It was 1996, I was having a rough time working in Mexico City. I was belly dancing in Polanco and living above the Arabic nightclub. My best friend, Kim, came to rescue me, and we bought bus tickets and headed out to explore the country. Eventually we landed in the Yucatan, and our friend, Kayren joined us. We had all heard the stories about the dangers of traveling in Mexico for women. We were traveling on a local bus late one night, when it unexpectedly stopped at a rest stop late. The energy seemed off, and several people seemed to be hanging around and “up to no good” as my father would say. I told Kim and Kayren to not make eye contact with anyone– just walk briskly in and out of the restroom.
Five minutes later, Kayren emerged from the bathroom singing loudly, with her sarong over her head, shimmying her shoulders, and spinning so her skirt flared out. All nervous tension dissolved as people started laughing and one stranger started dancing with her. They applauded for her when we boarded the bus. We returned to our little hut on the beach in Tulum, $10 a night split three ways, and Kim and Kayren climbed into their hammocks to sleep. They had bought them a few days earlier with the intention of sleeping in them so we could save money and get places with only one small bed. It didn’t work out that way, and I knew they’d be cramming themselves into my little bed within the hour saying their backs hurt. Then, we’d all sleep piled on top of each other like puppies, so hot and sweaty in the morning we didn’t even say hello, we just opened the door and plowed into the glistening sea.
That night, I listened to the waves right outside our door, and it sounded like they were shimmying and dancing themselves, and for the first time in my life, I fell asleep laughing.
