Fast fact: A few years ago – January 2019 to March 2023 – parts of northern B.C. experienced very unCanadian-like behaviour: disagreements over a river, The Blue and Green River aka the Wedzin Kwah aka the Morice River aka the Bulkley River.
These disagreements led to RCMP violence, harassment, discrimination and dispossession against Indigenous Wet’suwet’en communities who were defending the river against the construction of a liquified natural gas pipeline through their unceded ancestral territory without their free, prior and informed consent.

Fast forward:  
Recognizing the importance of the Wedzin Kwah, the Museum of Northern BC in Prince Rupert now features, until the end of September, "The Mighty Wedzin Kwah, Salmon River at Risk?" The gallery brings together art, poetry, and photography to focus on the Wedzin Kwah and its importance to our environment and our Indigenous stewards.
Like so many others, one of the featured artists, Perry Rath, believes the protection of the Wedzin Kwah is essential to the health of the environment and the community. “You get drawn into the river and what’s at risk.” His salmon canvases reflect the abundance of fish in times past…

The following piece reflects the collaboration with local Indigenous artist Amanda Hugon who added traditional Indigenous designs in a collaboration on this painting.

As well as the salmon paintings, the exhibit features strong poetry by Wet'suwet'en writer Jennifer Wickham, What If I Told You… that we are the land and the land is us? Her final line: “….and what if you believed me?” leaves a poignant question.
Photographs are by Matt Simmons and Michael Toledano. Toledano’s photos are from the 2025 award-winning documentary, Yintah. Writers are Matt Simmons and Brent Patterson.
The exhibit gives the viewer something to think about. It should have wider coverage because it raises the question of how we treat our environment. Most of us are aware that negative environmental changes are now part of today’s life: floods, wildfires, air quality.
By now, you must have figured out, the featured artist who lives in Smithers B.C. but paints these endangered salmon waters, is our son.
Now, if only we can figure out how to see him more often….

What can I say? How do I remember him? This complicated, talented, occasional con man, but always generous and kind to those he loved. A hard worker, an artist who never reached his full potential. Stubborn. Frustrated. A fighter for his beliefs. A gentle soul who masked his delicate core with comedy.
I remember him especially when we were both young.

He was the one who loved animals. When we lived in the country, he adored his pet rabbits. When we lived in the city, he brought home birds with broken wings and nursed them back to health. Painstakingly fed them with an eyedropper. As a Boy Scout he won a city-wide (Ottawa, Ontario) honour for his environmental/wildlife passions. I remember our family gathering around the television watching him receive this award from a long-forgotten civic official. I was so proud of him…my annoying pesky brother being so honoured. Like maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy, after all.

He was a fighter for the oppressed or downtrodden. But that’s probably because he was small for his age while growing up so he knew what it was like to be bullied. I never paid much attention to him when he was bullied. Because, after all, weren’t boys fighting all the time?
He was an entrepreneur. He started businesses at different times: like a printing press and a pet store. Worked hard and then for one reason or another, abandoned them. Or was forced to close when the big box conglomerates moved into town. I was too busy living my own life to find out.

When he moved his family out to British Columbia from Ontario, he stopped in to see us. At that time, we were living on the shores of Lake Huron. He parked his trailer in one of Canada’s nearby provincial parks and invited us (a family with three boys) to share a campfire meal of freshly caught trout. Our sons still remember that outing with Uncle Don to this day.

He was anti-government. And yet, while living in BC he headed the local arm of the Canadian Federation of Independent Business. Even more astounding, because of his success in that position, he was invited to the then-Prime Minister’s office in Ottawa where he, and others like him, shook hands, had photos taken, and enjoyed a day of recognition with the PM. We all got a chuckle out of that.
He, his wife and three children settled into B.C.  For a few years, Don and Claire relocated to Belize. Then, I think, health issues became an issue.

When my husband and I visit one of our sons in Smithers, B.C., we always stop to see Don and Claire in the Oliver/Osoyoos area. Over the years, Don’s health declined. He was against the medical system (of course!) so ignored his wife’s urgings to seek help from a doctor. Gradually his overall health deteriorated. It was painful to see. Hard for his family. Harder still for him.
I remember Don for his generosity as much as for his temper. When he first moved out west, the Ontario wing of his family received extravagant gifts, like Cowichan sweaters. Every year, when the cherries hung heavy, we each received boxes of ripe organic BC cherries.

This man was a dichotomy. He is also my bro…my bro. My bro.
Don, may you rest in peace. Love you forever.

