One wretched afternoon, many moons ago, two Italian tourists were swept away by the broiling seas off Puerto Escondido, México. The locals fought valiantly to save them, but the pair were lost to the pitiless waves. Their memories shall live on, however, through this immense pair of hands.
Las Manos was created by the pair’s loved ones, to represent the helping hands that tried to pluck them from the ocean blue. Located at the northern end of Playa Zicatela, where the boys disappeared, the statue serves as a grim reminder of how dangerous this beach is.
So, as a rule of thumb, you should always swim between the flags.
With their offbeat, gnarled charm, Las Manos demand a moment of quiet reflection from anyone who visits this beautiful, yet deadly, beach. A more haunting Big you’re unlikely to find.
When I paid my respects to Las Manos in 2022 it was, lamentably, looking a little the worse for wear. The base was cracked, the hands were covered in some really quite repulsive graffiti, and it appeared someone had wiped the remains of their taco dinner all over the sculpture.
Forget drugs and corruption, the real problem facing Méxicans is their lack of respect towards oversized novelty structures.
And then, one day, the unthinkable happened…
All Hands on Deck
On July 6, 2023, the Hands of Zicatela finally succumbed to a lack of maintenance and the relentless wash of the salty brine. Las Manos crumbled away and was washed into the ocean, another part of México’s history lost forever.
Even worse, it seemed like those who were commemorated by the piece would be forgotten.
But our story doesn’t end there. Members of the local community banded together to create a new set of hands, unveiled in November of that year. Hard work, no doubt, but I’m sure they celebrated with an icy-cold can of Tecate at the nearby Dorada Bar ‘n’ Gill.
The new set’s larger, more ornate and – dare I say it – provides a better photo opportunity for the tourist hordes. They even have an outrageously-proportion octopus wrapped around their wrists. I have to give the good people of Zicatela a round of applause for their attention to detail!
Where can you have an authentic Méxican meal, get a great night’s rest, and stare in open-mouthed wonder at an incredible Big Thing, all in the same place? Right here at the Presidente InterContinental Hotel in Mexico City’s trendy Polanco district – home to the beautiful and historic El Chapulín.
That’s ‘The Grasshopper’ for you gringos. ¡Buen provecho!
El Chapulín started life as the logo for what was originally known as the Presidente Chapultepec Hotel, and was designed by American artiste Lance Wyman in 1975. Chapultepec means ‘hill of grasshoppers’ in the ancient Aztec language, so it wasn’t a huge leap to settle on a giant insect.
Having previously worked on the iconography for the 1968 Olympics and the Mexico City Metro, Lance brought a touch of class to the emblem, whilst celebrating the vibrant personality of this cheeky chap(ulín).
The minimalist logo was so moving that, not only did the owners slather a 15-metre version of it across the top of the hotel, but also placed an immense stone rendition at the front door to greet customers.
By the way, do you need to tip the doorman if he’s a two-tonne Aztec grasshopper?
“I designed the hotel grasshopper using forms found in the Aztec period,” Lance explained. “When the hotel changed ownership it used a new logo. I remember feeling sad the first time I flew into Mexico City and the 15-meter grasshopper was no longer on top of the hotel.”
Heartbreak, however, soon turned to hoppiness. Whilst the logo atop the building was removed, the stone statue of El Chapulín was saved. He soon moved to his current location in a courtyard opposite the Jardín Winston Churchill.
Thanks, Lance – your work is Chapul-íncredible!
They should’ve called him Dennis Hopper!
So beloved is El Chapulín that there’s even a restaurant, right next to the statue, named in his honour. Serving traditional comida Méxicana, Chapulín is famous for its picaditas de camarón en salsa verde, pollo estilo Sinaloa, and ceviche verde de pescado.
Bizarrely, the restaurant serves neither jalapeño hoppers nor Grasshopper cocktails. When I demanded an answer from the waitress, all I got was crickets. On the plus side, the restaurant’s very clean, so they’ll have no trouble with the health insectors.
When I tore Mexico’s elite away from their meals to tell them those pithy one-liners, they started bugging out. I guess my hilarity’s lost in translation.
“Mmmmm, this tostada de jaiba reminds me of my youth on the streets of Guadalajara,” I gibbered to my mí amiga, Bigella. I paused to elegantly wipe salsa macha from my chin. “I’d rise at dawn to shine shoes all day, just to earn enough dinero to buy a simple carne apache de atún madurado sobre tres piezas de tuétano.” “I thought you grew up in a waterfront bungalow in Vaucluse?” she responded. “Honestly,” I sighed, “my backstory changes so often that even I don’t remember anymore.”
