When I was a green, twenty-year-old first timer in this part of the world I remember constantly badgering my travelling companion with questions like "Is this rainforest?....where's the jungle Tom?...are we there yet?"
Perhaps I ought to have paused to listen to my voz interior.
Tom was always adamant however that there was no 'pristine Maya forest' in the Yucatán. For that one had to venture south into his beloved Belize, or indeed into the then alluringly perilous Petén.
I don't think I really need to take the piss out of myjunglehideaway.com, because it kind of does it for itself. My mate at Barefoot Belize should take note: these guys are not even bothering to throw in a classy, custom-made eco-cabaña. No, all you get is your very own five acre plot of jungle in a part of Mexico where there is no jungle.
In the kind of pestilential scrub one finds just a few hundred metres behind the beaches here, it's the hum of the mozzies that one is more likely to hear than the cheeping of colourful birdies and the croaking of tree frogs...but then perhaps one can look upon that as a cosmically-provided tool for tuning up one's ommmming.
Next question, which would be the more appropriately pretentious movie for me to watch tonight? Che, Part II or Rudo y Cursi. You decide...