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....

Dressing for the Malarial Belt

When traveling in the “malarial belt”-that wonderful sweeping equatorial band where all of the mosquito borne illnesses occur, dress light and think long. Mosquitoes are drawn to darkness. There are many varieties of mosquito-some are by day and some by night. In both cases, the same strategy works. They like to rest in dark places, and on dark colors. When you are packing, think light colored breathable, washable fabric that covers your arms and legs.

I traveled with Steve D. for a couple of weeks in Sumatra. Steve was kind enough to pretend to be my husband while I was in charge of the logistical information that navigated us inland to a newly discovered archaeological site. I am still not sure which one of us had the harder task, but we did have several good laughs at how many people corrected his Bahasa and noted that he is my Father not my Husband due to his beautiful salt and pepper hair. Indonesians tend not to grey until they hit 70 or so, but we tried to be culturally respectful by my not being a lone women wandering about the Sumatran plains.

Steve travelled very lightly carrying nothing more than a small day pack. He also wore only white button-down shirts for a variety of reasons. He noted that he can drop them off at the village laundry and they are returned glowing white for just a couple of coins. They are also cheap and easy to buy in several places on the road including, Thailand, Vietnam, Java and Bali. Equally important was the fact that they offer some sun protection while also helping with the mosquito issue.

I tested out my mosquito theory by selecting to hike near those wearing dark clothing (sorry New Yorkers) and they were pulling in the mosquitoes while I was bite free. A gauzy blouse is also a great way to stay cool and be culturally cool as well. Bare shoulders and bare legs on both men and women are considered pretty trashy throughout most of non-resort SE Asia. A light layer also allows you to cut down on the DEET that you are using, and your body will notice the difference immediately. If you are in a cerebral malaria zone or an area with Japanese Encephalitis, never give up on the DEET, in those scenarios DEET is your lifeline.

So hope this helps you out smart the mosquito. Remember that mosquitoes are the downside of travelling in the rainy season. If your accommodation is near still water find another place no matter how charming the owners are. Mosquitoes also tend to feed right before it rains, so be aware of the changes in weather.

FYI my favorite mosquito is the black and white banded one-quite a looker.