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

“In the middle of the jungle, in the middle of the Yucatán, you and I beneath the moonlight, With just the monkeys and the palm trees…”

There we were, on the raised wooden terrace of our Birdhouse, in an eco-oasis retreat tucked on the outskirts of a Maya village called Ek Balam (Black Jaguar), in the Yucatecan jungle of Mexico, watching tropical birds at eye level.
​
Like wow!
​

Orange Beauty
Perched on a nearby tree branch -- in our sight line -- was a brilliantly adorned bird of orange feathers. But what was it?
Awestruck, we snapped myriads of photos, the bird obligingly co-operative, while we settled into our ‘treehouse’. We had already hauled up our backpacks by climbing the spiral staircase of handcrafted metal leaf-shaped steps to our treetop hideaway.
Once there, we collapsed into two wicker rocking chairs on our lofty porch, surveying the world from above. At once, we felt superior and smug.
​

Birdhouse among the trees
Our ‘room among the trees’ was rustic, protected by a net-covered thatched roof. Screened windows and a ceiling fan ensured we would sleep soundly on a hanging, swinging queen size bed encased with mosquito netting. Or would we? How could I navigate a mid-night visit to the outside bathroom?
We could have slept ‘upstairs’ in the nesting loft but that meant climbing higher via a ladder.  And we are lazy.
Indeed, so used to city life -- aka noisy cars, honking horns, blaring sirens -- we wondered whether we could fall asleep in the jungle with its myriad of natural but strange night sounds.
​

Bathroom au naturel
Our ensuite bathroom was a lesson in ecological creativity: a solar heated outdoor shower with electric backup. Even more visionary is the dehydrating compost toilet. You have to use it, er, see it (in accompanying photo) to understand how it functions by transforming organic waste into dark, fertile, odourless, dry soil. Think sawdust in a basket within reach.
​

Unique Utopia
 Genesis Eco-Oasis is the brainchild of Canadian owner Lee Christie.  She offers a back-to-nature living experience that eliminates all stress of modern life. You hear only cicadas and owls as the night curtain falls across the sky.
What this woman has accomplished through her vision of paradise boggles my mind. While I’m worrying about our cellphone connection with the outside world --- really?! --- she worries about whether she should gather more eggs from her Maya neighbours for breakfast. There are no deadlines. No high-pitched highway driving. No noise pollution. No …well, you get the idea. Her eco-oasis brings you back to earth, to Nature, to childhood innocence.
Her kitchen is run by a Maya chef who uses organic vegetables from Lee’s farm.
​

There is even a turquoise natural swimming pool -- bio-filtered with a minimum use of chemicals -- and filled by tapping down 40 meters into the system of pristine underground river water.
Once upon a time a journalist/publisher in Calgary, Alberta, Owner Lee left the rat race to create a natural jungle hideaway; it mocks the frenetic activity of modern life. We first met about 20 years ago when Genesis Eco-Oasis was in its infancy.
​

Eco-philosophy
Driven by her eco-philosophy, she travels the countryside for deteriorating wooden Mayan pieces and similar cast-offs. These she lovingly and creatively transforms into useful works of art: a table top perhaps. Or window shutters. Maybe a room partition.
Her hidden retreat is located only 300 metres from the world-class archeological site of Ek Balam. And her Maya village neighbours are teachers for her guests: how to make corn tortillas by hand or weave colourful hammocks or go bird watching at dawn with a local expert.
​

Currently, Lee is working to save the endangered stingless Melipona bees, creators of a medicinal honey. She employs local Maya experts who regularly health-check her hives.
​

Tomfoolery
Although we identified many tropical birds on our trekking trips in the area, we never did find another of those brightly-coloured orange birds we encountered near our treetop room.
“Oh,” she admits with a sheepish grin when we ask, “we deliberately carved that one and put him in the tree for fun.”
But the monkey is the real thing. “She fell in love with her reflection after seeing herself in your (exterior) vanity mirror.”  Each morning She-Monkey would sit in front of -- and chatter -- to her newfound friend in the mirror.
But when she reached out to touch that beautiful face, there was no monkey-mate. Only flat glass. A puzzle she could never solve.
Just like us city-slickers with the hand-carved orange bird.

