I’ve extricated myself from Puerto Escondido for a few days, for a quick jaunt down the coast to Barra de la Cruz. This place knocks the socks off Puerto. There are really no words to describe just exactly how amazing it is here. So I’m going to let Phil do it for me: ´Nuff said. -MT (I know this a copout from a real post. I will be doing that shortly when I’m not sat in an expensive Internet cafe.

Regular readers (or in fact, anyone who can deduce the time between two different dates) might be wondering why I haven’t updated the blog in a while. I would love to say that it’s because, in the last couple of weeks, I have been so busy doing varied and wonderful things that I simply haven’t had the time. Sadly, well it’s actually not sad at all, but it’s not the case. Puerto Escondido is an almost magical place that posseses an inate ability to simply suck away time.

A brief interpose to the usual witty and genial banterings for a video update. The first, one of the coolest things I have ever seen: a TV on a lightswitch. Every house should have one. Found in a hotel in Morelia, Mexico. The second, some random Mexican singing. Found in a bar in Mexico City, one is a (drunk) Mexican, the second (doing his best Che Guevara impression) is a (drunk) American. I have no idea what they were singing about, but it was entertaining nevertheless.

As we left Morelia, it quickly became evident that we were heading in just one direction - up. Destination: Zitacuaro at an altitude of around 2000m. The bus takes about 1.5 hours, but that’s largely due to it being a bus in the more traditional sense of the term, that is, it stopped at moreorless every lamppost on the way to pick up all and sundry. But at 100 pesos (about 4.5 quid), we weren’t complaining.

In case you were wondering, one of the hardest parts of writing this blog, is picking a good title for each post. I’m absolutely aware that the title of this post shares the same name as British warbler James Blunt’s first album, which is unfortunate at the very least. However, as I prepared to venture back to Mexico and in to Mexico City, I was equally aware of the reputation of the city - absolutely enormous, jam packed full of people and chaotic beyond imagination.

Well, when I say “one night”, I, of course, mean “about 14 nights or so” in New York, but I’m sure there’s an expression along those lines. Maybe, it was “One Night in San Francisco”, but then I wasn’t in San Francisco so it wouldn’t have made a great deal of sense. In fact, technically speaking, I wasn’t even in New York (it was Stamford, Connecticut) so largely speaking it’s a nonsensical title and a peculiar way to start this latest entry.

My first impression of Cancún was simple. “Oh my God, I want to get out of here.” Fortunately, it turned out to be slightly unwarranted, but the majority of what you hear about Cancún is true. It is full of hotels and fast food chains, it is full of fat tourists and it is full of locals trying to get your money. I was instantly ripped off by the taxi driver. Late in the evening without a clue where I was, I had been persuaded to accept the overpriced taxi with the promise that if the hostel I was heading to was full, then they wouldn’t leave me until we found one that was available.

After a short break in Havana to collect my main rucksack from my casa, Alice, Mum and I were on the bus to Viñales in the Pinar del Rio valley. I’d been persuaded to visit on the grounds of it being a popular destination, but really had few expectations. The bus arrived in Viñales, and we were met with the worst throng of eager local casa-owners that I’d experienced. It was literally a mob scene, as we wrestled our way through to try and recover our bags from the coach, we were bombarded from every direction by people with their business cards, frantically trying to persuade us to stay with them.

Still slightly bitter from the shirt-stealing-Jewish-Chilean-Mexican experience, I arrived in Trinidad, where even the arrival is an experience. In most towns that you visit in Cuba, there´s a mass panic as you get off the bus, as the locals try to entice you in to their casa. Trinidad is no exception but is made worse by the fact that you´re first paraded through the streets in the coach as the next wave of presumably money-laden tourists.

It didn´t take long for the scenery to change dramatically. On the bus leaving Havana, you´re no more than 5 miles from the city boundaries when the vista changes from the derelict built environment of Havana to the rolling countryside of rural Cuba. It´s a stunning and beautiful change, not to mention a very welcome one. Instantly you are presented with a different culture - farming and agriculture, usually sugar or plantain, are very much the focus.