There was an uneasy silence. The two of us stared longingly at El Chapulín as we munched away on our perfectly-prepared postres. Helado de mangos con crema for myself. Pastel de queso a la leña con compota de frutos rojos for Bigella.
“By the way, Bigella,” I said, jabbing an ice cream-sticky finger at her belly. “I’ve been meaning to ask about…” “Too many quesadillas,” Bigella snapped. “It doesn’t have anything to do with what happened that night in Andorra?” “Too many quesadillas.” “I told you, I was overcome by lust after visiting The Ponderer.” “Too. Many. Quesadillas.”
Somewhere, in Parque Chapultepec, a loon cried out on the lake.
Somebody once told me the world is gonna love me I run the best Big Things site you’ve read One day I was having fun eating tacos in the sun When I saw a Big Starfish up ahead
Well, the tears start coming and they don’t stop coming Dodging the traffic, I hit the ground running Didn’t make sense not to run, run, run Towards Fuente del Ceviche, yum, yum, yum!
The Fountain of Fish is a sight to see These photos I’m taking are so sweet! You’ll never see him if you don’t go (GO!) To Cancún, down in México
Hey, now, that’s a Big Star, get your game on, go today Hey, now, that’s a Big Star, he really makes the grade And all that glitters is gold The Big Starfish’s story will be told!
Del Ceviche is a cool Big, so no cold shoulder Built in the early-90s, but looks a bit older Like a graffitied Claudia Schiffer Put on a sombrero, take a picture
The Star’s paint job is getting pretty thin There are homeless there who’ll attack you on a whim His future looks dire. How about yours? With Claw and Ven nearby you will never get bored
Hey, now, that’s a Big Star, it is free and not paid Hey, now, that’s a Big Star, oh is that Randy Quaid? And all that glitters is gold The Big Starfish will never get old!
Go to Cancún! There’s plenty of room In May or June If you don’t, you’re a goon
Oye, esa es una gran estrella, comienza tu juego, ve a jugar Oye, esa es una gran estrella, comienza el programa y cobra Y todo lo que brilla se paga con oro Sólo estrellas fugaces…
A passing cholo asked could I spare some change for gas I need to get myself away from this Big I said sí, sounds bueno to me Let’s get an enchilada with cheese Explore the Yucatan for a few days
Well, the years start coming and they don’t stop coming We visit many Big Things that are stunning Nachi, Caracol our lives were fun Too many nachos, Pedro acts dumb
So much to do, and Bigs to see Road trippin’ life with Pedro is sweet After 20 years the two of us go Back to Fuente del Ceviche – woah!
Hey, now, he’s still a Big Star, he’ll never go away Hey, now, he’s still Big Star, even if his paint fades This parody of All Star‘s getting old Surprised you made it this far, truth be told
And all that glitters is gold I think this quesadilla is growing mold
Forget about Cristiano Ronaldo, Kylie Jenner and Jiffpom the Pomeranian, because there’s only one Instagram influencer who matters – the incomparable Ven a la Luz. This 10m-tall wooden beauty is synonymous with the social media platform, serving as the backdrop for millions – if not billions – of carefully-copped selfies.
No trip to Tulum is complete without a happy snap with this fiery Latina. Her voluptuous curves, haunted eyes and flagrant (although never vulgar) promise of promiscuity surprise and delight all who stand before her. And, unlike most Insta celebs, there’s nary a scrap of silicone nor a bit of botox to be found.
Ven is the crowning achievement of South African visionary Daniel Popper, who spent one long, glorious month piecing her together from rope and natural fibres. Created for the 2018 Art With Me festival, she was originally placed upon Tulum’s world famous white sand beaches.
Tulum’s nascent tourism industry exploded, drawing six-pack wielding gym bros and lip-syncing single mothers, and Bigs-thusiasts from across the oceans. Digital nomad cafes, picturesque but ultimately impractical gyms, Bitcoin boutiques and vegan restaurants sprouted up overnight.
So many photos of Ven a la Luz were posted that the world experienced a short, yet quite destructive, internet crash. Although I’m pretty sure the simultaneous launch of Land of the Bigs had something to do with it.