Did someone mention Cancun? In my opinion, that city is an overcrowded, overvisited money-hungry hotspot with sometime sargassum-lined beaches.
Come with me to a place not far from the craziness of Cancun. On Mexico’s Yucatán Gulf coast. Far less crowded, not expensive, with miles of sandy beaches, a clean sea of green, and a sky so blue that the contrast with the shimmering water can hurt your eyes…
We winter in Valladolid, Yucatán. With our neighbours/friends: Carmen, Carlos, and Abuelo Antonio, we drove 3 hours, past small and large pueblos, each with its distinctive cathedral, to the Gulf of Mexico coast….
…To a soon-to-be-overly-populated-but-still-not-yet-exploited beach fishing town called El Cuyo. Population: about 1800. Literally translated it means “The One Whose….” Chosen? About to be discovered? Primarily Mexican visitors now but the Norte Americanos are coming…

El Cuyo
We arrive in the afternoon. The mighty wind from the Gulf whips onshore. Barefoot, we stroll along the beach, sit on the sand, ponder the sky above and the earth below. Waves crash, pelicans and cormorants dive into the sea, miraculously emerging with fish in their bills, which they gulp down while in full flight. The short cement pier stretches into the water like a pointer finger beckoning us closer to the sea action.
Iguanas hang lazily over stone walls. Coastal birds circle gracefully in the sky.

As darkness descends, the lights go out all over the town…
 ...and we are left in blackness. There is no electricity. Slight panic.
Then...did we bring a flashlight? Frantic scrambling in the dark. Yes!!
Still, we trip and fall and bash our knees and legs while groping around in this new reality. The little beach/fishing town is expanding so quickly, its infrastructure cannot support the growth. As if in league with the earth, no stars shine tonight. No moon. An occasional motorcyclist with his searing mono-light roars through the blackness.
Carlos fumbles to the car. Opens the door. Ah, we have light. Quickly, we pile into the Suzuki. Headlights shine on a ghostly road of sand as we bump and grind our way to the centre of town. Where, yes, there is some emergency power!
And more! There is a small open restaurant selling Yucatecan food, like panuchos and salbutes. Quickly we stake out an outside table. We know this little eatery will soon be overwhelmed with hordes of hungry turistas.
Eventually, though, street lights flicker and then return to a chorus of relieved cheers from those around us.
The morning after…
The sky has cleared. The morning sea wind is not as wild. The empty white beach stretches for miles in both directions. Bands of sandpipers scamper in and out of the surf looking for sea delicacies to devour.
We walk and we marvel at the sky above and the sand below….
Especially when we hear about the wild winter storms at home.

                                                         ***
Panuchos are a Yucatecan food specialty made with a refried tortilla topped with refried black beans, chopped cabbage, pulled chicken or turkey, tomato, pickled red onion, avocado, and pickled jalapeño pepper.
Salbutes are puffed deep fried tortillas topped with lettuce, sliced avocado, pulled chicken or turkey, tomato and pickled red onion. They originate from the Yucatán Peninsula.

Albania, a developing nation that continues to emerge from a brutal 45-year dictatorship that only ended in 1991; its infrastructure isn’t quite on the level of Western Europe. - Lonely Planet
                                                         ***
Mad taxi-driver
In his travel wisdom, N. had prearranged a taxi pickup from the airport to our hotel in Albania’s capital city, Tirana.
Familiar with the Three Stooges of long-ago fame? One -- the dark mophead with the bowl haircut -- was our Albanian taxi-driver. While driving, he constantly cleared his throat, finger-combed his straight black hair while weaving his/our taxi through tight spaces, narrowly missing potholes. And constantly mumbled to himself.
As we sped into Tirana, he stopped briefly behind a long line of stopped cars. Then, snorting, he abruptly turned around. Unable to communicate, we translated his waving arms and piggy noises to mean he couldn’t get through the traffic to get to the city, so he was detouring on another route.

For all we knew, he could have been driving us to Hell.
Finally, we began to see houses, people, then more: streets, businesses, and eventually what must have been the edges of Tirana. It seemed forever to get around this city of 536,000…especially while scanning the names of hotels we passed to see if we could identify our three-star destination. And help out our mop-haired, throat-clearing driver.
I was beginning to doubt his prowess.
Then…Yes! There it was. On our right. Our crazy driver pointed excitedly, then turned with a jerk onto a one-way street, drove a block before he realized it was too complicated to come round in front of the hotel again, so stopped. On this narrow street of heaving bricks crowded with parked vehicles, he indicated we better get out now.

