The Mexican resort is vast. A series of resorts tethered by winding paths through the palms, across the sand. We walked home one night from the disco two resorts over, dizzy and sweaty from dance music, drunk on so many tequila sodas that we didn’t notice the warning signs about crocodiles. Crocodiles! We were amazed at our boldness the next day, finally seeing them from the safety of the inter-resort trolley. We had been giddy and loud under the supermoon, bubbling with the thrill of latin dance music and writhing with strangers, playing Safety Trance* from our phones as we walked. Maybe the trance really WAS our safety, cloaking us in beats, masking our buffet-basted flesh from a hungry crocodile.
The buffets here are good, better than they have any right to be. We have skipped meals at the fancy restaurants because we wanted more buffet, more, more tiny bites of foods from the hot tables and ice bowls. I like the cross-pollination here, how I want to combine stuff from across food zones. Lately, I have included a lump of guacamole on every plate, every meal. Why the fuck not, when in Rome, right? I wonder how many avocados this place goes through in a day. I am responsible for at least two avocados every single day, the decadence.
We take our time rising out of slumber in the mornings, being on vacation speed and all. But then we rankle at the politics of the beach chairs, only one third of them occupied, the rest draped in resort towels by people who can’t be seen but have staked their claim. The worst of these have clips holding the towels in place, some workclamps but now more often, they are shaped like flamingoes, palm trees or cocktail shrimp. These were once plain, ugly, utilitarian, but I’ve been coming to all-inclusive resorts for a few years now, long enough to see them cutesy, defanged, normalized. I hate that these people have premeditated this selfish act, stowing clips from home, packing them away in their suitcase. Every time I see a clipped chair, I’m reminded of colonialism, how systems replicate themselves on every level, how there is a sea of empty lounge chairs, all “claimed” — the entitlement of occupiers.** I bet they don’t even tip! Every time I see the clips, I hold myself back from stealing them, breaking them, throwing them in the ocean, but there are boomers everywhere and they stand up for their own kind. I resort to nabbing the empty side tables and give my rage to the sea, let it wash off me in rolling waves until I don’t have to hold it anymore. Let them hold their puny squatter energy for themselves.
There are other animals living among the buildings — iguanas and black birds and skinny capybara cousins and an adorable being called a coati. They look like hybrids of raccoons and monkeys and cats. We watch them move in packs over the spongey green lawns. The birds treat the quiet jacuzzi like their giant birdbath. The iguanas fuck poolside.
We are becoming feral here, speaking to each other in a patois of squawks and inside jokes and shoulder shimmies. We steal extra rolls from the bread table and hide them in dinner napkins. When I think back to our first day here, it took us all night to approach the pack of cool folks from Pittsburg, already sunburned and into an easy rhythm of familiarity with the karaoke DJ. I sang “Hit Me Baby One More Time” and the spell was broken, we fell into the babble of newly forged friends enamoured with each other. We cheered the guy singing “Dragula” because yes, he was one of us too. We promised to meet by the adults-only beach the next day and never saw them again. Resort friends are like that, ships passing in the night, carried on whims and winds and flight schedules shifting of their own accord.
I forgot how nice it is, to curl up on a lounger, damp and shivering, wrapped into a dusty burrito and napping under a canopy, an umbrella, the clear blue sky. Feeling sun soaked and held, drifts of conversation carrying among the gentle roar of the waves, a lion watching you slumber.
*I made a Spotify playlist for our time away, here, let me share some 🌴 vibes 🌴 with you: Robots on Vacay
**I’m not immune here, typing this on an iPhone oceanside in a tourist-dependant economy, but that’s life under capitalism.
I love experiencing life through Amanda’s lens. Bravo!!