The line for a photo op with Ven stretched all the way to Cancún. Faced with the prospect of traffic chaos – something unheard of in México – the difficult decision was made to relocate the colossal statue to her current home at the Tulum Sculpture Park.
So popular is Ven that Mr Popper was inspired to craft a similar concrete version in Fort Lauderdale. Thrive, however, is the inverse of Ven; the whimsical mystique of nature replaced by the harsh reality of modernity.
I strongly suggest taking a cute selfie with both women – don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone!
Bigs and Poppy
February 2018, Wednesday, 3:17pm. Your guide through the Land of the Bigs, the inimitable Bigs Bardot, is enjoying a luxurious chamomile tea with a sprig of thyme in the mountains of Sri Lanka. Suddenly, outrageously, the peace is broken by the frantic cries of a distressed installation artist.
“Bigs, Bigs!” the desperate South African wails, and I can tell by his weathered fingers that he is the artist Daniel Popper. “Over here, Poppy,” I gesture, sliding another decadent slice of mudcake into my mouth. “I’ve been waiting for this day to come.”
The wild-eyed artist sits a little too harshly in his seat. I present him with a kind, knowing smile, and pour him a cup of tea. “Drink,” I intimate, repeating it softly until Poppy takes the cup to his lips. “Now, why have you sought my advice?”
“My artworks just aren’t selling,” he weeps. “I mean they’re very large and truly inspired, but they’re just not grabbing the public’s attention. They’ll send me back to the steel mill, Bigs!” “Stephen Cruise worked in a steel mill, and you know what happened to him?” I shrug. “He built Uniform Measure/STACK and became a legend.” “Yes, but I’m not Stephen Cruise, I’m Daniel Popper. I need to find my own way through the dog-eat-dog world of immense outdoor artworks.”
Poppy’s eyes burn a hole in me as he awaits answers. I just sit and sip and watch a quail frolicking in a bird bath. “You need to make something Insta-worthy,” I eventually say. “Create something the whole world wants to like and share and remix, and you shall be the most famous artist on the planet.” “Will that really work?” “Trust me, Poppy, I’m a social media phenomenon.”
“Really?” he gasps. “How many followers do you have?” “Over 200,” I reply nonchalantly. “200 million followers, wow! I had no idea you were so popular!” “Well, Poppy. 200 million. 200 thousand. 200. What’s the difference? And it might be a little bit lower since I had that falling out with the girls from aquarobics and they unfollowed me.”
Daniel Popper grins one of his distant grins, then snaps his fingers. “I’ll do it!” he chirps, then polishes off his tea. And, with that, Daniel Popper trots off to change the face of social media forever
#bigsbardotsavesthedayagain #hero #humble
Tulum, you saw me standin’ alone
The year of our Lord 2024, Tuesday, 11:48pm. An older, wiser, ever-so-slightly more cultured Bigs Bardot basks in the luminescence of Ven a la Luz, as a pale crescent moon rises betwixt the palm trees. With the long lines of admirers gone, the Tulum Sculpture Park is overwhelmed by the hedonistic cadence of the jungle and the crashing waves.
Bigs’ eyes flitter from his phone to Ven and back again, as he feverishly edits his Instagram photos. After finally settling upon the Reyes filter due to its dusty, vintage visage, he posts his selfies with Ven to his growing legion of fans, then puts down his phone. The first likes start ticking by.
Now, the only light comes from the mournful lamps at the base of the statue, and he stares longingly at her ample bosom.
“I made this,” his thinks. “Of course, I have to allow Poppy some of the credit, but… I made this.”
Bigs drifts off into the world of dreams, a vast land of enormous lizards and guitar-wielding chimps, and when he awakens the warming sun is bathing Ven in its glory. Bird calls soon give way to a cacophony of calamity, and when Bigs crashes from the jungle into the main street of Tulum, he is met by scenes of great confusion and violence.
Cars are upturned, store windows smashed in. The boba tea emporium appears to be out of boba tea. The apocalypse has arrived. Bigs grabs a small taco salesman and spins him around just as a jumbo jet falls from the sky, barely missing a dreadlocked travel influencer.
“Señor,” Bigs cries, “what is going on?” “The internet, the internet!” the little guy blubbers. “Someone made an Instagram post last night so popular that it caused the whole network to explode.” “Someone broke the internet?” “Sí, señor, someone broke the internet!”
“What time was the post made?” asks Bigs, but he already knows the answer. “11:48pm.”
