Chuburna Puerto Journal 2011

Tonight, I picked up my journal, after more than one person has inquired about my writing in recent weeks. I flipped through my overstuffed sketchbook that I carried in Mexico at this time last year.  Two journal entries caught my eye simply due to the contrast and range of travel experience...

Day 6
Chuburna Puerto, Mexico

The days are long here, even though I sleep in and I wake to the light.  I know that whatever time I get there, it will be too late for many of the birds who have already gone deeper into the shrubbery for shade. I like breakfast, which delays me.  Those birds that I do find,  I find by dumb luck and patience.  Today was about birds of prey and iguana.  Yesterday was marked by the raucous soundings of the Chachalaca and a Crested Guan, or Curassow who climbed to the top of the trees and sounded their call. The Lesser Yellow Headed Savana Vulture was my beautiful prize today.

I fed ham slices to the mama dogs near the boats.  The young harbor man eyed me with suspicion as I walked the perimeter searching for a place to launch my travel Kayak into a maze of islands not covered on any map that I could find.  That probably isn't good, and I probably shouldn't launch anything anywhere.

Day 12
Chuburna Puerto, Mexico

The two week vacation, though skimpy, may have come about for people's own good.  It seems as we close in on two weeks, no matter where we are in the world, all hell seems to break loose.  A traveler is prone to injure themselves, we perform unnecessary rowdy activities, and "push it" until we find ourselves flipping through the pages of the local tourist paper hunting for the location of the nearest hospital and Consulate.

It was today that I found myself wishing that I had read up on the venomous creatures of the Yucatan, and that I had taken one blogger's advice to stock oneself with a pricey antihistamine that should "keep you" long enough to get to a hospital if one of seemingly dozens upon dozens of scenarios involving spiders, scorpions, wasps, or snakes comes your way.  But I was heading off on an adventure.  The sensible travel planning would have to wait for a couple of hours.

At the nearly two week mark, I found myself thigh deep in malodorous sulphuric mud and brine, wallowing about in search of a freshwater cenote, flamingos, and the local variety of gator.  All of the anithistamine in the  world wouldn't save me from this guided "day trip" of mountain biking the mud flats of the Northern Yucatan coast.  There didn't seem to be a lot of biking involved, unless you include carrying a heavy rusty bike on your shoulders through this mud pit of a tidal flat.  This went on for miles.  We had already encountered an aggressive poisonous snake ten minutes into the day.  I hung my reef booties on the handle bars of the bike after they were sucked off my feet back there by the viper.  I believe it was the loud suction cup smack of the booties being pulled into this muck that may have been what scared the snake back into the brush.

Not everyone believes in a sixth sense, but I hope that all readers will consider that there is a special traveler sense that tips you off when your guide is lost.  The guide tries to hide the signs of a frantic racing heart, thick unrecognizable brush, and lack of trail, but something tells us that we are in trouble.  Around the world all lost guides strike a regal gait, hold their head a bit too high, and try to scan for any sign that they recognize, all while avoiding eye contact.

We ditched the bikes on a pale pink mud bank so to go in search for the "National Geographic was there" cenote.  It promised fresh cold water to be bubbling up out of the core of a tiny island. The guide Carlos proceeded to tell me that he had brought  no water because it was too heavy.  The second guide in command, Luis,  drowned his phone three steps toward the island.  I was clearly not in good hands.  I carried my own water, food, and an equally nonexistent mental map of the area in my head. My gear was waterproofed in simple plastic bags, rolled into an vinyl aquabag.  More than once I fantasized about "forgetting" the bike, the guides, and walking the coast to my rental home guided only by the sun.  I was actually having heat induced dreams of ditching my guides, lounging on the coast eating the entire can of black beans and drinking all of my water myself. The guides interrupted my dreams so to make a vague gesture toward what appeared to be two foot tall mud islands comprised of higher formations of mud with some scrub brush on top.  They seemed pitiful, and sure to disappoint, but we pushed on.

We walked in waist deep water, with our legs sinking deep into the underwater sulphur mud below.  This created a dangerous situation where you could possibly sink deep enough to drown.  I decided it may be best to distribute my weight by sinking into the water and scootching my way across the mud like a crab of sorts.  It was humbling to be swimming in muck,  as both guides laughed.  I wanted to ask if he knew where we were, and which island we were looking for, where was the trail, and why do we have bikes when we need a boat.  But I held off on the questions and simply moved toward the islands of mud.

