El Cuyo

El Cuyo is located in the very north of the Yucatan Peninsula. Open Street Maps recognises exactly one POI in this small, sleepy fishing village at the end of the world: “Iglesia”. The pampas between the last town of Tizimin and El Cuyo are supposedly also crossed by buses and collectivos, but so rarely that I need a cheap taxi for the last 85 kilometres.

Even during Semana Santa, it is no problem at all to find accommodation here. After five minutes I have a small, cheap hut on the beach. I am the only gringo among a handful of Mexican day trippers in the whole of El Cuyo. From the palm leaves rustling softly in the wind, a higher power whispers to me: “This is your task!” I shiver in 33° Celsius on the turquoise blue sea: “Huh?”.

The change from my previous trip couldn’t be more harsh: so far I’ve been travelling alone on three out of 64 days. Wherever I arrived, there was an immediate hail of golden people, without me performing even the slightest step of a rain dance. Here I urgently need a very effective one, I dance desperately in the glistening sun on the white sandy beach. On the third repetition, at least one street dog comes and looks stupid. Then he tries to rub off my left shoe. Siesta time. Embracing the last remnants of absolutely glowing nights with good friends in a plastic bottle, I sob myself to sleep.

An hour later, a gust of wind wakes me up. Beach warden Carlos considers my religion to be an extreme threat to what he sees as a crowded beach. He first sends me two kilometres in the wrong direction. I would have liked to show him a picture of Valdevaqueros Tarifa in the “low season” – but El Cuyo is a completely internet-free zone.

On the way back, I see two kites on the horizon. Two kilometres further on, I reach my destination. Wonderfully laminar 18 to 20 knots are blowing over mild turquoise waves, and there’s even a world kiter from Bielefeld. I kite until the sun goes down. The waves are up to one metre high and come quite irregularly from different directions.

All three of El Cuyo’s restaurants are closed on Easter Monday. Munching on quesadillas at a snack bar, I watch an insect extermination truck fog up the deserted village of Jahrmekt together with Bielefeld and the sugary waiter.

I like quiet places. El Cuyo is too quiet for me, and too empty. Bielefeld is probably right: buy a property here today and you’ll be a millionaire in a few years. El Cuyo has a lot of potential to become a new kitesurfing hotspot: only 2.5 hours by bus from Cancun airport, and the flights there are cheap. There is endless space and wind sideon, but practically no infrastructure: no kite school, no centre, few restaurants and no internet/phone at all.

After watching the entire “The Godfather Trilogy” as an evening programme, I decide to move on to Bielefeld after two days. My hostel sopa said it wouldn’t be a problem if I left after two nights instead of the four I had paid for. What he didn’t mention was that the old bastard would still keep the money for all four nights. You have to understand that. Peak season. Two out of eight huts are occupied.