I was born in New Brunswick and educated in Ontario where I still live. Two of our three sons live in Ontario; our third lives in British Columbia.  My husband and I have traversed most of this bountiful land from east to west, but not yet north although it urgently beckons before it’s too late. 
            The two extreme sides of Canada, Haida Gwaii in the Pacific Ocean, and Newfoundland in the Atlantic Ocean, are also high on our radar screen to explore.
            On Prince Edward Island, the home of Anne of Green Gables, we ate a fresh lobster dinner on wooden picnic tables in a large dining hall with a crowd of bib-wearing customers, all digging into the mouth-watering crustacean dressed with melted butter. 
            In the Gaspé Peninsula we dined on French Canadian pea soup. You know, the divine version simmered with a ham bone. In Québec’s largest city, we searched far and wide to find the perfect mountain of thinly-sliced, mustard-laced Montreal smoked meat piled high on rye -- and we did.
            I remember skating on the Rideau Canal in Ottawa, not realizing then this ice would evolve into the longest skating rink in the world.  As a student in our capital city, my friends and I would occasionally wander into the House of Commons in session, never dreaming that democratic right would be jeopardized in the future.  I attended Lisgar Collegiate on The Driveway in Ottawa where famous alumni like actor Lorne Greene, former Governor General Adrienne (Poy) Clarkson, impersonator Rich Little and other illustrious Canadians walked these same halls.

            During an icy winter night in Jasper we watched silent caribou, their magnificent antlers coated in frost, stealthily glide along slippery streets like ghosts in a dark dream. 

On the west coast we dined on Pacific wild salmon and kayaked around the gulf islands.  In the interior town of Smithers, we saw a mother black bear with her cubs, resembling popular plush toys, amble into the bush on the side of the Hudson Bay Mountain range.

On a drive across the Canadian Prairies, we experienced a haunted hotel and old saloon near Wayne, Alberta, where we believed a ghostly outline in an oldtimer’s photo was real. 

Although we travel extensively in foreign lands and enjoy wonderful and sometimes hair-raising adventures, I know I belong to this imperfect land: this country that needs ongoing repairs and healing from terrible wounds….
I am proudly Canadian.

        “Guess what?” he says in shock.  He is my husband and current driver of a rental van.
        “What?” we echo simultaneously. We are me and four travel-weary visiting family members in the packed van on the busy quota (toll) divided highway in the middle of a very hot (over 35 C) day in the Yucatán peninsula of Mexico.
        “I think I’m out of gas,” he says calmly as he steers the dying vehicle to the narrow shoulder alongside the busy highway that is in the midst of construction.
        And we are only halfway to our destination.
        “What?” everyone cries in anguish. “How can that be?”
        Our driver calmly explains. “I thought the rental agent said the car was gassed up. Now I think she said, the car needs to be gassed up. That’s the problem when you don’t speak the language.”
        A chorus of groans erupts.

The Big Anxiety
        Together -- except for the two teens -- we assess the situation. The teens are more interested in taste sampling the on-board Mexican snacks and scrolling their screens. Besides, it’s the adults who must worry about these things.
        We really are sitting ducks. Having read all the mad media reports about violence in Mexico, our visitors appear slightly uneasy.
        On the other hand, my husband and I are not. We’ve become familiar -- unfortunately -- with this toll road and its ‘under construction’ hazards. Although this dilemma has nothing to do with that.
        Dire thoughts dash through worried heads: what if we’re accosted by roaming thugs? How do we get help? Will anyone stop to help? Do we want anyone to stop? These and other catastrophic thoughts help fuel The Big Anxiety.
        Meanwhile, mostly commercial traffic screams by: double tractor-trailer trucks that leave a residual hurricane swirl of hot air. One can only imagine being hit by one of these monsters. Game over.          

Call for help
        In Mexico, there is a federally funded highway service called The Green Angels (Angeles Verdes). The bilingual crew patrols the country’s toll roads every day in green and white trucks to help motorists-in-need on major highways. The Mexican Tourism Ministry operates a fleet of more than 275 Green Angel pickup trucks with a service similar to our North American Automobile Associations.    
        Norm and I knew about – and remembered – the Green Angels from previous trips. We always carried their toll-free number.
        Using his limited Spanish, Norm called the Green Angels. There appeared to be some language difficulty but finally, he was able to communicate our dilemma and position. He understood the Angels provide roadside assistance EXCEPT for gasoline. After all, who would drive anywhere without a full tank of gas?
        Luckily, the dispatcher said he would instruct a nearby Angel to deliver a container of gas. He should be at our location in about half an hour. (He probably got off the line and shook his head at the wisdom of some gringos…)

Waiting...
        With rising temperatures -- both inside and outside the van – plus increased doble doble truck traffic and late afternoon shadows soon to shift from early evening to pitch blackness, we waited. Snacks ran out. Tempers flared. Irrational fears increased….
        A van of highway construction workers did stop…what’s the problemo? they asked in Spanish.
        “No gasolina,” we whimpered sheepishly.
        They laughed. Not to be mean but with the realization our problem was not one with which they could help. So, they waved harmoniously and drove on.
        “Let’s call Carmen.” Our landlady. “She should know what’s happening to us and maybe has a faster solution.”
Carmen
        At Carmen’s request, (she also connected with the Green Angels), we took a screen shot of our GPS location plus photos of our stranded vehicle, forwarding both to her. “I will send Carlos (her husband/our landlord) with gas,” she said. Thank goodness for modern technology and cell phones.
        This time we decided we had covered all bases. All we had to do was wait.