Hey, hey, he’s a monkey! And people say he monkeys around But he’s too busy singing In the middle of México Town!
With his outlandish dance moves and carnal passion for raucous bluegrass music, Chango Con Banjo is chimply irresistible! Famous for boogying up a storm on the renowned Avenida Juárez, this funky monkey has been a real ba-boon to the tourism industry since arriving in 2017.
Beloved Méxican artiste José Sacal constructed Chango from bronze, with the aim of bringing a little levity to a chaotic corner of México City. With his preposterous proportions and oversized guitar (which appears to be a Gibbon Les Paul), this Big really is capuchin-credible!
At three metres tall, Chango dominates the streetscape and attracts of steady stream of curious, yet delighted, admirers. His madcap antics are certainly more palatable than the area’s other street performers, who consist of tone-deaf accordion players and street urchins dressed as Spider-Man.
Chango’s behaviour may be colourful, yet his complexion is anything but. He rocks an understated copper hue, which belies his extravagant personality. Call me crazy, but I think the locals should paint him orange-utan!
So popular is this hirsute heartthrob that he even dictates México City’s fashion trends. It’s not uncommon to see Chilangos of all ages strolling through the streets with gaudy monkeys perched atop their happy heads.
Bigella and I, forever the fashionistas, weren’t going to miss out, and blissfully explored the city with colourful critters cuddling our craniums.
It’s the perfect attire for a day of monkeying about in México!
Hey, Mr. Tamarin Man, play a song for me!
Whilst Chango’s bombastic message of love and acceptance comes through loud and clear, this guitar-wielding gorilla does not actually make a sound. I guess José ran out of time to wedge a bluetooth speaker within his bronzed banjo.
However, one simply needs to close their eyes, block out the noise of the passing traffic, and imagine the ebullient concoction of tunes he would play. (Please be mindful that doing so will leave you open to pickpocketing – a small price to pay for such a wholesome experience)
Monkey Wrench by the Foo Fighters. Dance Monkey by Tones and I. His cadence is a sumptuous gumbo of virtual pop-punk pranksters Gorillaz, death metal bad boys Part Chimp and rowdy, guitarless garage rock foursome The Apes. Although largely bereft of vocals, when present, they are eerily reminiscent of Bono-bo from U2.
He then launches into a medley of songs by the rock visionary Warren Zevon – namely Porcelain Monkey, Leave My Monkey Alone, Monkey Wash, Donkey Rinse, Gorilla, You’re a Desperado and the snappily-titled Monkey (which did not, surprisingly, appear on his 1992 live album, The Monkey and the Plywood Violin).
What can I say? Monkeys made Warren an Excitable Boy!
Chango’s performance is mesmerising, but would be even better if he was joined by a band primate on a marmo-set of drums!
By the way, what do you call a 1000kg brass monkey with bananas in his ears? Anything you like, he can’t hear you!
Sizzling, popping, beckoning. Cecina grilling over hot coals awakens something primitive and passionate within even the hardest heart. The smoky aroma, simultaneously sweet and sultry, fills the manic market and tantalises with promises of clandestine desires realised.
A swarthy man, his moustache dripping with perspiration, roughly tosses the fragrant meat upon a plastic plate and then delicately drowns it in mole, the legendary, intoxicating local sauce. Head spinning, one finds a seat between a pair of satin-wrapped abuelas, takes a first uncertain bite of the cuisine, and allows the complex flavours to become all-encompassing.
Laughing, shouting, singing, slurping. The cacophony of sounds sprinkles like spice across the dusty floor. Mescal is suppered. Friendships are forged. Mole is allowed to cascade down chin. One rises, reborn by the gastronomical and sonic feast, before plunging headlong into the street to gape in wonder at the rich tapestry of Méxican life.
This is Oaxaca de Juárez, the land of Seven Moles, and a melting pot of creativity and passion.
Boasting ocre-hued artworks, this whimsical township is the broiling crucible of Latin culture. History rests upon on every cobblestone corner. Street performers dance amongst the traffic. Mask-clad luchadors fly through the night sky. A seemingly-endless procession of weddings – complete with garishly-painted mojiganga puppets – march down the city’s twisting alleyways.
Resting at the foothills of the Sierra Madre mountain range and embellished with a heady mixture of ancient Zapotecan ruins and sublime colonial architecture, Oaxaca has long been the ultimate destination for dreamers, drinkers, and digital nomads alike.
