The concrete under my favorite bench is damp, surrounded by a few small puddles, revealing a slight hint of three spectacular thunder storms that energized my soul during the past 24 hours. A mosquito eats a quick breakfast consisting of my tasty bare ankles, so I situate myself in a slightly dryer spot. Sitting on a low wall, in the shade directly below the clock tower, seems to be a delightful alternative. As I munch down my own breakfast—some very healthy chocolate chip cookies—two pigeons gather at my feet to enjoy a few meager leftover crumbs. A beautiful dragon fly with a vibrant red body performs a small dance, just for me, before hurrying off to locate its next audience.
Now I move into the dry cool shade of the gazebo. Three policemen, perhaps the same three who asked me to define “SWAT” just a few days ago, walk by and greet me with a hello and a smile. After dragging a wooden bench around to face the ocean vista, I lean back and place my bare feet on the low wall in front of me. A large tree with fern-like leaves frames my postcard view of the blue-green ocean. A small boat is puttering away from the beach, just as a snorkeling boat, crowded with people approaches the rocky shore. Straining my eyes, I can barely see hints of Playa Del Carmen some twelve miles in the distance—a layer of puffy clouds rises just above it.
Berto Revisited
Earlier this week, I was quite surprised to see Berto wheel his bicycle into the back of the little sports bar where I was peacefully gobbling down my lunch special. I was even more surprised when his first words were something like “Brenda, How are you? I haven’t seen you for a long time?”
Thinking he was just teasing me, I smiled and jokingly reminded him “I just saw you a few days ago. We had a long talk.”
Berto looked at me as if I were the crazy one. “What are you talking about? It has been a month or more. Where did we talk?” he quizzed me.
“Sunday night on the plaza,” I quickly replied, “just after the band finished playing. I told you all about my mother passing away … and where I have been.”
“Wow, I don’t remember anything about that.” was his apologetic confession. Then he requested, “Please tell me again, fill me in on everything that you told me that night.”
Berto went on to tell me that he has tried to stop drinking so much, but his two buddies “made” him drink on Sunday night. “I must have been on my seventh or eighth beer by the time we talked,” he admitted. Acting embarrassed, he continued, “I guess I was too drunk to remember much of anything.”
Later, while reflecting on these two encounters, I was filled with a sense of genuine pride. During both conversations, I had been loving, respectful, bubbly, genuine, joyful, and empowered—while at the same time remaining unattached and nonjudgmental. I was really surprised by how I did not pick up on even a hint of alcohol when I had talked with Berto on Sunday evening.
The whole experience brought back old memories of how Berto continually chugged beer after beer when he and I spent a day together almost twenty months ago. As that long-ago day came to a close, I was filled with extreme judgment and disgust; I would have been happy if I never crossed paths with him again, ever.
Now, in my heart I simply feel peace and unconditional acceptance. “All is well … all is as it should be.”
Rural Explorations
Earlier last week, late one afternoon, my bicycle explorations found me pedaling through a rural area just a few miles east of the airport. Narrow and dusty dirt roads led me past a full spectrum of living situations. Unlike the city, these homesteads were considerably more spread out, surrounded by varying sizes of cleared or partially cleared jungle acreage. Most of the homes occupying these rural surroundings were rundown, with the majority being very small—many of them having as few as one or two rooms. Unpainted concrete and cinderblock walls were very common, many of them looking as if they were still under construction.
Scattered among the more sturdy structures were a few homes built from various types of wood. Some were covered by sheets of plywood, providing at least basic protection from the elements. More rarely, a few occupied structures were constructed of old vertical skinny wooden posts, perhaps three or four inches in diameter, with some type of privacy lining on the inside. I can only imagine how these structures might fare under the fury of hurricane force winds.
Glass is an unneeded luxury for many of these residents. In many homes, wooden shutters take the place of glass windows. As I pedaled by these tiny residences, most of their windows and doors were wide open, allowing afternoon breezes to flow more freely. Through one open door, several hammocks were hanging in what I could only assume was the main living area.
The roofs were equally varied. Most of the concrete buildings had slopped concrete roofs just as we do here in the city. However, the wooden homes were covered in a variety of ways. Some were adorned by old corrugated sheet metal. A few had traditional thatched roofs, while others had makeshift roofs covered in some type of black roofing material.
Scattered in the midst of these more humble homes, was the occasional home that was larger, well maintained, and even painted. Here and there, a few newer homes were under construction—homes that looked as if they would be quite nice when they are finished. A few even had rock walls surrounding their lots.
