Day 43 - Playa del Carmen

Chuck, the large fat man from Tennessee, is in the middle of telling his equally fat daughter all about the proud history of WWE wrestling – from across the other side of the beach. Chucks' equally fat, tooth-lacking wife is letting everyone within a nautical mile know that 'a couple more o' dem Margaretas' and 'she gonna git nekkid'. The Mexican reggae band in the back of the bar is launching into yet another version of Bob Marley's 'Don Juarry'. The guy in the souvenir stand (monkey heads carved from coconuts, sombreros, fake Cuban cigars etc) has just tried to sell me weed. In a few hours, I'll witness a woman who truly believes that you can make yourself understood in any language simply by speaking as loudly as possible. Today, clearly, is the day the cruise liners visit.

Playa del Carmen seems to be to Americans what Mallorca is to the English, or Bali is to the Australians. Like it's bolder, brasher cousin one hour north, Cancun, it's serves the purpose of liberating American dollars from American pockets.

Our first glimpse upon arriving late Monday night was the road known as La Quinta, or Fifth Street. It's an indeterminate length of road, lined with the aforementioned souvenir shops (surely a front?), quasi-designer clothing & accessory boutiques, pharmacies, novelty theme restaurants & fast food joints, and tour companies. It's all about as Mexican as sour cream on your nachos.

But then you carry on walking a little further, away from the sunburnt tourists ambling aimlessly up and down the strip, and you find the beach.

And what a beach is it!

For five days, we've simply marvelled at the way the water changes colour during the day. From a calm aquamarine blue in the morning, to a cloudy crystalline azul before dusk. It's always like stepping into the perfect backyard pool. Cool enough to steal you away from the maddening heat of the town, but warm enough to leave your breath in your chest.

Did I mention the bars and clubs? Big, sprawling, multi-level temples of music, spilling out onto the white sand and filled with fire twirlers, sand floors, bar-swings rather than bar-stools and more thatch than 1980s Britain. Beach as bro. Here, see for yourself.

Add to the mix sand so soft you could sift it through gauze, and you've got a recipe for lazin'. Which is pretty much what we've done. The first day we headed to the supermarket for a couple of fat steaks and a nice bottle of Tanqueray. After we'd polished that off, we made the short twenty metre trip to dive into the water.

On Day 3, we decided twenty metres was a little too far. So we moved into the place across the road, which was only ten metres and had a better view.

Yep, a good beach will forgive a lot.

All the Playa photos are here