And now you can add Biggies to that list! For Oaxaca is home to a trio of intricately-carved animal heads, El Trio de Jaguares Alebrije, more alluring than the rest of the sights and sounds combined.
And they can all be found atop the legendary – nay, mythical – gift shop known simply as Huizache.
Alebrijie, alakazam!
Turning a corner in Oaxaca’s raucous downtown precinct, one is overcome as El Trio de Jaguares Alebrije burst into view in all their festively-decorated glory. Astonishing. Altruistic. Mesmerising. They are, of course, oversized representations of alebrijies, México’s beloved multi-coloured statues of mythical beasts, examples of which are found in abundance within Huizache’s confines.
The three heads, fastidiously carved over a period of many months, symbolise the natural wonders of Oaxaca. The first Jaguare has been painted a blazing gold like the fiery sun. The second, the shimmering emerald of the cascading rainforests. The third, a deep azure like the cloudless skies.
The bosom of the store proves to be no less enchanting. In a world of disposable nik-naks, Huizache offers something to cherish. The selection is overwhelming, the quality sublime. As the warm desert breeze marinates the store in the melancholy aroma of acacias, one struggles to reach a decision on which statue to take home. A crab, perhaps? Or maybe a shark?
Whatever you choose, the store with the big cat heads out the front is the perfect place to jag a bargain – teehee!
A stranger, satin of hair and porcelain of skin, brushes skin lithely against skin whilst reaching for the same painted iguana, and one briefly contemplates entering terrain hitherto unexplored. One turns, palms clammy, to be met by the beguiling smirk of knockabout Aussie larrikin – and longtime Land of the Bigs devotee – Vince Sorrenti.
Dapper as ever in his tailored suit, Vince insists on posing for a photo with El Trio de Jaguares Alebrije, before launching into a soliloquy of outrageous puns.
“I just bought some food from a Méxican restaurant, but didn’t have time to eat it there,” Vince enthuses, his impeccable timing drawing in a handful of curious locals. “So I ordered it taco!”
One gazes from Vince, to el Jaguares, back to Vince, and the world seems just a little brighter.
Wander along the esoteric streets of downtown Chetumal, as the ocean breeze rustles through the palm trees, and you’ll discover a seashell conch-siderably larger than the rest. This, my friend, is El Caracol Immenso.
Or The Really, Really Big Conch Shell for us gringos – and I’m here to shell you all about her!
Serving as a tribute to both the vibrant local culture and the gleaming shells synonymous with the mystical Yucatan Peninsula, this Big features eye-catching artistry and mar-shell-ous attention to detail. Statuesque and suitably spiky, he really is the shell of the ball!
So colossal is this cowrie that, if you shell be fortunate enough to press your ear to his curvilinear whorl, you won’t simply hear the waves, you’ll hear the entire ocean!
So marvellous is this mollusc that one might expect a crab to scurry out at any moment. Clawdia, however, prefers sipping on mimosas up in Cancun.
Thankfully, there’s no need to shell out for this attraction, because it’s free to visit. And that’s cause for shell-elbration!
I’m on the highway to shell!
Despite his exquisiteness, El Caracol doesn’t enjoy the shell-ebraty status afforded to similar structures in Tewantin and Terrigal, Australia. Surrounded by rustic houses in a quiet back street, most who pass through the sultry paradise of Chetumal shell never revel in his glory.
Although I’m the world’s foremost expert on Big Things, I knew not of the shell’s existence upon arriving in México. In fact, I stumbled upon him whilst navigating the labyrinthine alleyways in search of a vegan tostada. You could say I was shell-shocked to find him! Nachi Cocom and Monumento al Renacimiento may command prime real estate upon the city’s world-famous harbour, yet El Caracol is perhaps the grandest of them all.
Be wary, Biggies, as there is a bikie gang in the area. But don’t worry, because the Shells Angels are more likely to steal a photo of their favourite Big Thing than you wallet. My visit did birth a moment that shell long hang heavy in my psyche, however.
As I was taking a cute shell-fie with El Caracol Immenso, I was approached by a swarthy Land of the Bigs groupie who invited me out for an alcohol-free margarita at one of the town’s vibrant seaside bars, but my cloddishness caused me to decline. Oh, the life of an involuntary shell-ibate!
Okies, that’s enough shell-arity for one day. Toodles!
Nachi Cocom was a brilliant and inspirational Mayan chief who led his people with a stern yet fair hand, before standing up to the Spanish conquistadors as they raided his lands. He also looked really cute in a loin cloth, which is much more important – tee-hee!
