The prison actually has a single, 5-star review on Google
Though nightclub La Choza, Valladolid, Merida, is now shuttered, and the jungle has been slowly reclaiming it. No reviews.
A review of the nightclub La Choza, Valiodad, Merida (the one across the street from the prison).
Let’s say you’re eighteen and on vacation with your family in the Yucatan, which I can’t say enough about, though I won’t here. And you’ve struck up a friendship with the mariachi band at the hotel, The Lodge at Chichen Itza (Lovely place. Go). And the band invites you out for drinks and you accept and they say to meet them at midnight out front. So you step quietly out of your room and wait out front of the hotel where a taxi pulls up with one of them driving and you squeeze in the middle and head off into the jungle for the local watering hole.
Conversation is easy, they’re a fun bunch. But at some point you realize you’ve been driving into the jungle for a long time. You’ve been chatting ceaselessly, maybe out of nervousness, unconsciously, and now you begin to wonder: what the hell have I gotten into? But you’re eighteen, you’re dumb, and you’re pretty much committed at this point anyway. The road goes on and on through blackness as you begin to imagine what your new life will be like.
Until finally, the first sign of civilization approaches ahead on the right: a wall. A big wall. A guard tower. A prison. And you say to yourself, you remember distinctly, man, I hope the bar isn’t nearby. Which is precisely when the cab swings left into a dirt lot in front of the club. Everyone piles out and you walk up to the squat building in a clearing in the jungle, the lights and sign are garish in the dark. A big bouncer is waiting, humorlessly at the top of a few steps before the entrance and he pats you down. On a nod the door is pulled open and you step inside and stand on display above the floor where long tables are lined with prison guards still in uniform, just off shift, and a runway hugs a wall where a sad dancer is mechanically working a pole, and you’re pretty sure that the music stopped and everyone is staring at you though you can’t read their faces so you keep moving, find a clear bit of table to occupy with the band, and because you’re terrified you drink pint after pint of lager.
The following is not entirely credible, due to the alcohol imbibed by this point, but it’s how you remember it. You’re standing on the table giving toasts to the prison guards, and they’re toasting you, you’re singing eachother’s songs. They’re a great bunch of guys, as is the band, as are the strippers.
The trip back to the hotel takes no time at all. The manicured footpath leading to your room is considerably less so after you pass. And US-Mexico relations are tightend one more fractional turn.