. Some must stay forever. Take the American Crocodile Canelo, who suffered a broken jaw due to mistreatment; he can no longer open his mouth further than 10 cm and is therefore unable to hunt. Some birds had their wings clipped; for them, freedom would mean certain and immediate death. Or some animals have been imported and are not endemic to the nature, thus can not be set free.

Jeronimo began his career as a biologist counting crocodiles. It is partly thanks to his analyses that protected areas were established and laws passed to safeguard wild populations. It may sound cynical, but the fact that crocodiles can be kept legally on farms for meat and leather production has actually aided wild stocks. These farms are only permitted to operate as long as a minimum population thrives in the wild. Consequently, poaching has plummeted, and species like the Morelet’s crocodile have been removed from the Red List of threatened species.

To further reduce stress, we place a cloth over their eyes. When they cannot see, their entire system shuts down. In this instinctive survival mode, they power down their metabolism—one of many tactics these masters of adaptation have perfected over 200 million years. One of the anatomical wonders is the actively controlled Foramen of Panizza in the right ventricle of the heart. Under water, they can close this valve, preventing blood from being shunted to the lungs. Deoxygenated blood bypasses the lungs and flows directly back into the systemic circulation and to the stomach. This not only allows them to dive for longer but also aids digestion due to the more acidic blood.

Teamwork or couple’s therapy?

With large crocodiles, two hands are no longer enough. This is where lassoing and precise teamwork come into play. From a distance, ropes are used to hold the jaws shut. Crocodiles possess immense biting power, yet they have almost no muscle strength to open their mouths against resistance.

It takes practice to hit the mark, but it works. Then we haul it onto land, where two people secure it. The approach starts at the tail and moves toward the head; you then pin the front legs with your knees and apply pressure to the back without sitting fully on it. A second person does the same with the hind legs.

The skin feels like cool, embossed leather—firm, dry, and surprisingly clean. Once secured, measurements are taken. To weigh the animal, it is trussed up; though it looks barbaric, it is for the safety of everyone involved. Once everything is done, we release it back into the enclosure. This is one of the most dangerous moments.

Despite the knotting technique, a residual risk remains: the crocodile feels the moment the restraints fall and fights back. Michael ends the day with grazed hands from his rodeo ride on the reptile. Our two American crocodile specimens weighed about 80 kg and were over 2.5 metres long; four people were needed to lift them. The largest specimen, Argos, at over 4 metres, would easily push eight people to their limits. We’ll leave that one for another time!

After two days, we say our goodbyes with grazed knees and bruised legs, but proudly holding our certificates as official “crocodile handling experts” in Mexico in our (mostly) intact hands.

Snakes and other reptiles in Mexico – Part I

As we fought our way through millions of bats in Kantemó to reach the hungry rat snakes, we had no idea that shortly afterwards, we would almost be carrying a rattlesnake as an involuntary hitchhiker.

It all begins in total silence. Despite the darkness of the cave, we know the sun hasn’t set yet. But the first few faint wingbeats soon multiply, growing louder and louder. They slice through and churn up the air, which thickens with the scent of guano. Our face masks are meant to protect us from health risks, yet the acrid stench penetrates every filter. The air in the cave vibrates palpably; millions of small mammals are seeking the exit to turn the night into their hunting ground.

The hanging snakes of Kantemó

That is where we must enter. Crouched and only with the pale glow of our torches, we struggle forward. To our left and right, the animals shoot past us, guided by their precise echolocation, which veers them away from our faces at the very last millisecond—most times, at least.

The deeper we venture, the more stifling the air becomes. We are surrounded by life; a fleeting thought of “Patient Zero” creeps in as the walls close in. But we are here for a very specific inhabitant: the yellow red ratsnake (Pseudelaphe flavirufa).

These animals are unique masters of adaptation. Unlike vipers, they do not possess thermal vision. They live in permanent darkness and have never seen daylight—and yet, they see. Their reddish, oversized eyes look like rubies in the torchlight, perfectly adapted for localising bats. The snake colony of Kantemó is estimated at about 100 individuals—a microcosm that survives by hunting bats mid-flight.

In March, the desert on the peninsula Baja California awakens. The air still blows cold from the sea, but the sun is already warming the ground. Amidst dust and thorny bushes, we encounter a different calibre: the rattlesnake.

Venemous snake handling: When Michael’s training saves the day

The rattle makes you shudder instinctively—a sound that goes right through you. We had almost run over a specimen; she was lying exactly between the wheels. Thanks to Michael’s training in handling venomous snakes, we are able to safely get the animal away from the road. All the while, she rattles incessantly with her keratin rattle at the end of her tail—a remnant of every single shed—letting us know she is dangerously venomous.

