It was the end of the winter of 2004. The place is “El Panchan”, emerging like a hidden gem on the fringes of Palenque’s renowned archaeological zone in Chiapas, Mexico. A jungle haven sought-after by intrepid travelers and adventure-seeking backpackers. Picture a map unfurling: a coveted corridor starting in Mexico City, winding through the Sierra Madre states of Oaxaca and Guerrero, crossing the Tehuantepec Isthmus -the narrowest point in the country, between the Pacific and the Atlantic Oceans- into the Gulf states of Veracruz and Tabasco, finally plunging into Chiapas. The route was a seamless stitching of archaeological wonders, sun-kissed beaches, and the allure of “Pueblos Mágicos”. A travel tapestry ending on the Caribbean shores, where most travelers hopped on planes at Cancun International airport to journey home. 

Amidst the sultry serenade of Latin tunes, my bandmates and I played in a dimly lit, soulful, magnetic atmosphere. The air was a medley of forest nuances and intoxicating aromas drifting from the restaurant’s kitchen, mingled with the lingering notes of our music -a feast for the senses. During one of my trips to the men’s room, fueled by wine straight from the bottle, a serendipitous encounter awaited. A glance, a spark akin to a constellation unveiling itself in the cosmic abode. As I scuttled through the packed dining area, a casual eye encounter took place between me and a girl. I knew the feeling -A pinch in my gut reminded me of the same sensation while playing a slow Cuban bolero. It was a sense of recognition. I remember thinking to myself: “I could swear on the balls of my grandpa that girl has been eyeballing me all night”. Determined, I ventured forth. 

After another set of music, and a liberating sip from my wine bottle, I mustered enough confidence to walk up to her and graced her table with a “Hola”. Unanticipated, her face transformed -a canvas of microexpressions revealed her stupefaction. “I do not speak Spanish”, she confessed in a burbled string of words with a southern British English accent, adding a layer of complexity and mischief to our first encounter. Blushing, her porcelain-white skin turned crimson under the candlelit table light, giving her a childish appearance. And so, everything commenced. Monica Mccoffey, her name a rhythmic intricacy amid a jungle nocturnal sonata. An adventure in the making.  

We were fast at ease. Our connection unfolded seamlessly, as if our souls had rehearsed this script before. Conversation flowed like the white waters of a river, navigating energetically between the heavily polished rocks which make the water crash and splash. Likewise, the fun and excitement we shared manifested in euphoric laughter and lively discussions. Our first contact, a choreography we danced to the jungle’s heartbeat. 

We embarked on a moonlit promenade, a clandestine journey to my “secret spot”. A nook in the forest, ideal for peace and quiet. I used to visit this place to gather myself around the water for relaxation and a quick dip on a hot day. It was a small clearing that branched off from a main hiking trail. The path, a whimsical labyrinth that almost demanded the blade of a machete to clear out the way, and we, almost crawling, reached a magnificent haven that opened before our eyes in a vault beneath the tree canopy. I could hear Monica’s panting behind me, blindly following my steps.  

There was a creek running across the uneven, sloped terrain, forming small waterfalls that carved two staggered small pools slightly larger than a hot tub. Clothes shed, we skinny-dipped in the transparence of the moonlit crystal clear waters. Like two magnets, our bodies sought one another immersed in the chilly medium. We hugged and kissed, feeling the contour of our shapes twitch in the effervescence of the moment. Time stood still, our hearts racing at a flattening speed; it felt as if we were glaring in the dark. A tacit agreement of unspoken words ensued; a communion etched in the peacefulness of the forest.  

“This is already promising to be an awesome sabbatical”, uttered Monica, “I can’t believe this is happening; I’m having such a sweet time here in the dark of the jungle with a complete stranger…, and I am loving it!”, her voice trembled. She invited me to spend the night at her cabin.  

The next evening, she was back at the restaurant with two German friends. They had met after a bus ride from Mexico City to some town in Oaxaca, and then again and again in subsequent iterations of stops on the map and bus rides along the way, until all three of them realized they had almost the same itinerary, so they tagged along for the rest of their travels. 

What happened that night was almost a carbon copy of the previous one. It was her last night in Palenque; she was leaving with the German girls for the next stop on their trip. We said our goodbyes at the break of day, under the rain on a muddy road at the edge of the jungle, where she waited for the public transport that would take her to take her bus. We kissed and hugged for a bittersweet moment that seemed too short and too long at the same time. We didn’t say much. Words choked us up and they didn’t make much sense. It was all about dissimulated emotions and watery eyeballs. I saw her van get smaller and smaller as it got farther and farther, leaving me standing alone with my thoughts and emotions, on edge. I returned to the cabin where we had spent our last night together. I dozed briefly before I too left on my way. 

