We went to Riviera Maya, Mexico in September 2013 and stayed at the foodie, all-inclusive resort El Dorado Casitas Royale. We had a private suite with an outdoor shower, a day bed and a swim-up salt water pool with a bar and a hot tub. I’ll never forget the candlelit dinner on the beach, the coconut macadamia nut pancakes and the phenomenal service we received at the resort. There was plenty to do including a 5k to support the turtle sanctuary, games and activities, and classes and shows.
But this post isn’t about the five-star resort. It’s about our adventure leaving the resort, one of the few times in my life I felt truly scared.
The Situation
While we did spend most of our time lazing around, stuffing our faces, and drinking way too many beach cocktails, we are not usually the beach bum types. So we knew six days of that would need an active reprieve in the middle. Our travel agent booked us a “hiking, rappelling, zip lining, swimming, canoeing” day in Mayan territory. We chose this particular excursion because it was less touristy than Chichen Itza but still explored some history of the native people plus added all of the fun activities.
We were told by our travel agent and again upon check in that on the day of our excursion we should meet the tour guide (who would be in white shorts and a teal polo) in the lobby of the resort at 7 a.m.
The Stumble
We got there early because, duh! But as we stood there watching each other couple get picked up by their tour operator, we started looking at our phones for the time.
7:10…
7:16…
7:27…
Finally at 7:35, an unmarked white van pulled up to the resort lobby. A khaki short-wearing gentleman got out of his van, peeked at a clipboard and spoke my new last name.
Every other vehicle that had pulled up had been wrapped in tour signage and all of them had white shorts and a teal polo.
I gave my partner a dramatic side-eye as I began to consider if it was really the right thing to do, claim that we were The Hendersons.
“He has a clipboard, and knows our name,” whispered my partner.
So we climbed into the white unmarked van with a stranger with whom we didn’t share a native language.
As we drove, neither the guide nor the driver spoke to us. After taking four years of basic Spanish, I could tell they were practicing English, which I thought was charming.
“Gato, cat.”
“Perro, dog.”
“Caballo, horse.”
This went on for more than 45 minutes before I started checking my phone. We were going in the opposite direction of the expected tour. All my internal alarm bells blared and I started to panic. Silently I tried to not alert our captors. I started looking out the window at billboards and signs and, for some reason my non-panicked brain can’t figure out, memorizing license plates and cars near us. Why?!
My partner had of course fallen asleep so I woke him to help me panic.
After a few moments of imagining my horror movie ending on the broadcast news, the driver pulled off the side of the highway.
“This is your stop. Your driver will pick you up soon.”