It was not entirely a surprise that the mud lump from which the underground water source, known regionally as a cenote, was to emerge had been washed away in the five plus years since National Geographic was here.  It was still bubbling, but now it was underwater. I modified my crab crawl into a doggie paddle and belly flopped into it's cool waters.  For a few brief moments I was free of sulphur mud.  My lead guide noted that this is where he would get drinking water for us.  There was one problem, he did not swim, and had no intention of diving head first into an underwater gaping cavity in the mud where the water flowed out of.  I had to do it.  More than once I imagined this being my last adventure.  I dove time and time again, holding an old plastic bottle into the mouth of an underwater river.  The water was undrinkable, being filled with too much of the sulphur muck no matter how hard I tried.

There was no drinking water, no gators, no flamingos, not a visible cenote for me to film, and a little too much adventure.  We had to return to reclaim the burden of bikes, and we still had no idea where the trail was.  We had no other option than to go to the coast which would increase our trip by many miles.  I tried in vain to mention the tides, and how it may not be in our favor.  That resulted in the understatement of my life.  We were met by waves crashing upon the rocky coast.  There was no beach as promised.  There was ocean, a powerful surge of incoming tides, and what appeared to be an approaching swell.  It would have been a somewhat enjoyable swim/hike now that our stomachs were full of beans, tortillas and cookies, but then there were the bikes.  We were now forced to navigate four foot waves while pushing a rusted mountain bike on fossilized coral and unstable rocks.

The sea tore the bikes from our hands so many times on our return.  It took six hours longer than it should have.  At times it felt as though we were trying to surf with bikes.  I wanted to cry, but I was just so happy to be on a straight, though dangerous course home, that I held off on the tears.  I learned pretty quickly that I had to stay between the ocean and the bike at all times, or risk having both of my wrists snapped if I remained on the land side of the bike. The second guide, Luis followed suit.  I seemed to be the new leader. Carlos was not pleased with this change in command, but Luis chose well, as I new the coast, and I was carrying the remains of my well packed lunch.

When we returned, we didn't speak much, but we agreed to go to a local place to drink a lot of beer and eat ourselves silly on the free tapa dishes that come with the overpriced Sol.  The owner of the place came out to see the unlikely trio of two local Mayans and myself, all stuffing tacos in as fast as we would.  It was hard to overlook the amount of damage that this adventure tour did to our bodies.  I had done the heaviest first aid kit raids in my travel history. It seemed like the worst was behind me, but I had no idea that in 72 hours I would be searching through the local tourist paper in search of the nearest emergency room....

The Road Back

Top to Bottom:  Rio Hondo as it reaches Belize, and Pollo Asado and Squirt refueling station, Tulum, Mexico, my hotel pool where victory laps took place, Merida 2011-2012

I have been back a month, and as I watch snow flakes fall on a late evening in March, it feels a bit as though I never left, as it seems like winter is coming rather than going. This Yucatan trip was the hardest trip that I have made in some time.  Language acquisition was particularly important as I navigated the Yucatan Peninsula in crisscross fashion for months on end.  It was a project that I dreamed up several years ago.  It made me sit through Spanish classes at Instituto Cervantes, NYC, spend a winter watching only Latin films, buy verb flashcards, and a kayak that I would later strap to my back day after day.  I swam laps at the pool and carried heavy buckets to a hundred roofs, knowing that each one made me a little stronger and a little closer to returning to the kind of travel that I always loved. The preparation was often seemingly on the back burner as I felt a bit trapped in city life.  "Too many depended upon me," I was told.  But then it dawned on me that I depended upon myself as well, and I barely recognized the New Yorker that I was fast becoming.  I needed an exit strategy and it was named "operation cenote."

So with work completed, I left, and few even realized I was gone.  That is NY for you as there is always someone or something that replaces you quite rapidly.  I arrived to every travelers nightmare where nearly every bit of travel preparation that I had made promptly went belly up upon my arrival.  From car rental agreements to the beach house that I rented.  Then hospitalization and several epi pen injections, and a brutal recovery from severe burns caused by my prescribed medicine's interaction with the sun...and all this within the first weeks.  I had to roll with a roller coaster ride of experiences that no one could have anticipated.

I came very close to giving up, but then realized that I could convalesce in Mexico and gather my inner courage.  Luckily, I did just that.  I forced myself to bed rest, editing, research, plus very large breakfasts and a lot of DIY first aid.  I learned that every trip to the Pharmacy could be an entertaining language lab.  I Used prior travel medicine knowledge to help me out of a rather scary two weeks with second degree burns on 1/3 of my body.  I cried when I looked at myself in the mirror on several occasions.  I feared infection, scaring and more days of pain.  I am happy to report that though there were many days of pain and a lot of tears, I was able to ward off both infection and scaring.  It gradually appeared that I was on my way to being as good as new.

