3B
Wednesday, September 26, 2018 // The Statement 

Cancun the Promised Land of 

American Plight

T

here are certain places I tend 
to avoid when I return to 
my hometown after a year 

away at college. The notorious town 
watering 
holes: 
June 
graduation 

parties, the grocery store on Sunday 
evenings, 
Starbucks. 
These 
three 

places can all be classified by their 
likelihood of neighborhood small talk, 
typically conversations that often 
prompt questions concerning my own 
college experience.

I stepped off the plane and walked 

down a ramp, only to be bombarded 
by salesmen promising their best 
offers. To say it was nauseating would 
be an understatement.

The moment you arrive in Cancun, 

Mexico, you see its natural beauty 
exploited and merchandised to satisfy 
an American clientele. Back and forth 
you are dragged by people giving 
you packets to explore the area. The 
prices are in bright red colors, but the 
salesman looks you in the eye and say, 
“For you ma’am, half the price.”

Before you can step outside to 

find a cab, you have already told 20 
people that you don’t want to buy 
their tourist brochures. Finally, a 
cab. I reach the hotel and I think, 
“I have found peace,” but instead I 
spend the next two hours listening to 
a representative tell me all the things 
the hotel offers. I am gifted perfume 
and 20 additional packets.

Cancun has become the exploited 

mistress of a tired United States. 

I walk down to the beach and 

promptly three hotel workers come 
by to ask me if I’d like a drink. I 
kindly refuse and lay there looking at 
the white sandy beaches, wondering, 
“is this really living?”

I get up to jump into the pool, hoping 

the water is cooler than the beach. 
My senses are quickly overwhelmed. 
There are five restaurants, three 
pools and workers everywhere. One 
of the pools even has a swim-up bar.

I am swimming, but I can’t really 

focus because I hear the voices of 
drunk Americans sitting at the bar 
acting like they rule the world, telling 
their neighbors rather loudly how 
successful they’ve been in life. Drink 
after drink, the voices get louder. 
They never have to leave the hotel. 
They have a pool, the beach, food, 
stores and drinks all in front of them. 
The food is catered to Americans: 
cheese 
quesadillas, 
burgers 
and 

wings. Almost like “The Truman 
Show,” I was in Mexico, but was it 

really Mexico?

I leave the hotel for dinner. On my 

way, I see an infinite row of hotels. 
Once I get to the restaurant, I realize 
that — complete with bright lights, 
people in flamboyant costumes and 
beautiful women dancing— I have 
arrived in Las Vegas. The entire 
strip was an exploited American 
idealization. I see stores like Gucci 
and Hermes, I see clubs that are 
playing Beyoncé and other American 
hits. The scene is adorned with 
classics like Outback Steakhouse and 
Hooters. It felt like Cancun was this 
strip of beauty that served to give 
Americans the world traveler status 
with all the comforts of home. It was 
all too much.

Rather overwhelmed by Cancun, 

I get in a taxi and ask to go to some 
unknown cities, far-off beaches or 
perhaps the Mayan ruins.

In the backseat of the car, I realize 

it takes only 10 minutes to leave the 
commercial Cancun. The taxi driver 
starts chatting and I find out that 
this is the low season. He says the 
real business is Spring Break, when 

all the underage Americans come to 
party because this is where they can 
drink. He tells me how President 
Donald Trump, a former real estate 
developer, wanted to build a hotel 
here but the city said no. He says 
this with pride. The more we drive, 
the more I start to see Mexico — the 
Mexico I had fallen in love with. He 
talks to me about politics and the 
recent presidential election.

Suddenly I am in a different city. 

I get out of the taxi to look around, 
and I ask him to wait. I start walking 
unflooded by tourist packages. I 
actually realize I don’t understand. 
I am hearing neither Spanish nor 
English. The people on the streets 
are speaking in their indigenous 
languages. Finally, a restaurant with 
soft shell tacos de barbacoa. I see the 
hustle and bustle. The landscape is 
no longer in English and overflowing 
with white tourists.

The next day the same taxi driver 

takes me to the Mayan ruins. Here I 
marvel at the impressive history. A 
city and an old empire that had more 
civilization than the wild parts of 

resort Cancun. On the drive back, the 
taxi driver tells me he used to live in 
the United States. He turns around 
and says, “I almost tried to go back, 
but as I faced the border I said it’s not 
worth it.”

I didn’t know how to reply. I was 

smacked with my own privilege. I 
could travel freely. I could enjoy 
Mexico because the dollar-to-peso 
exchange is in our favor. Yet, I didn’t 
want to go back to the U.S., nor did I 
want to go back to my hotel, but this 
was a choice. I wanted to stay and feel 
the humidity and to feel lost because 
I couldn’t speak Mayan.

It began to feel like the resorts and 

hotels populating the strip of Cancun 
were where tourists went to have 
their egos inflated, to be promised 
the “cultural experience,” to be 
treated like royalty with staff at hand 
and to drink. This was not the Mexico 
that I love but this was still a part of 
her truth. Cancun is a reminder that 
you can sell anything to an American, 
but like the Gucci belts at the market, 
there’s no guarantee of authenticity.

BY MARTINA VILLALOBOS, COLUMNIST

Courtesy of Martina Villalobos