Thus, goodbye to our mop-haired, throat clearing, crazy taxi driver. Hello to self-service. We picked up our luggage and dragged it down the lop-sided thoroughfare to the hotel entrance

                                                      ***
Washrooms
The bus driver honked his horn: his signal for passengers to reboard the bus after a rest stop along the Albanian highway.
“Wait!” N yelled in English from behind him. “My wife’s not back yet!”
Indeed. In a strange country with strange customs and a strange language, I was hovering in a near-dark toilet (tualet) trying to figure out how to use the damn thing. Silly me, I had politely ushered other female bus companions ahead of me because the room was dark, the stalls darker still, and I wasn’t sure what was what and where it was. All I knew was I had to relieve myself or risk an uncomfortable wet seat on the bus. Plus, I was terrified to lock the door since darkness prevented me from seeing how to release the lock.
 
When I finally emerged and groped my way to the entrance to reboard the bus, the driver looked at me with exasperation.
                                                       *** 

Drug Drop?
We are on this highway bus enroute to the southern Albanian port city of Saranda, five hours away. The terrain through the mountains is breathtaking.
Sitting just ahead of us, but directly behind the driver, is a lone, black-jacketed traveler: balding, dark-glasses, big-time cellphone user. A non-descript package sits beside him. It’s not too big. Not too small. Our traveler never lets it out of his sight. 
As the bus driver heads into the mountains, the stranger constantly receives and sends cellphone messages.
Halfway through the steep hills, our driver makes an unscheduled, unannounced, but obviously planned, stop. There, tucked on a plateau area, sits a small restaurant.
Our driver opens the front door.
Our lone passenger quickly grabs his package, scrambles off the bus.
In the space of a minute, he jumps back on after we watch him pass off his mysterious package to a lone receiver waiting at the restaurant in these mountains. At this very moment. No words exchanged.
The bus driver merges back into the mountainous terrain once our mysterious passenger is re-seated. And using his cellphone again.
Did we just witness some illicit activity?
Or…is it all the result of a vivid imagination and a travel weary mind?!

Part 1: Slow Breakfast
“This is ridiculous. Where the hell is breakfast? We’ve been waiting here 50 minutes already,” he grumbles in exasperation.
I silently agree with my husband.
Then, I ask myself - being philosophical of course - why are Norte Americanos so obsessed with punctuality? I do prefer the slow lifestyle here.

Like now. In this corner restaurant in Rio Lagartos, Yucatán, that sits across from the malecon and lagoon. We have stumbled into this charming nautically decorated eatery, one of the few open restaurants on a Sunday morning in this quiet fishing town of 4,000. Rio Lagartos (river of alligators) is a Spanish explorers’ misnomer since the town sits on a lagoon with crocodiles. (How much difference is there really between the two reptiles?)
No matter.

Our breakfast platters finally arrive. (We did catch the staff leaving the restaurant kitchen and amble to the nearby supermarket.) Presentation: excellent. My omelet and his Mexican chilaquiles are worth the wait. (Chilaquiles are fried corn tortilla pieces, cooked in salsa, and sprinkled with cheese. Served with eggs and beans or nopalitos/cactus.)
As we finish eating, the restaurant owner arrives. Emmanuel, a large hombre of Maya and Mexican descent, is friendly, open. Fortified with food, my husband is also friendly, open.
We chat. Emmanuel mentions Maya ruins we have never heard of…called Kuluba. He explains where they are, how to get there; he also warns there are mucho mosquitoes, insects, and ticks because Kuluba is known to only a few archeological aficionados. The site is still a little wild. Undeveloped. You need to be dressed appropriately.

Anything off the beaten track is like waving a red flag in front of a bull for us. NOT yet on the tourist radar? How do we get there?

Part 2: finding Kuluba
We know we are not suitably attired to stumble through and over and around an undeveloped archeological site. No hiking boots. No long pants. The best we have is a local neem and citronella insect repellent.
No matter. Let’s go, we decide.

Searching online, we uncover a couple of references to Kuluba. Recently funded by the cultural branch of the Mexican government*, the ruins are scattered on a cattle ranch; most visitors to date are cows and a few locals.
Perfect!
Apparently, three large buildings stand in two sections of the grounds. Detailed stone carvings, some 1000 years old, are visible on some facades. The ruins are believed to have been occupied from 600 to 1050 AD.