Unveiled in 2018 before dozens of shirtless admirers, this statue depicts Nachi in his traditional battle attire, ready to deliver the Spaniards a good ol’ knuckle empanada. The five-metre-tall warrior cuts a handsome figure against the swaying palms and azure Caribbean water of Chetumal’s world-famous harbour.
The Nachi-ral born thriller stands with a slight inclination not because of scoliosis, but to lure his adversaries into a false sense of security. Apparently that’s something trained pugilists do. I wouldn’t know because, when startled, I burst into tears until the bully leaves in disgust. It’s surprisingly effective!
But back to Nachi. He is, in a word, concupiscible. He even has a pet iguana, just waiting to be kissed. Due to his disconcerting two-dimensional proportions, however, I was unable to provide the lizard with his own entry on Land of the Bigs.
Chetumal is a heavenly slice of the real México, a world away from the botoxed lips and digital nomad cafes of nearby Cancún and Tulum. The city is a haven for Biggies as well, with La Gran Caracola and Monumento al Renacimiento just a few minutes away from Nachi.
I must confess that my rudimentary grasp of the Spanish language led me to believe I was going to visit ‘The Big Nacho’, and turned up with corn chips and guacamole. Ever the chameleon, I quickly disrobed instead, but my hardline pescatarian diet meant I was unable to eat my delicious, yet ultimately useless, props.
Oh well, the López family seemed to enjoy their free meal.
Just when you thought it was safe to go back for another mango and jalapeño margarita, along swims a Big who’ll leave your JAWS hanging wide open in horror. Please put your pectoral fins together to welcome Paco el Sharko – and this time, it’s personal!
Serving as an ostentatious anomaly betwixt the swaying palms and braying hawkers of Puerto Escondido’s beachside entertainment precinct, Paco resonates with an ethereal bombasticity that captivates and repulses in equal measure.
Brash, garish and wonderfully vulgar, this must-sea shark’s head is the centrepiece of a gaudy art installation by Zicatela’s world-famous beach. You’ll find pink flamingos, a marlin, and even a strapping young man in a boat. There’s even a wonderfully kitschy concrete wave a few minutes walk away that’s totally tubular, dude!
The massive marine mouth is framed, not drowned out, by these other attractions. He’s tacky in all the right ways – and that’s the tooth!
As the entryway to the Dorada Bar ‘n’ Gill, Paco seduces unsuspecting visitors with his bad boy mystique and promise of cheap food and drinks. The menu is sure to mako you smile, and won’t take a bite out of your budget. All of this is lovingly served by the best-looking busboys in town (hola, Ramón!).
Trust me, after an evening spent swilling two-for-one cocktails you’ll be wishing you were only eaten by a shark!
Even if we’re just dancing in the Shark
Paco looks wonderful during the day, but is truly some-fin to behold under the cover of sharkness. The resturant really comes to life after the sun goes down, and a full moon over an illuminated fish’s head is enough to flake all your dreams come true.
After a big day of signing autographs for my legion of loco latin limpiezas (that means admirers, for you gringos!) I retired to the balcony with a table for one and drinks for two. It’s a hard life, travelling the world in search of the Bigs!
I’m not one to drop names but, as I languidly nibbled on a pollo and chorizo tlayunda I did send a text message to my good friend – and self-confessed Biggie – Amy Shark. The ARIA-award-winning popstar was surprised when I told her I’d met one of her family members in México and then delighted when, after waiting an appropriate length of time to set up the joke, I sent her a photo of Paco. That’s the sort of thing you can do when you rub shoulders with beloved celebrities – but I’m not one to brag.
Oh, how I laughed as I ladelled spoonfuls of deliciously rich molcajete into my gaping maw which, by the end of the night, was hanging as wide open as Paco’s.
Eek, after all that food I think I’m gonna need a bigger pair of trousers!
A tropical island full of women sounds like Hell on Earth to a man of my tastes, so it would take something special to lure me towards México’s Isla Mujeres. That something special arrived in the shape of an enormous iguana – named, creatively, Iguana – and so off I popped to the sultry Island of Women.
Isla Mujeres rests a few kilometres off the golden shores of Cancún, where sunburnt American tourists spend their days crowding around Clawdia the Crab and their evenings stuffing overpriced tacos into their faces. Ultramar run regular ferries to the island from Puerto Juarez, and if you’re lucky you might be entertained by a chubby Mexicán Elvis impersonator during the half-hour trip.