As I slowly pedaled along the hot dusty road, a man on a bicycle casually passed by, then slowed down and began talking to me. During our conversation, I asked him if any of these roads in the area might lead through the jungle up to the north end of the island. “If you go across the island to Mezcalitos,” he began, “there is a road there that goes up to the north end—but it is closed.”
In my mind, I could envision the entrance to that road. Just a week earlier I stopped there during my long ride around the south end of the island. How I had wanted to venture an excursion up that tempting and isolated dirt road. A large sign made it forcefully clear that passage was forbidden, warning that all trespassers would be arrested and prosecuted under the law.
As I imagined myself sitting in a local jail cell, I reluctantly decided that perhaps it might be best to forgo that forbidden adventure.
As I continued riding alongside my temporary traveling companion, he told me “I live right here. It was nice meeting you.” Then he gave me some parting directions. “If you turn right up there, then take the next left, follow that road for a while, and then take another right—that road will take you back to the main highway.”
As my new friend said goodbye and dismounted his bicycle, I noted that his home was a gorgeous unpainted home that appeared to be in the final stages of new construction.
Following his directions, I soon came to the ‘T’ in the road that would take me back to the main mid-island highway. Before making the right turn that I knew would take me back toward known territory, I stopped to visually scan the area. Looking left, I noted that the road continued a considerable distance to the north before disappearing into the jungle beyond a small bend.
Fifteen minutes later, as I arrived at the highway, I was surprised by how far from the city my wanderings had taken me. Wanting to make sure I could find this road again, I carefully memorized the landmarks. Something inside of me knew, “I will be back here soon … I have more exploring to do … I need to see where that other road leads.”
Jungle Isolation
Early Sunday afternoon, a little bird whispered, “Load up your backpack and go get some lunch … it is time to finish what you started … time to see just how far that road goes into the jungle.”
Ignoring logic, I began my journey on a full stomach at the start of the hottest part of the day. The early part of the journey was relatively easy. After several miles of riding eastbound down the now familiar mid-island highway, I easily located my dirt road. Turning northward, I began my methodic pedaling—reminding myself “Easy does it … go slow … you’re not in a hurry to get anywhere … don’t overdo it.”
Whenever an occasional car or scooter would pass by, the resultant cloud of dry dust temporarily engulfed me. I soon regretted having just pigged out on a delicious meal of chicken fajitas. The waist of my jeans pinched my full belly as I leaned over to grasp my handlebars, and a feeling of slight nausea kept warning “take it slow.” Sheer determination propelled me forward.
Soon, I was exploring new territory, while continuing to the north. The jungle was closing in around me on both sides. The only things that reminded me of civilization were the telephone poles on the right side of the road—and the occasional cleared spaces occupied by an occasional ranch house with adjacent structures.
I pushed on. My surroundings alternated between wild untouched jungle and an occasional small ranch. There were no longer any cars or scooters passing by me, and the ranches grew more and more scarce. The once wide dirt road gradually grew more narrow and rough—growing in both potholes and numbers of protruding rocks. What had once been a road drivable by passenger cars was slowly turning into a jeep trail.
Several miles up the road, I noted as I passed a small ranch that the telephone poles ended at the ranch. Later, I was quite surprised to pass by another ranch or two. Curiosity flowed through me as I imagined how these people might operate a small ranch without outside electrical power.
Then the narrow jeep trail began to fizzle out as it split in two. What appeared to be the main road had a fence across it. About 100 feet straight ahead, the road appeared to simply end, fading away into nothing but jungle.
A small narrower jeep trail split off to the left. It appeared to be wild and mostly untraveled. I began to turn around, conceding that I had probably reached journey’s end. Curiosity then got the best of me. “You know you want to try that road to the left … keep going … see where it leads … don’t stop yet … you can do this.”
By now, I was very hot, tired, sweaty, and dusty … but I forced myself onward, along the rough narrow trail. The road was barely wide enough for a jeep, but motorcycle tracks indicated that only two wheeled vehicles had been down this road in the recent past. Travel was difficult, as the rocks, roots, and ruts were constant companions. Shifting my bicycle into a lower gear, I struggled to maintain balance as I bounced over and around difficult obstacles. Glancing down, I noted that the sharp rocks in the trail appeared to have marine-like qualities; some of them even reminded me a bit of eroded brain coral.
The beauty of the trail and my surroundings astounded me—but I was too exhausted to enjoy any of it. Rather than being peacefully in the moment, I had slipped into a pattern of ruthlessly pushing myself onward, focusing on an ultimate destination rather than on simply enjoying the ride.