Like wow! Let’s go now! We hop in the borrowed car that belongs to our neighbours. They trust us. We are careful Canadians.
Part 3: One and a half hours later---
Hidden behind bushes along a little used road off the main route, we spy the sign Ruinas de Kuluba. Hurray! We eagerly turn off onto a farm road. At least it appears to be a road.
Not.

Our troubles have only started. If only we had paid attention to online warnings like:
            Follow this road for about 2.3 km. It is bumpy.
Bumpy?! How about ‘impassable’? Unless you have a 4-wheel drive! Mega sharp rocks and two ruts shape this ‘road’. We manoeuvre to the crest of a hill, not more than 200 metres from the main road, then stop.
Stepping out, we note the surrounding cattle and see the wretched dirt ‘road’ continues to wind out of sight deeper into the terrain. No place for a car. Especially a borrowed car from trusted neighbours. Better to park/leave it here and now. Walk for 2 kilometres the rest of the way.

We carry our water bottles. It is wretchedly hot (about 35 degrees C). No breeze.
The sound of buzzing insects is constant. What was that warning we read? Ticks are very prevalent in the grass here. Bring repellent for your lower legs and check very carefully before getting back in your car. 
About three-quarters of the way along this ‘road’ we both hear something like operating machinery. We stop walking. Sounds as if just beyond the bend there is some action on the site! Great…we must be almost there!

Bikers with rifles
To our astonishment - rounding the bend - are motorbikers, four of them: black helmeted drivers carrying black-helmeted passengers. To our dismay, each carries a rifle slung diagonally across their backs.
Whoaaaaa!
The element of surprise catches them. Catches us. They certainly do not expect to see two elderly gringos trudging along this ‘road’ and we sure as hell didn’t expect to see these scary looking dudes with rifles roaring along this ‘road’ either!

The bikers zoom past. The leader, a little surprised we think, raises his arm in greeting. His fellow bikers do likewise. We do the same.
Suddenly we stop walking; we turn. Watch the bikers disappear up and over the ridge we have just climbed.
Now we are certain the ruins are just beyond the bend from where roared the motorbikes.
But---

What if the bikers trash our ‘borrowed’ car, entrusted to us by neighbours? What if the bikers return? What if they decide to dispose of us? Who would find us? Except for the bugs of course. And we can’t just hide in the buzzing terrain. Can we? My wild imagination goes into overdrive.
Pausing, we listen. Do we hear their return?
Begrudgingly – but concerned - we turn to retrace our steps along this ‘road’. Now worried about the car.
My husband, moving faster, races back through the heat and buzzing bugs. I follow like a panting dog.
He finally reaches the top of the first ridge we climbed. Turns.
I see a thumbs up. The car is okay.

Motorbikers
The question remains. Who were those black-helmeted motorbikers with the rifles? What were they hunting? And how did it happen they suddenly appeared just as we were about to reach the ruins?
Finale
And to think this adventure began because of a slow breakfast!

Except now we must plan our return to Kuluba

*INAH – National Institute of Anthropology and History: public body dedicated to the investigation, conservation, protection, and dissemination of the prehistoric, anthropological, archaeological, and historical cultural heritage of Mexico.

Our suitcase caper begins in Toronto’s Pearson Airport. Where we are waiting to board a late inbound Aer Lingus flight from, and return to, Dublin.
Our non-stop plan is to fly this Irish national airline to Dublin, connect to Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris; there we pick up our lone suitcase, transfer to a high-speed train to Marseille, then a local train to our destination in Toulon, France.
Why this lengthy travel plan of over 18 hours? Please, don’t ask!
Suffice it to say, we knew we were in trouble when Aer Lingus left Toronto two hours late. Adding to our woes, once the plane landed, it hung around the Dublin runway for 30 minutes waiting for an available gate.

But help! We had a connecting plane to catch to Paris rapidement!
Not being familiar with an airport as convoluted as Dublin International (Irish: Aerfort Bhaile Átha Cliath) increased our chaos and heightened our anxiety. If ever I felt like one of those mad dash and clash passengers, this was then.
Under, over, leaping, dodging, careening around wheelchairs and creeping passengers, sliding down mini-stairwells, trying to read overhead signs to our gate that was closing in five minutes, we scampered like Irish elves about to disappear. It didn’t help that my Better Half was faster moving. I felt like a sludgy protozoan trying to keep up. He kept looking behind (with distraught face) until I caught up. At least he had time to catch his breath.

Plus, we both carried backpacks and hand luggage.
No time for grabbing food on the run.
Luckily the gate attendant waved us through to the waiting plane with a mere glance at our boarding passes. As we sank out of breath into our assigned seats, the onboard stewardess announced the doors were closing.

