I felt someone grasp my hand and saw an old man with tanned, tortoise-like skin, wrinkled from a lifetime of experience. He held my hand in a tight, vice-like grip. I thought he was about to admonish me, but then I noticed hope in his wide-open eyes.
"Do it for England, boy. Do it for us…" He said and released my hand.
I strode purposefully forward towards the front of the coach. I knew this was a bad idea, but it was too late now; I had volunteered to drink tequila for England.
We had been on a coach excursion from our Cancun all-inclusive complex to the remains of the Mayan city of Chichen Itza, deep in the Tinúm Municipality, Yucatán State jungle. It was hot—40 degrees hot. The humidity was so exceptionally high that our clothes were drenched with sweat as soon as we got off the air-conditioned coach, and we were immediately surrounded by gangs of mosquitos, preparing to mug us for our blood.
Our tour guide, Jesùs, had told us that two things were essential for the trip: ready-salted crisps, or potato chips in the local lingo, and jungle formula spray. He mentioned them so many times pre-trip that I thought he might be a shareholder of one or both. But as the blood-suckers ignored me and sought out someone who hadn't heeded his advice, I saw the value in his words.
Chichen Itza itself was magnificent. The central Temple of Kukulcán (El Castillo) looked resplendent and shone white like ivory in the late morning sun.
Our guide again proved his worth by leading us on a two-hour tour of the city, giving us detailed stories, the mythology of the Mayan people, and archaeological facts about how the city was rediscovered.
The coach tour party tourists were a mix of people with young families and older retired couples, all English.
On the ride back to our hotels, everyone was sleepy after a day in the sun. Jesùs tried to keep the collective buoyant with interesting stories, jokes, and facts about his home country.
Near the end of the drive, the tour guide said there would be a challenge before passengers were returned to their respective resorts. He would stand for Mexico and needed a volunteer to represent the England.
He produced a bottle of tequila and two glasses. These were not standard shot glasses but short, wide-bottomed coffee mug-sized water glasses from a hotel bar. They were going to be huge shots of tequila.
Jesùs held the two glasses aloft in one hand and the unopened bottle of Jimador in the other, looking hopefully at the trapped audience before him. The passengers looked around at each other, hoping for a volunteer and not wanting to make eye contact with the tour guide in case they were chosen.
"Are there really no volunteers for this challenge?" It was a question and a challenge to our nation's drinking prowess in one. Or that's how I perceived it.
I don't usually drink in front of my children; I like to stay clear-headed around them. But as I sat there on the back seat of the coach with my wife and daughter, I felt my arm slowly rise. Half in disbelief at my action, I looked at my wife, who nodded.
I walked the length of the coach to the front, getting octogenarian support and half-hearted applause along the way until I stood next to Jesùs. He shook my hand and then gave me my empty glass. He started to pour. He poured with steely determination: one shot, two shots, three shots. When he finished, there were at least six standard shots of tequila inside the glass.
I noticed he had poured himself slightly less than me, but this would not perturb me. This moment was my Olympics; and luckily, this was also my chosen sport.
He said to "go" with a cocky look on his face, and as I raised the glass to my mouth, a collective cheer went up in the coach. I heard my elderly cheerleader shout, "Go on, boy." I began pouring the glass's contents into my mouth, the burn hitting the back of my throat as I swallowed it all in two chugs. I looked back at the tour guide only halfway through his glass, and another cheer from the coach party rang out.
Jesùs looked at me in disbelief and stopped drinking. He said something in Spanish that I assumed was a swear word, as I gave him back the empty glass.
As I started walking back to the back of the coach, I received a round of applause. I passed the old man, who grasped my hand again. I'm sure he had tears of pride in his eyes.
The tequila hit me quickly, though. I went from Sober to tipsy in a few minutes. It hit me even harder by the time we reached our hotel.
Jesùs shook my hand as we got off the coach, and I stumbled off, feeling the warm evening air hit me. I had a warm feeling in my stomach that wasn't entirely caused by tequila. I felt trollied but triumphant.
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