Rattlesnakes are pit vipers native only to the American continent—but found there from Argentina to Canada. It took us a while to see one, the first one not until Baja California: a Speckled Rattlesnake (Crotalus mitchellii). It was about time, considering most snakes of this species live in Mexico.

This feared species is found on the ground and usually sounds the alarm if you get too close, but when they bite, “dry bites” are rare. Their haemotoxic venom decomposes blood cells, leading to very painful internal bleeding, tissue destruction, and swelling. The only option then is to find a hospital quickly and hope they have antivenom in stock.

It looks like the gateway to a calm, serene, sapphire-blue world. A world of the gods, perhaps just as the Maya imagined it.

You seem to glide weightlessly through the caverns. Where the sun’s rays touch the surface, the water turns turquoise. In the glow of the torches, however, it appears crystal clear; otherwise, there’s only total darkness.

No current, total silence, broken only by the mechanical hiss of the regulator. Were it not for the damp cold creeping into the wetsuit, you wouldn’t feel the water at all. And sometimes a small fish reminds us that we have dived into its world.

The beam of the torch cuts through the darkness. The air bubbles cling to the ceiling like silver Christmas baubles, reflecting the cold artificial light. There is no beginning and no end. As if the surroundings were reflected on the surface of a lake – only from below.

What are cenotes?

The older the cenote, the more likely it is that the ceiling has already collapsed, creating an opening to the surface. Younger cenotes are usually still found in caves, of which there are more than enough in Yucatan; estimates suggest there are over 7,000. Although most contain fresh water, at least in the upper part, there are cenotes where both sea water and fresh water are present, yet they do not mix due to their different densities.

The Mayan world is divided into three parts: the underworld, the earth and the heavens. All caves and caverns are regarded as gateways to the underworld, and although it is called the ‘place of fear’, the underworld is simultaneously a source of life, of the origin.

Researches identified the cenotes as sacred sites due to the many offerings they found in the caves, and even today, though rare, ceremonies are still held. Yet although human sacrifices were made, Xibalbá cannot be compared to the hell of the Christian faith.

It is not a hell, but a testing ground. The deceased pass through the nine levels into which Xibalbá is divided until, after trials, struggles and imposed sufferings, they are permitted to leave the place. The most direct route is via the Ceiba tree, Ceiba pentandra, a sacred tree that connects Xibalbá to the heavens through its roots, trunk and crown.

In fact, all the deceased must pass through the underworld; only those sacrificed, those who have sacrificed themselves, and women who die in childbirth travel directly to the gods in heaven.

Yet as awe-inspiring as the history of the Maya is, today’s reality at the water’s edge often looks far more mundane: it is a multi-million-dollar business.

Holy Tourists

Where priests once made sacrifices to the gods, souvenir shops now line the path to the water. The cenotes remain vital to survival, but no longer just for their drinking water; they are now tourist attractions. Unfortunately, things have reached the point where exorbitant entrance fees are charged, and these are constantly being raised. The owners’ argument? The tourists are willing to pay, so if they don’t like it, they should just visit cenotes abroad. There are indeed cenotes elsewhere, but the problem is that most (and the most impressive) are in Mexico.

Since we’re already in the area, we thought we’d go for a dive. We book a dive online. Most diving schools don’t even have an office you can pop into anymore. We opt for the cheapest deal: two dives in the same Dos Ojos cenote for 170 US dollars.

Almost cheap compared to other online offers. And not much less than the Galapagos, although there we also had a boat trip and lunch included. The value for money is really nowhere near justified in Quintana Roo.

In return, we get to spend the night for free at the fire station and leave the car safely parked there too. Definitely well worth it.

Near Valladolid, there’s a little-known gem: a campsite with a private cenote run by two German expats. We headed there – and weren’t disappointed.

This cenote is the complete opposite of Dos Ojos – not a tourist in sight. They’ve also created a unique entrance: down a spiral staircase, through a rock tunnel and across a (certainly not safety-certified) rope bridge, you descend into the earth’s interior.

There it lies beneath us, Cenote Xnuuk, in the middle of a cave. Only two small light wells let a few rays through at midday when the sun is at its highest point of the year. Fortunately, we no longer rely on daylight, as they have wired and lit everything up. The artificial light is what really brings the cave’s vastness to life. Inside, it’s always 28°C – and as it was so cold during our stay, it felt like a proper spa experience.

This is exactly how we imagined it. Drifting on clear water, alone in a cave. Amidst a silence that permeates everything, interrupted only by the splashing of condensed water droplets. As you watch the roots of the trees in search of the elixir of life, you almost feel as though you can see a Mayan god from Xibalbá venturing up into the world of the living.