Charles De Gaulle Airport
Of course - surprise, surprise - our checked suitcase never made it to CDG.
We had 2 ½ hours to report our missing piece before boarding our prepaid highspeed train south to Marseille. Should we wait for our suitcase due on the next flight from Dublin or move on? I lost that discussion.
So, we bug the lost/late luggage personnel at the airport who, surprisingly, are efficient. At least at collecting information. Gold stars for them.
But all this frigging around takes time.
 
Electronic air tag
The one ace in our sleeve – er - suitcase is a small electronic tracking device. On loan from Son S, the air tag proves invaluable. Son S reports via text that our lone suitcase is still in Dublin.

Highspeed train to Marseille
Following a maze of corridors, escalators, and stairs -- passing a travel-crazed woman who is loudly berating the over-sized ever-changing schedule board of trains, planes, and buses – we find our way to the shuttle from Terminal 1 to the Terminal 2 train station. More chances for another screw-up!
But then we need to stand exactly where our ticket directs: Voiture 6, sièges 62 and 63. Try interpreting that on an empty stomach in a foreign language. (don’t worry, he assures…we’ll buy something to eat on the train).

Marseille
Three-and-a-half hours later (hmmm, our last morsel of food was dinner on the Toronto to Dublin flight), after racing through the French countryside with quick stops at familiar stations like  Avignon and Aix-en-Provence, we arrive in Marseille. The station is a hub of tracks running hither, thither and non with similar moving passengers. Including us.
Using fractured French and frantic arm waves, we find our connecting train to Toulon.
All the while, Son S reports, via his air tag in our missing suitcase, that it is still in Dublin.
And still no time for food.

Toulon
One hour later, we fall out the doors of the local train at Toulon. Because we have rented an AirBnB in Old Town where no motor vehicles are allowed, we begin our trek with two carry-ons and two backpacks along the bumpy, narrow sidewalks of Toulon.
We pass many restaurants. But, alas! no time for food.
Son S now reports our suitcase is at Charles De Gaulle airport.
Food!
Finally, after 18 hours, a time change, and dumping our luggage in our Old Town appartement, we walk on polished cobblestones to the port of Toulon. A beautiful starlit night, a myriad of restaurants: we devour savoury crêpes and carafes of red wine.
Son S continues to report on our suitcase: it remains at Charles De Gaulle. But, progress! It has now been moved to a town near the airport, obviously for delivery to Toulon!

MIA suitcase
Two days later: Son S confirms via text that our suitcase is in Lyon, on its way south to Toulon. The delivery company, privy to our email address, reports their man will deliver the long-lost suitcase to our Toulon address between 9:30 and 10:30 a.m.
Since we live in a pedestrian-only zone, we decide to wait for said delivery man outside our building. Like, it’s a zoo on the pedestrian mall: fresh produce market stands and food cafés fill the cobblestone street. We settle in an outside café near the door, watching ‘our’ building. Fortified with café and chocolate croissants, we wait.

Suddenly, N spies a uniformed delivery man rounding the corner. And he’s hauling a now-dilapidated suitcase with multi tags and markings! And it’s ours!
We hail our hero who takes photos while we show ID.
Postscript
In Canada, it is the middle of the night. But we perform one last important task. To Son S, we text: Mission accomplished. Suitcase delivered!
“Anyone who needs more than one suitcase is a tourist, not a traveller.” So wrote Ira Levin, American novelist.
But who are you when you don’t have a suitcase?

A tiny body
Groggy, I stumble into the kitchen of our Mexican casa on this early morning. The sun is already shining. It is 7 a.m.; the temperature on my cell phone reads 24 C. Hot already.
Sleepily, I squint at what appears to be a crumpled piece of paper on the floor by the basura (garbage bin). Reaching down to pick it up, I stifle a scream. This is NOT paper. It feels like FLESH! It actually resembles a fetus of transparent plastic. My hand recoils in horror as I yell for my husband who is used to my exciting responses.

Thank goodness for our next-door neighbours, Carmen, Carlos and (grandfather) Abuelo Antonio!
Carmen explains this is a type of lizard, despite its colour and appearance. It reminds me of our granddaughter’s slime toys. This creature arrived in the Yucatán about 40 years ago, eats spiders and other insects in the house (this is good). Plus, they are commonly known as ‘kissers’ (besadores), because they make a noise similar to a kiss.
When these little guys feel threatened, they fan their tail. The one on our kitchen floor has no tail, which means he must have been in battle with another.
All this information is well and good, BUT…
 …does this mean there is another one in our casa?