Juan Méndez say Only fajitas rush in But I can’t help eating nachos with you!
El Vis Pérez, Cancún’s third-chubbiest Elvis impersonator
The ferry, shockingly, doesn’t head straight to the Iguana, instead docking in a far less interesting part of the island. I couldn’t find a limousine, so had to jump on an overcrowded party bus like a filthy commoner.
There I was, surrounded by a gang of liquored-up British hooligans (who showed little interest in the cultural importance of oversized roadside attractions), with a voluptuous Latina perched upon my lap, her melon-heavy breasts suffocating me as she attempted to pour tequila down my unwilling gullet. Lo siento, Maria, but those aren’t the sort of Big Things I’m aroused by!
By the time I plunged sweatily from the bus at Punta Sur, my curvy admirer declaring her undying love for me, I was both physically and emotionally drained. I honestly didn’t know if I had the willpower to show the Iguana the reverence she deserved. I shouldn’t have worried, because what I found on that island filled me with a newfound respect for Mexíco and her people.
Hang around for a rep-while and I’ll tell you all about it!
I wish I was in Tijuana, kissing a giant iguana!
Iguanas have long been the symbol of the Yucatan Peninsula and, fortunately, the legions of drug-obsessed tourists haven’t managed to snort or smoke them all yet. The sociable sauropods slither over every scrap of Isla Mujeres, seemingly making a pilgrimage, like me, to the statue of their leader.
The Big Iguana sashayed into this sun-kissed spot in 2001, taking pride of place at the entrance to the island’s popular Sculpture Garden. ‘Iggy’ has changed colours and patterns many times over the years, so maybe she’s part chameleon!
She was all I could skink about as I followed a cluster of cold-blooded critters along the carbuncled coastline. And then there she was, standing proudly over the her kingdom, with the baying brine churning behind her. Queen Iguana, the Monarch of Mujeres.
Iggy’s spines are at once menacing and motherly. Her scales are shockingly lifelike, her eyes deep and regal, as though she knows more than the rest of us ever shall. This is a Big built not simply to attract tourists, but to pay homage to the rich local culture. Falling to my knees to nuzzle her noble nails, I came to realise that women aren’t so bad after all.
But I didn’t let Maria know that!
By the time the tangerine sun dropped into the turquoise sea, my fear of the fairer sex had quelled enough for me to pose not only with Iguana, but with a nearby statue of the shapely Mayan goddess Ixchel. One afternoon with this sublime squamate had done more to cure my fear of gynophobia than years of electroshock therapy ever did.
I love you, Iguana!
Iguana see more!
Has this scaly scamp left you hungry for more? Then scurry along to exotic Taree to see Joanna the Goanna, or spend a frilling afternoon with Frilly the Lizard in beautiful Somersby. There’s also Dirrawuhn, The Big Thorny Devil and The Big Water Dragon. For something closer to Méxicó, stroll over to Costa Rica for an unforgettable encounter with La Iguana. Yes, there’s more than iguana of them!
Honestly, if I had a peso for every Big Lizard I’ve visited, I’d be a chemeleonaire!
It’s common to catch crabs in Cancún and, with cuties like Clawdia, that’s cause for shellebration. Just look at her melon-heavy cephalothorax – who wouldn’t want to drizzle lemon juice all over it ?
The leggy Latina lives atop Ferry’s Cantina, which is famous throughout México for its fresh fish tacos and all-you-clam-eat lobster burritos. I’m on a low-crabohydrate diet, so went with a nip of tequila with a pinch of salt… and some crabtivating conversation with Diego, the restaurant’s ever-attentive busboy. What more could a guy mollusc for!
Better still, it’s right next to the ferry to the salubrious Isla Mujeres, home to the much-loved Iggy la Iguana. I suggest you power up with a plate of tostadas al pastor before making the trip out there – you know how crabby you get when you’re hungry!
I want to scuttle those persistent rumours and say that, despite being enthralled by her soft, pink, juicy meat, Clawdia and I are just claws friends. However, I did go out on a date with Miguel, one of the restaurant’s handsome security prawns, but his feisty Latin temperament was just too much for me.
Honestly, Miguel, did you have to beat up every man who looked my way? You’re shrimpossible sometimes.
Oh well, there’s plenty more shellfish in the crustacean!
