Today marks the 5th full day of our Yucatan Peninsula vacation, and we’re currently in beautiful Tulum on the east cost of Quintana Roo, Mexico. (Isla Holbox & Valladolid were great; more to come!) We’re staying in a house (Casa de las Olas) on the very south bit of Tulum’s beachfront, literally the last property before the Sian Ka’an bioreserve & right below Rancho San Eric shown on this map.
We have a lovely 2nd floor vista of the beach & ocean, with a balcony whose doors we leave open in hopes of luring any nearby breezes into our non-air-conditioned eco-room. Being good little temporary eco-hippies, we went to bed fairly early last night with hopes of being lulled to sleep by nothing but waves crashing against the beach.
Instead, our attempted slumber was interrupted by screams of increasing volume from the beach. No, it wasn’t what some of you Mexico skeptics out there may be thinking– these were not screams of narco violence. Rather, these were screams of moron college girls prancing around naked in the surf at midnight.
We both ignored it in silence for a bit. I can understand that when you’re running around in the ocean, drunk and nude, there may be the occasion for a scream every now and then. But it quickly reached the point where I began to wonder if these girls had encountered a new nesting grounds for poisonous jellyfish, or if all of Tulum’s fishermen had suddenly arrived on the scene & had begun to vigorously tickle these twits en masse. Right in front of our window. Ok, I thought silently. That’s enough.
Apparently John sensed my “¿¿en serio??” vibe, as he got up from the bed right about then. “Idiots. They’re probably out there skinny-dipping,” he grumbled.
“Oh, they definitely are,” I informed him. “Didn’t you hear the one shout ‘OMG, are you naked?!?! tee hee hee!’”
John began to glance around the darkened room. “Where’s your camera?” I pointed him towards the camera lying impotently on the side table, with its battery tucked into the charger & rudely suckling away at the house’s limited solar energy reserve… He reassembled the camera, and headed for the balcony.
“This should take care of things pretty quickly,” he said confidently.
He stood at the edge of our terraza, which as you can sort of see from the photo above, is set back a ways from the actual ocean behind the beach, a few palm trees and the roof of the suite on the 1st floor. Obviously, you’re not going to be able to take a photo of someone in the ocean, much less at night. This much is clear to you and I and John. But for all those girls knew, John was a professional journalist with a telephoto lens.
He began snapping photos with as bright of a flash as our little Canon point-and-shoot could muster. The palm trees lit up brilliantly with each click. It took a couple pictures, but suddenly the girls erupted in a flurry of new screeches of actual concern.
“Someone’s up there taking photos of us!!!!” one yelped. “Aaaaaaaaahhh!!!!” shouted another. Most of their other words of wisdom were conveniently blurred by the sounds of the ocean.
The naked beach party quickly began to shift its location, in so taking with it the high-pitched shrills of tipsy coeds. Who knows where it went, but it was no longer directly in front of our peaceful balcony.
I sat on the bed giggling as John finished his photo shoot and returned to bed. “That was easy. But if they come back, I’m going down to the beach with a camera AND a flashlight.”
“Of course you are honey.”
John may not having a glowing future as a paparazzi, but if I’ve learned nothing else, it is that he will always be happy to intercede between me and annoying, drunk, naked, screaming girls.