Woody Woodpeckers
Time to get up. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. The woodpeckers are at it again. At the break of dawn, around 6 a.m. our natural alarm clock begins. Rat-a-tat-tat.

For some reason the hydro pole just outside our property holds a special place in the hearts of our Yucatecan woodpeckers. We’ve seen 3 gather at various levels on the pole. And they peck and peck and peck after serenading us with their screechy song.
On occasion, when they decide to pack up and peck elsewhere, we miss their distinctive song and rat-a-tat-tat.

Anoles
This small lizard, called an anole, is one of our favourites. Our neighbours, though, call it a little iguana. These anoles race around the property like lightning. Like Superman, they can leap high onto plants many times their size and disappear in a flash if they sense movement or danger.

The anoles in our garden area are brown, grey or black. In some places, like Florida, they are green. They eat spiders, crickets, small grasshoppers, moths and butterflies – and each other.
Now you see it. Now you don’t.

Nestled among decaying debris on the ground, difficult to see because of its colour, this baby bird looked dazed and frightened. Carmen holds it as we decide whether to place it back in its nest in the palm tree. Will mom and dad come to look after it? Left on the ground, it will fall victim to marauding cats in the neighbourhood.
This morning, I looked for the nest in the tree. And there, beside the nest, is one dove parent. Standing guard. Perhaps the fledgling will make it after all.

Fire!
We smell smoke. And this is not barbeque smoke. This is suspicious smoke. We look around our immediate surroundings. Mexican ‘casas’ are constructed of cement so there is no wood around us, except trees of course.
We open the gate to our property, glance out. Lots of action next door. Carlos is running back and forth with jugs of water along his outer property line. Carmen and Abuelo Antonio, looking concerned, are yelling encouragement and instructions.
A grass fire next to our neighbours’ casa in a vacated lot is smouldering. The fire department has not yet arrived.
Can we help?
Like a scene in an old movie, I watch as Carlos, holding a bucket of water, climbs a ladder to reach the top of a cinderblock barrier and empties the water. Down he comes again to repeat the effort as smoke assails our nostrils and swirls in the air.
Now with my husband, they form a bucket brigade (of sorts). Carlos gathers water in pails from  the swimming pool. Only this time he remains on the ladder while Norm passes buckets of water to him.
And so, they continue until help arrives from a volunteer fire brigade.

Finally…
…it’s time to celebrate La Dolce Vita with a mezcal toast to success!

For sure, we are jinxed along a stretch of the toll road (carretera de peaje) between Mérida and Valladolid, the magical Yucatecan city in which we live for three months in Mexico. We never seem to complete that autopista without an incident. It’s a bit like the Bermuda Triangle, where a number of ships are believed to have disappeared under mysterious circumstances…
No, we didn’t disappear, but we hit an unexpected car problem. Again. In almost the exact same location where we ran out of gas during our first unfortunate ‘incident’ a year ago.

But it’s not our fault…honestly…
Driving back ‘home’ to Valladolid from Merida, we are cruising comfortably along the autopista (highway) when, behind us, we spy a number of cars eager to pass. Norm slides over to the slow lane. Let the speedsters roll on.
That’s when we both hear -- and he feels -- IT. Was that a crunch? Scrape? Grind? Gnash?
Are those sharp rocks we are hitting? Oh no! Uh oh.
The toll booth is looming. Let’s pay our toll, pull over at the rest station there, and investigate.
OMG!
Is it possible to drive our mid-size SUV on shredded rubber?
As we both gingerly open our doors to investigate, our mouths drop open. A large flap of black rubber protrudes from the flat right rear tire. Ye gods, this cannot be…but ye gods, it is!

What now?
With a deep sigh, Norm opens the car trunk, looking for the ‘donut’ (spare tire). He is ready, anxious to repair, and move along.
At exactly the same moment, a heavy-set man bursts forth from the men’s washroom. He sees us poor little people scattering about like lost ants. Then glances at the ragged rubber piece hanging in limbo. Suddenly, without a word, he crouches down beside our ailing car investigating this poor excuse for a tire.
Without a word, he takes over. He examines the torn and useless tire, reaches into our open car trunk, pulls out the donut. Norm steps back to stay out of his way. This stranger has a ‘take-charge’ demeanour.
We are thinking: is he helping? Who is he? Why is he doing this? What happens next? Especially important questions since our Spanish (except for Norm) is almost nil while the stranger’s English appears non-existent.