I celebrated my recovery with a nighttime swim in the little hotel pool. I shivered and was still shy about the amount of scars that were still visible at that time, but I thought,"tough, I am swimming anyway," and I am very glad that I did.  For me, being visibly wounded is often harder than being invisibly wounded.  It brings out my shyness to the point of nearly sidetracking my activity. As I get older, I keep the shyness at bay the best I can. I donned my most elegant swim suit and the silk sarong that my former students had once lovingly covered in inspired swirls of dye, custom made for me, and down the stairs I went to the pool. My private celebration was briefly interrupted by the muffled applause of a beautiful Mexican lady who knew a bit of my story. It was a victory of recovering past the point of dangerous infection, and from that point on, time would slowly heal the scars left on the inside and out.  More importantly it was a more private victory tribute to being able to believe in oneself no matter what.          

To be continued...

Reconnection

The summer has passed and my seasonal environmental job also draws to a close.  It marks a closing point but also a reminder and renewal of my closeness with nature.  Though at times working outdoors caused us a great deal of stress as we had to cancel sites and be bumped off schedule, it was a big reminder that even in a city as big as New York, nature rules.

It was a pleasure to view the city from dozens of rooftops and speak to the residents that inhabit these neighborhoods.  It is too soon to know how these days will influence my artwork and life, but I feel that these days etched into me and when I move on to quieter places for reflection and creation, these moments will follow me.

Sent from my T-Mobile myTouch 3G Slide

Burn care in the tropics

It seems only too appropriate that I begin my new travel blog with a post about caring for yourself while on the road. Skin is a frequent topic of conversation for me since I was born with delicate, glowingly pale skin. This skin is certainly at odds with the kind of travel that I would come to embark on. Sunblock and protective clothing are always big considerations when packing my bag, but along the way I learned a wonderful hint from two French firemen that I met on the isle of Moorea in the Society Islands.

I was only ten days into a 10 month trip when I was burned by the muffler of a motorcycle. Though it seems like an obscure accident, any visitor to the South Pacific or South East Asia knows that few escape without at least a minor burn. Why? Well, most of us will end up on a motorbike of some kind during our trip. The unfortunate part is that few of us have long sturdy pants that completely cover and help protect our legs. Many womens travel pants are a shorter length, which leaves a few inches of delicate skin exposed. If you are driving your own motorbike, you are mostly in front of the muffler, but if you are riding as a taxi passenger or guest on a motorbike your leg is right by the scorching muffler.

Burns and coral cuts are two tough, but frequent injuries for the adventurous traveler. They take your full attention in tropical climates, and even with great care I advise a trip into a local clinic for antibiotics. If you are not near a clinic, this would be a good time to use some of your "emergency antibiotics" that you brought from home. It may not seem like an emergency, but yours,like mine, could go septic in a matter of hours due to the climate. Travelers are often hesitant to use their "emergency" treatment for something that seems so trivial, but remember that preventative action is the key to the long haul. Use them if infection appears to be making an advance, then replace them when you get to a city with medical facilities or a pharmacy.

So, where do French firemen enter the picture? Would you believe that they heard of my injury and arrived at my grass hut bearing a jar of Emu oil! At first I thought that it was a hallucination produced by the infection, heat, and the new dose of antibiotics, but it ended up being the best help one could hope for. Two handsome smiling creatures arrived to take care of my leg. (Thank you France! Thank you Emus!) It turned out that they met one of the surfers whose coral cuts I had recently treated. He informed them of my nasty burn that was deep and painful. Next thing you know they were there to assist. Now I realize that Emu oil is not vegan and that is it's only downside. It is made of pure squeezed Emu, making it is as non vegan as you can get. They explained to me that they use it to lessen scaring and help with healing the nasty burns that they get. Now they never travel without it.

The horrible, nearly to the bone burn is now a nickel sized number barely distinguishable on my right leg. The story is by far much larger than the scar. So it was with this in mind that I searched the shelves today for a similar product. I found this company and decided to try it on my aching hip joint, which was the result of spring training combined with aging. It may be too soon to tell, but the joint feels like it is loosening up. Emu oil is a great in your travel medical kit. It works for sunburn, windburn, chapped lips, abrasions, sprains, scars, joint pain and as a general beauty moisturiser. A great multipurpose cream that will be worth it's weight in gold on your long haul around the world.

The moral of this story is be good to your fellow travelers and it will come back to you in mysterious ways.