“Abrir ahora!” a voice shouted from the spiraled stairs that led to the garage.  The rapid succession of thumps continued, followed by the rattle of keys. There was no chance of evaporating into the air; the knocks grew louder, and more urgent. 

Without delay, a faceless man entered, screaming in a tongue unfamiliar to Andrea’s ear. He marched to the bed where she lay, and spoke with such severity and haste, that it took him several minutes to realize that his words were lost on her. He paused, shoved pesos into her face, and then left just as quickly as he had entered.

It was two in the morning, and Andrea was scared. She could still hear the distant echo of men laughing into their drinks, and women dancing to the hypnotic beat of Cumbia. Andrea’s heart was racing, she didn’t know if the man would come back or not - what am I doing here, she thought. This journey was a bad idea. Andrea collected her belongings, ready for a quick escape, when the man returned with two additional companions.

He lifted his finger, the florescent light of the motel heightened the intensity of this meager action, and pointed – “Gringo.”

***

It takes you by surprise, the natural beauty of Mexico. There is something marvelously romantic hidden in the geometry of the landscape. To the north, the golden plains are laced with crimson. They twist and turn; ascending to formidable peaks.

Arriving in the dead of night, this journey marked the first time that Andrea had ever been to Mexico City.

“¿Cuánto tiempo te vas a quedar para?”

“Ah, um- non intendio”

“¿No entiendo?” Andrea stared blankly, and the guard pursed his lips in frustration. Darting his eyes around the crowded port of entry, the guard hurriedly stamped the passport and directed Andrea to move. That was easier than expected, she thought to herself.

The first night in Mexico was an interesting one. Andrea found her way to Zona Rosa, where she was to meet Raúl, a photojournalist. Andrea was feverish with excitement. She had been anticipating this journey for months, to cut away the concrete confines, and escape into the wild. She felt like she could breathe.

“What are you doing here?” Raúl asked when they met.

“I am following the end of the world celebrations.”

“Do you know where you need to go?”

“Yucatán, Chichen Itza.”

“I can help you, but you must know, never travel at night and stay on the highways.”

The stranger’s words echoed in the deepest parts of Andrea’s temporal lobe, and followed her as she designed her route. Every inhalation brought on a bout of excitement, dilating her pupils and feeding her imagination.

Raúl introduced Andrea to María del Carmen on her last day in the city. María del Carmen had a fair complexion that was creased by age. She spoke little English, but when she did, she spoke with such kindness that, even though it was Andrea’s intention to disobey María del Carmen’s strict instructions, she tried to believe that she would heed her advice – do not travel outside of the highway.

When Andrea left Zona Rosa, and commenced her journey forth, she travelled northeast of the city. The contours of the slopes began to overflow with cascading concrete favelas. At the nearest exit, enthralled by the prospect of a lawless adventure on the el camino de tierra, Andrea said goodbye to the immunity of la autopista. Each turn she made, she memorised, because, although Andrea wanted to disappear into the dust of the slums, she also wanted to keep moving east on her journey.

In the corner of the intersection, bearing an official red stamp of Coke-a-Cola, sat a deli with whitewashed walls. Parking the car, Andrea crossed the dirt road to buy supplies, only to find the deli was barren. She heard a noise, and turned to see a child, no older than 6, crouched in the shade, twitching. He stared at Andrea with jittery eyes, though seemed unable to move. After that day, he began to haunt Andrea’s dreams.

Soon Andrea began to talk to herself. “I know I will find a story. I will finally be an adventurer. I will be standing on the world alone,” she kept repeating.

That night, Andrea found an orange plastered shack amongst the naked concrete favelas. The darkness seeped into every crevice of Orizaban, streets illuminated by shooting ribbons of reds and yellows from the golden glow of beer and blaring advertisements. It was at this hour that drunk eyes began to stare heavily at Andrea.

That night she slept with the light on.

 When Andrea woke in the morning, her dreams haunted her. She could still see hoards of ebony strangers bustling past her and the jittery boy crouching on the pavement, watching her with intensity as she collided with the swarm of foreigners.

Ignoring the “No fumar, por favor” sign, Andrea lit a cigarette and stared at the rusted metal sheets fastened to neighboring shacks. I have come this far, she thought, I cannot stop now.

It was here that Andrea had an idea. Ignoring the advice of María del Carmen, Andrea would venture further into the wilderness. She wanted to leave the blaring advertisements behind and to walk, instead, into the abyss of hidden favelas.

For Andrea, this decision marked the day she opened her mind to truly exploring Mexico, and, as a result, her days were filled with wonder. She would watch in awe as oversized trucks squeezed onto narrow roads, and marvel at women patrolling military checkpoints. Just as eagles swoop on unsuspecting prey, they would lunge at halted vehicles, shoving exotic fruits in the faces of victims.

The military checkpoints became rarer as Andrea travelled south. Instead, they were replaced with noiseless ciudades perdidas. Occasionally she would stop to look around these lost cities, and smell the damp, earthy vapors. They calmed her, and reminded her of home, sometimes spurring her into a dense haze of nostalgia.