Trucker
We cannot communicate easily. So, we watch.
Suddenly, because one of his buddies joins him, we realize these two knights-in-shining-armour are truckers. This toll booth/washroom/rest stop is popular among them. They are in charge of mighty long-haul trucks (Called Dobles. A Mexican specialty. One truck, two trailers. Each trailer is at least 40 feet: an illegal configuration in Canada.) You need a lot of overtaking space on a normal road to pass one of these moving beasts.
Heads down studying the situation are Norm, Trucker # 1, Trucker # 2. Spanish flows. Norm listens. I watch.

Execution action
First, the examination. Then loosening the lug nuts before the car is jacked-up. Uh, oh. Problemo numero uno. The jack doesn’t raise the car high enough to free the destroyed tire.
Hmmm.
Truckers 1 and 2 search nearby spaces for something. They wander to and fro and up and down, picking up pieces of debris, studying them with frowns, then discarding each unsuitable object. Finally, Trucker 1 returns with an appropriate piece of wood to set under the jack. It is enough. The car can be safely jacked up, the torn and tattered tire removed.

The Donut
Expertly and efficiently, the two truckers install the donut tire. But they discover problemo numero dos: there is insufficient air in the donut. We cannot drive on it.
Who knew?
That’s when I finally realize these two truckers are mega trailer drivers hauling Dobles. Trucker 1 jumps into his cab, drives his monster truck closer to our car. Jumps down, reaches behind his cab and performs (to me) a minor miracle. He pulls out an air hose attached to his on board compressor (who knew?) and while I watch with open mouth, he pumps up the donut.
Now, he smiles at us, we are ready to roll again. But, he points out the warning label on the donut: do not exceed 80 kph.
Total time for this tire-off/tire-on exercise: 15 minutes.

No Reward
Norm offers remuneration to both truckers in appreciation for their services.
They politely refuse. No, they smile. Not necessary.
On The Road Again
Once back behind the wheel, Norm activates our four-way flashers and carefully brings our SUV speed up to 75 kph. Behind us looms this giant Doble, large enough to crush 4 small autos. Our Good Samaritan Trucker is protecting us. Making sure the donut holds. Making sure we can make it on our own. Like a father who watches his young son take his first steps.
And then, when he’s satisfied, he roars out from behind us, waves, and passes us in a flash, but not before he blasts that loud horn of his as a farewell gesture.
Oh, but geez, we didn’t even get their names!

Gobsmacked
We are still flabbergasted by our experience. How many times have we heard of murder/mayhem/robberies/ on Mexican highways? How dangerous it is! Or this caveat: You will likely be fine, until you're not.
Here in the Yucatán, we continue to experience nothing but genteel and hospitable people. They often offer to help lost and misguided strangers.
But wait!
We are still not out of the woods yet. This SUV we are driving belongs to Carlos, our friend, neighbour and landlord. Uh oh.
As I write this, Norm and Carlos are in the backyard sharing a bottle of mezcal together.
I am certain they will soon come to an amicable solution.

The middle finger of my left hand is causing me great pain. I am sleepless at night as I toss and turn and wake my husband while moaning…I can’t stand the pain. The swollen finger feels on fire. I groan out of bed, head for the refrigerator freezer for an ice pack and then listen to the sizzle as I rest my enlarged piece of flesh on the blissful cold. There is a hiss as my hot skin hits the ice.

This is our first week in Valladolid and we are settling into our rental casa after escaping The Great Canadian North. The temperature here is a balmy 33 C. We left Canada in sub-zero weather.
But to my current dilemma. What the h--- am I going to do? This is just a finger for goodness’ sake! Except we don’t realize how balanced the human body is until we lose the use of some part of it. Our eldest son broke his big toe and had to hobble around in a foot cast for weeks. Our middle son badly smashed his pinky and could barely function for weeks.
So, do I go to the local hospital here in this small Yucatecan city? How do I look for a doctor? Head to a larger centre? Unfortunately, Spanish is not our mother tongue. A distinct disadvantage especially when seeking medical help.

Enter Carmen
Fortunately, our neighbour and landlady, Carmen, speaks Spanish of course. And English. So, in a moment of desperation, I ask Carmen if she knows of a general doctor who can see me. I wave my distraught (middle) finger in the air at her. She does not take my gesture the wrong way.
She nods. Disappears into her home; a short time later she texts, “Dr. Leonardo told me he can come first thing tomorrow morning to see you.”
My mouth is locked open. Did she text “come to see you”? She did. But only because she knows some doctors who actually ‘do’ home visits.
We are about to learn the subtle ways of medicine in Valladolid.