Stubbornly, I pushed forward another half mile or so. At one point I passed an abandoned shack in a small clearing—and was startled silly when suddenly several goats began bleating loudly in a tiny enclosure adjacent to the shed. “I wonder if someone actually lives out here,” I pondered, but I didn’t stop to give the thought any energy. I just kept pushing forward, imagining that it might actually be possible to make it all the way through the jungle to the northern coast.
Several hundred yards further up the trail, I finally called it quits—exhaustion and intense heat overwhelmed me. After stopping to drink some water, I noticed I was itching with a few fresh mosquito bytes. Wanting to stay and rest for a while, I coated my ankles, arms, and neck with insect repellant.
By now, the jungle trail was even more rough and narrow. By my estimations, I must have been six to eight miles north of the main highway that joins the east and west sides of the island. If I was right, the northern tip of Cozumel was probably at least three to five miles away. As much as I desired to continue forward, logic won the internal battle. I really had no idea where I actually was. Even if this trail did lead for five more miles—even if it did lead to the northern shores—there was no way I would have the strength or the time to continue for such a distance under current conditions.
Reluctantly, with my itching increasing and my exhaustion still building, I turned my bicycle around and began to retrace my difficult ride through the beautiful pristine jungle. With considerable effort, I soon made it back to more passable roads. Another hour later I was exhaustedly riding back toward the outskirts of the city. As I looked down at my ankles, I noted that they were covered in dark brown dirt—dust was caked onto my moist sweaty skin.
Sudden Storms
“Crash” A loud clap of thunder came out of nowhere. I looked over my left shoulder and noticed a large black cloud just a mile or two behind me. “Bam” another loud burst of thunder again rumbled through the neighborhood. I pedaled faster—hoping to beat the storm. As I drew nearer to my home, the drops began to lightly fall. By the time I turned down my street, only a half block away from shelter, the clouds let loose and the drenching began with a fury. In a matter of seconds, the incredibly soothing showers completely saturated my clothing. By the time I finished opening my gate, locking up my bicycle, and ascending my staircase, I was thoroughly waterlogged.
Sitting on my balcony, I absorbed the powerful refreshing energy of the afternoon storm. Fifteen minutes later, the transient storm was over, the clouds had moved on, the sun resumed its hot burning rays, and the partly cloudy sky was once again mostly blue.
After a relaxing shower—this one in the comfort of my own bathroom—I rested for a few hours before taking a late stroll down to the plaza. In my mind, I was expecting to have another magical Sunday evening dancing the salsa.
The first downpour caught everyone on the plaza by surprise. It seemed to come out of nowhere. The water-laden clouds appeared to be playing games with us. Repeatedly, a downpour would drench the plaza, only to stop and appear to be clearing up. Then another heavy shower would hit, teasingly followed by yet another slight pause in the action. Finally, after thirty minutes of back and forth teasing, the band gave up and began putting away their equipment. Seeing an opportunity during one of the longer pauses, I darted off with my own quick getaway toward home.
Within minutes of reaching my home, I was entertained by a spectacular display of lightning and thunder, combined with torrential rains. Several strikes of streaking electricity were so near to my balcony that the energetic thunder burst forth only a tiny fraction of a second later, sending a deafening crackling roar rumbling throughout the surrounding neighborhood streets.
After an hour of sitting on the porch, inhaling the powerful display of nature, the fury of the storm began to subside. Gradually, the lightning flashes moved off into the distance, and the rumbling sounds of thunder were replaced with the sounds of a few sirens, and some far away car alarms.
Around 6:00 a.m. this morning, Mother Nature heralded the arrival of the sun on this beautiful new day with yet a third powerful display of lightning and thunder. Amazingly enough, within an hour, the skies were again clear and blue.
What a beautiful day this has been. Throughout the day, the partly cloudy skies have been mostly blue, highlighted with clusters of interesting puffy white clouds. While the humidity still remains quite high, a gentle cool breeze has been blowing all day, providing some natural relief to the thermal discomfort.
If it were not for my powerful energetic memories, I might be convinced by today’s beautiful weather that none of those tantalizing displays of Mother Nature ever happened—unless of course I pay attention to the subtle evidence—namely the several mosquito bytes on my ankles and the scattered puddles of standing water that still linger in many of the streets.
How I love the changing weather. Every display of nature brings with it a sense of wonder and life, helping me to remain present with each passing moment.
© Brenda Larsen, 2009