If I had a hammock

With out too much specific effort we have travelled from cowboy country through regions of Aztec, Maya and jungle explorer to find ourselves on what are definitely pirate shores. The car has bargained us a beach-side spot and taken us essentially pot-holing in wetsuits - promoted more silkily as cenote snorkelling:

Setting out into the bush in a stalling, spluttering, watch-me-as-I-crash-into-a-tree- and-nothing-happens, scrapheap challenge vehicle, we made semi-submerged tours of two small-hole-in-the-ground cenotes with a chirpy Catalan photographer and a large Mexican guide with thorough Yankee vernacular who got incredibly frustrated with anything other than Hollywood-sales-pitch levels of enthusiasm from us at all times. The first cavern had large vaulted ceilings and a healthy fish population but it was the second that proved most spectacular for the scraping-between-stalactite- and-stalagmite course the water level allowed us to navigate to the entirely enclosed spot where the lights went out.