El Doctor arrives at our casa
First thing the next morning, Dr. Leonardo arrives with his little black bag and his wife (no, not his assistant). We welcome them as Carmen brings over fresh cups of steaming coffee for our two guests. We sit in the dining room, very civilized, with the electronic strains of Spanish guitar music (courtesy of Alexa) playing softly in the background.
Dr. Leonardo, his wife, Norm, and I, gather around the table as our guests sip their coffee.
Dr. Leonardo is young, a handsome Latino who speaks English (better than my mangled Spanish), Mayan, and Spanish, of course; his manner is gentle.
I tell/show him my problem middle finger and he begins his investigation.
Vital signs
First, he pulls out the familiar items of his trade from his little black bag. I spy a blood pressure cuff, thermometers, finger clips.
He is interested in my medical history. He takes my temperature and blood pressure. Interestingly, in Canada when I have my BP taken in a medical facility, the reading is sky high. Known as the ‘white coat syndrome’, blood pressure results in hospitals and doctors’ offices often read high due to stress. Today, in this relaxed setting, my BP is normal.
He is about to order a blood test but Norm, fortunately, explains he can show him the results of our latest blood tests on the computer. El Doctor studies the numbers and is satisfied.  He takes my blood oxygen levels (and notes I do not have COVID).
Finally, he examines my swollen finger, asks more questions, and confirms the finger is badly infected. Especially when he touches it and I jump. He prescribes antibiotics and ibuprofen.
With a smile, he makes sure we understand his Spanish-written instructions. What to take, when, how much, and for how long.
We shake hands. Coffee cups are empty. Instruments are folded, put back neatly inside the black doctor’s bag. Before leaving, El Doctor gives us his cell number and WhatsApp address if we wish to contact him.
The appointment is over.  And no waiting in a crowded doctor’s office.
Cost for the 30-minute at-home visit and diagnosis: $60 Cdn.

Farmacia visit
Now we walk ten minutes to the nearest pharmacy. It is open-air, like many restaurants and other businesses in this tropical climate.
But because the prescription is in Spanish (naturally!), we second guess the instructions. Is it one every seven days or …..?  Doctors are notoriously poor in penmanship the world over! We hand over the scribbled-on piece of paper and the attendant has no problem filling it.
Cost for the prescriptions: $11 Cdn.

Result
Already, after my first drug dosages, my finger is pliable. It is no longer alive with fire.
Takeaway
Granted, my medical necessity was not horrific or an emergency. But it is common. I can’t help comparing this genteel experience with ‘back home’ in Canada. My el doctor visit here appeared civilized, almost social, and certainly less traumatic. I believe years and years and years ago, family doctors did ‘do’ home visits in Canada.
My, how times have changed.

Read our travel blog on Valladolid here

So suddenly this is Christmas season!
And – lucky me -- I have received an early Christmas present.
Meet ‘Stalker’
Cuz just out in time for a merry scary Christmas is ‘Stalker’, title of my first published book.

So what’s it all about, Elfie?
In ‘Stalker’, you are invited to take a journey into two worlds: the dark and light sides of life. Yin and Yang.

Frightening, suspenseful moments in award-winning short stories co-exist with true-life adventure vignettes, a blend of truth and fiction.

While my fiction explores the mind’s hidden fears and desires, my travel pieces deliver a slice of reality, sometimes with unexpected conclusions. But always through my anxious, sometimes terrified and naïve eyes.

But back to my fiction for a minute. “You must have a dark side,” commented a judge after reading one of my award-winning short stories.
I thought about that. But then I concluded, I also have a light side. Positive vs negative; dark vs. light. No different than anyone else.
So, settle into your favourite reading position in your favourite reading chair with your favourite libation. I invite you to join me in reading the dark stories and light side/true life adventure pieces that you’ll find in ‘Stalker’.
A special Christmas candy cane goes to publisher Mike Davie of Manor House Publishing Inc. for his belief in my imagination and crazy dark/light ideas.
Postscript
The book is available from various sites: Amazon, Goodreads and similar book locations. It is also available as an ebook for your Kindle. Plus, it will also be available directly from Manor House Publishing early 2024.  If you do read it, I would be grateful if you posted a review. Thanks.
Have a merry scary Christmas!

Read about Key West in our latest travel blog