The ciudades perdidas fascinated Andrea, not only because it was the first time she had seen small villages completely absent of life, but also because she had read about them in the countless essays on Mexico’s drug war. In one such village, Andrea spent the better half of the afternoon walking up and down the town center, investigating the remnants of a decaying carousel.

Andrea was discovering true loneliness now. Despite her expectations, for she assumed she would meet many travellers destined for Chichen Itza, this journey was much more solitary than anticipated. 

Consequently, when the occasion presented itself, Andrea would stop at plantations to try and communicate with locals.

One day, after fearing that time was against her, Andrea spent an unusually long day confined to the seat of her car. Time to relax she thought. Andrea stopped at a truck stop next to a plantation. 

“Negra Modelo por favor”

The women at the counter looked at each other, and Andrea pointed to a seat, then to them, and then herself. Andrea didn’t care if they understood; she just wanted to enjoy the light breeze that kissed her face. The waitress soon came over with her drink.

“You… What you … here?” A voice spoke from behind.

Andrea turned around to see a group of three men sitting behind her.

“Ah – H-Hola!”

“¿Hablas Español?”

“A-A little -  ah poquito?”

The men looked at each other. Andrea felt exposed, and looked at the women behind the counter. They were staring intently at the three men.

“Mi Javier,” the eldest of the farmers stated.

“Holla señor, mi Andrea.”

“Where you go?”

Andrea pointed down the road.

“I am on the way to Chichen Itza.”

“You by… errr… self?”

Andrea hesitated, from what she could see, there was no harm to tell the truth.

“I by self. I meet amigo at Chichen Itza.”

“Come have a drink,” the eldest asked.

That afternoon Andrea chatted and drank with the men.  Despite the stunted conversation, she had forgotten that she was alone and without a home. Afternoon was soon swallowed by night, and only when the glistening moon shone across the fields, reflecting its figure in the bottle, did Andrea think about leaving. Javier caught Andrea’s consideration, and nodded.

“It is time you leave, do not stop for anyone.”

Andrea bid her friends farewell and left. Intoxicated and feeling anxious at the prospect of finding a place to sleep in the desolate, heavily vegetated area, an eerie thought loomed in the back of her mind. 

Disregarding it, she raced down the blackened road, only stopping at a police checkpoint. 

This is not good, Andrea thought, I am over the limit.

A policeman came up to the car and signalled Andrea to wind down the window. He started speaking, and Andrea once again attempted to articulate that she didn’t understand. The policeman left, and soon after another man followed.

“Ma’am, what are you doing on this road at this time of night?”

“I-ah-I got a little bit lost… I am looking for a hotel.”

“Where are you from?”

“Australia.”

“Well, that’s a long way from home! Listen, you shouldn’t be on this road, period. Whatever you do, do not stop at the nearest village. Drive for thirty minutes and then you will see a small motel. Stay there. Tell them Sgt. Lopez sent you.”

Andrea thanked the officers and left. There was no way that she was going to stay there.

It was that same night, that the three men came into Andrea’s room and declared her a gringo.

“No señor, mi Australia – Aus – tra – li –a!”

Andrea knew that if they did think she was American, she could be kidnaped. She also knew that if she showed her passport, she could also be kidnaped. 

“You give me money!”

“This – this is all I have,” Andrea pointed.

The leader of the group took the money, and as abruptly as they had entered, they vanished.

The morning after the men came into her room, Andrea awoke to a deafening silence. The light in her room was on still on, and money was sprawled over the bed. The intruders had only taken twenty American dollars.

The humidity of the December days was steadily rising. On an unbearably hot day, when Andrea could no longer stand the way the searing sun was melting her skin through the glass of the windscreen, she noticed some children jumping into a river. She stopped the car, wiped the sweat from her face and followed suit. Fully clothed, she dived into the river. The children were silent, and, momentarily, all that could be heard was the plop of the water swallowing Andrea and the chapulines that hummed in the early evening. Despite the untoward behavior of Andrea, the children wearily commenced their activities, occasionally swimming as close as they dared to the foreigner.

Back on the road and seeing only endless stretches of withered feather grass, Andrea began to wonder why she had not begun to encounter celebrants of the Mayan apocalypse.

Entering the refreshingly spacious roads of Mérida, Andrea went straight to Chichen Itza.

“Hello!”

“Hi, I am Andrea!”

“Nice to meet you, I am Justin. Where are you from-- I am from Oregon, are you here for the coming of the new age? The elders have just arrived.”

“Yes I am! I am documenting the event – ah I am from Australia. It’s great to meet you, it has been a while since I have spoken to someone... fluently.”

“Can you send me the pics? How long have you been traveling? We are just building the huts – I guess you might be interested in that guy over there.”

“Yeah, of course. Ahh, nearly two weeks – who is he?”

“He is the owner of the property. He let Synthesis use their property.”

Andrea looked thoughtfully at the elderly man, who was silently watching the foreigners disguised as mystics redevelop his property.

It was in the following days that Chichen Itza truly melted into a pool of filth and decay. Andrea followed the spirituality conferences, where mystics from around the world had convened to perform psychic ceremonies. She saw sacred sites crumble under the steady beat of electric footsteps. Nights were longer than days, and on the 21st of December, Andrea realized that the end of the world was truly here.