Time passed with its habitual cadence. My routine kept alternating between the student life on weekdays and weekends playing music out of town. We performed a couple more times at El Panchan, and then, we got invited to go hitch a gig in Isla Mujeres, a quaint small island off the coast of Cancun. The prospect of spending some time playing music and having fun with my friends on an island full of youth from the four corners of the world made me jump on a 14-hour bus ride to Cancun and a ferry ride to the said island. I arrived in Isla Mujeres feeling my rear end flatter than a stack of stale tortillas, but I managed to strike a good business deal. The owner of the venue in Isla Mujeres was a mild mannered American lady seasoned in the sun; she must have been in her late fifties, although she looked in her mid-seventies. She resembled a piece of beef jerky. Her expectation was for us to take residence at “The Weary Traveler Inn” in the two following weeks, give or take. 

Meanwhile, I received an email from Monica Mccoffey. In it she jokingly thanked me for my services as a jungle tour guide…and everything else! It was a short message where she expressed her gratitude and regret for circumstances not being conducive for us to see each other again. We had a fun time together. We made memories that would last a lifetime, and by all accounts, it seemed as if we had managed to create a connection, although it was cut short. From the get-go we knew the circumstances were not on our side. There was no possibility, no promise and no expectation for anything more than what happened. We accepted the hard, cold facts, unsuspecting that right there and then, we were closer than ever to each other since her departure from the jungle cabin on that rainy morning, almost a month back. It is as if the stars were in perfect alignment for us to get together once again. She was in Playa del Carmen, about two hours from my position on the map. We arranged for a meet up, this time on the beach.  

I rushed back to my hotel room, took a quick shower and had a short nap. The heat was scorching, and I was so tired from my hectic schedule over the last few weeks, plus the many hours of my overnight bus odyssey. I felt like a female baboon after being battered by a herd of males during mating season. But hearing from Monica and taking a Mexican power nap freshened me up like a washed and chopped head of lettuce. “Ready for the salad”, I thought to myself. Then I headed to the beach. Along the way, I picked up two tall cans, a cucumber, two mangoes, a bag of potato chips and a ball of “quesillo” cheese. I got there faster than you can say Chalo. The entire surface of Isla Mujeres can be crossed back and forth in all directions in a matter of minutes, although most people use bicycles or golf carts for convenience. 

There she was. Average tall girl, long legs, auburn medium-long hair, blue eyes and beautiful swine-pink skin that made all her freckles, beauty marks and small blemishes stand out. Coming from England, she couldn’t hide her addiction to the sun. Her overexposure to it for the last couple of weeks was apparent. I almost didn’t recognize her; her craggier and messier look made her sexier than before -maybe it was my hormones. We stationed ourselves on the sand of a quiet beach. We made cheese sandwiches, ate mangoes, drank beer, frolicked, laughed and had fun like two juvenile otters in the warm turquoise waters. We recalled our sweet time in the jungle and sealed the moment with a kiss. At the end of the day, tired of our playful afternoon, we sat in silence blending in with the colours of a picture-perfect sunset, mesmerized by the soft susurration of the waves . Being together again was exhilarating but we were more aware than ever that this was bringing us closer to the sharp edge of an imminent, definitive farewell. 

At night we treated ourselves to a soiree of dance, drinks and romancing, hopping from bar to club, on repeat, until our bodies could take no more partying. It was elating! We went to bed juiced. I woke up sticky with sweat, lying on the beach. Sand found its way into every orifice and crevice of my body. I wondered if some crawling creature would suddenly dash out of my pooper or my mouth. A punishing sun pierced through my closed eyelids, like a hundred thousand little piranhas gnawing on my bean bag. I opened my eyes and sat up too fast, making myself lightheaded and queasy. Monica was curled up next to me, barefoot; her cleavage exposing the freckles and tan lines on her back. Part of her lower lip and side of her mouth looked like a Schnitzel, as a patch of sand stuck to the corner of her mouth, revealing she had drooled. I woke her up and we took a quick dip in the sea to rid ourselves from the sand, then headed to the breakfast sandwich shop. Freshly ground coffee and we were up, ready for the next rodeo! 

That’s about how the ball game used to go back in the splendor of my twenties. Monica and I played the same drill over and over again for another two or three nights, enjoying our ephemeral springtime romance intensely -no excuses, no expectations and no limitations. After she left Mexico, we kept dropping each other a line more or less regularly until the final leg of her trip in Australia, where she told me about her adventures in the southern hemisphere with the luxury of detail. She would keep sending occasional emails, until we lost touch with each other. I didn’t hear from Monica Mccoffey ever again, although I kept thinking of our adventures in the sun from time to time. Life just kept its inexorable path.  

Her memory and the fleeting but fun-packed times we spent in southern Mexico are a sweet reminder of the amazing and reckless escapades of my younger years. Those were the days when playing music with my friends, travelling and relishing life’s simple pleasures was all I lived for. As I grew older, my motto became “Live, Love, and Learn,” and my commitment was to keep my inner child thriving, along with nurturing a curious and free spirit—no concessions.