“Alright! Here’s what we are going to do:
We are going to go to the bar.
We are going to drink some drinks.
And then.
We’re out.”
So began my friends’ and my going out chant each night during our stay in Cancún, Mexico. Originally from a stand-up comedy routine, this chant become our call-to-arms for going out to clubs and having drinks on the town. Moreover, it symbolized the “stereotypical”—although perhaps not accurate—College Student Spring Break routine: a time for raging rather than for relaxing.
To describe my own experience in the terms of one of my friends: it was “LIT.” In other words, as a male extrovert who sometimes enjoys crowded spaces with a lot of small talk, the clubs and the atmosphere were electric. Between the beach during the day and going out at night, it was easy to forget about Duke’s stressors, finally unwind and live in the present.
Nothing was going to make me snap out of my much-needed state of bliss—well, except for one thing.
On our third night in Cancún, my friends and I waited outside among a crowd to be let into a trendy club known as the “The City.” This night, though, the line was a madhouse. College students trampled each other in a desperate attempt to reach the front of the line and get into the club. However, two locals scurried between drunken pushing and shoving. These two children were no more than seven or eight years old, and desperately were trying to sell their wares.
Any previous illusion of tranquility shattered. Sure, it was easy to see the examples of poverty and exploitation around me. But it took a separate incident altogether view my own role in it. After this point, only one question remained—was it ethical for me to enjoy Cancún?
There is significant tragedy that goes into the making of a place like Cancún.
Most locals who work in the hotels are paid minimum wage—when jobs even are available. Furthermore, given that a large number of these locals are indigenous, these individuals face discrimination both from foreigners and from individuals within their own country.
Moreover, despite the existence of hotels and clubs as sources of revenue from tourism, very little of this money ends up benefitting Mexico. The majority of clubs are owned by groups based in the United States and Europe. In addition, the creation of the all-inclusive hotel model has led to the continued collapse of local businesses.
The culture of Cancún also has consequences for the surrounding region. Different cartel groups, ranging from the Siñalo to the Zetas, fight to control the area’s drug trafficking. Each group is eager to profit from spring breakers. The ongoing fight for this source of revenue triggers further violence in Cancún and increased exploitation of the surrounding region.
This spring break, my friends and I had the privilege of being able to leave Duke and travel to Cancún. We went to clubs. We stayed in an all-inclusive hotel. We benefitted indirectly from the exploitation of local residents. Essentially, we used a country rather than experienced it.
I can say that I am more aware of such problems than when I first arrived there. But that is not the problem with which I currently wrestle. I worry that this awareness might not even matter.
No, I am not the college student just feeling guilty about his spring break trip and trying to justify it. I am trying to be realistic.
As much as some individuals might believe that I am creating drama about nothing, these are questions we should consider. As much as some might say that we should simply stop going to similar places altogether, people will continue to go.
My ultimate question is as follows: is our awareness enough? Should students feel guilty about taking these trips? Do we do a disservice to our Duke education by potentially contributing to these aforementioned problems?
These questions are especially worth considering given that other vacationers fail to even acknowledge the implications of their actions.
Honestly, I do not have a universal answer to such questions. The problems of Cancún stem from larger problems associated with the exploitation of developing countries. In addition, they will not simply disappear if students stop going there.
These arguments also can apply to many different problems and situations within our lives. There are too often scenarios in which we are aware of the indirect negative forces at play, but do not feel that we contribute directly to them. Ultimately, what makes these questions ethical conundrums is the fact that they involve personal decisions we must make. That there is no correct answer. That in deciding where and how we spend our spring breaks or make decisions, the result comes down to what we value as individuals and how we wish to treat other people.
George Mellgard is a Trinity senior. His column, “esse quam videri,” runs on alternate Wednesdays.
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