The Green Angel
            Suddenly, across the divided highway from us, we notice a truck has stopped. It is a Green Angel! Unfortunately, the autopisto is separated by a cement partition plus an additional high wire mesh permanently fixed atop the partition. Obviously meant to prevent any shenanigans: like crossing from one side to the other. This earthly obstacle does not stop our Angel.
            Looking both ways, he first scrambles up the partition, passing the can of gasolina to Norm on this side. Then we all watch in awe as he follows, catapulting his short, chunky frame over the top wire mesh webbed partition, landing safely on our side.
            Before we know it, he has the hose from the can in our gas tank. We sigh with relief. And we pay him 260 pesos (about $20 Cdn) for the cost of gasoline only. Plus a generous tip.

The Silver Angel
        Suddenly our attention is drawn back to the opposite side of the highway. A silver Kia has pulled up behind the Green Angel truck. It is Carlos, beloved husband of Carmen. When he sees the Green Angel, he shouts loudly to us between roaring-past trucks, that he will drive on to where the toll booth is, turn around, and come to our rescue, too.
Green then Silver
        The Green Angel finishes. He removes his gas hose. Shakes hands all around. We thank him profusely. He waves goodbye. And, like Spiderman scaling a building, he reverses his actions. Looks both ways. Safe enough. Throws over the now-empty gas can to the other side. Then hoists himself up and hurls over the high webbed partition, landing miraculously again on his feet beside the empty gas can. Waves again.
        And he’s off.

Silver Angel
        Just as Carlos, our Silver Angel, pulls up behind us.
       Carlos has brought an empty plastic pop bottle with him. He whips out his pocket knife, slices the plastic bottle lengthwise to use as a funnel, and proceeds to add more gas to our tank.
        Once he’s emptied his canister, he jumps into his car and follows us for awhile. Just to be sure we are okay.

Really
        In foreign countries, including Canada and U.S., news media outlets warn of danger and death in Mexico.
        Really.
        Well, we can personally vouch that along the major highways in the Land of the Tamale in the Yucatán, we found Angels.
        Really.

It is early morning and hot and dusty.
We are driving along the congested main road through Tulum in the Mayan Riviera in Mexico. Despite the early hour, it is beastly hot with mucho, mucho traffico: cars, bicycles, motorcycles, street carts, mopeds. pedestrians…
Our plan is to zip through this tourist-mad metropolis (once so peaceful when we visited the ruins in the seventies!) to find a highly-rated UNESCO protected biosphere near the sea called Sian Ka'an.

The Place Where the Sky is Born
The big attraction – here where the sky is born – is to body-float down a Mayan made channel for about a half hour. The fresh water is aqua in colour, clear, and pleasantly cool but with a current that carries you along slowly to the sea.
Our reason for hurrying? As independent travellers, we want to beat the hordes of tourists in the tourist buses that arrive later.
The biosphere
Sian Ka’an is officially home to 9 different ecosystems and a wealth of flora and fauna, including: 320 bird species, around 100 mammals, 90 species of native bees, 47 species of dragonflies, 74 species of beetles, 310 species of mosquitos (no, you can’t bring mosquito spray, sorry!), 318 species of butterflies, 84 species of coral, and 5 neotropical felines (i.e. jaguar, jaguarundi, ocelot, margay, tigrina).
So, you get the picture. An awesome biosphere. Our Maya boatman/guide Demacio can recite almost all of this without thinking/blinking!

My hesitancy
Having earned a Bronze Medallion in Lifesaving from the Royal Life Saving Society years ago, I do not fear swimming in/jumping into strange water. But for some reason I chose not to ‘float’ down this beautifully clear, aqua coloured channel lined on both sides with tall stalks of reeds.

Instead, I chose to walk the boardwalk across the marsh (along with  guide Demacio) to the exit point 30 minutes away.
Need I add that Norm, my adventurous Beloved, jumped into the channel with gusto? Along with three other tourists from our small motorboat….

Strange sighting
After the float, enthusiastically endorsed by Norm et al, our group of five resettled into the motor boat for the ride back over the marsh to shore.
As we began, we noticed the guide in the boat ahead pointing with enthusiasm at something in the reeds. His passengers ooh-ed and ahh-ed. Cameras quickly appeared. Click. Click. Click.
Surely not…?!
Naturally the interest from our group of five was piqued. Motor cut, we slowly floated and followed until we reached the same oohing and ahhing spot. Curious, a fellow passenger in the front peered into the same reed area pointed out to the first boat.
We heard a gasp. Then she points. Grabs her camera.
“Baby croc!” she hisses.

…Baby croc?!
Our heads whip around in the same direction. Demacio,  cuts the motor. Cameras click. Click. Click.
At first, Norm and I cannot see this cold-blooded reptile, but then Demacio comes to our aid. “See?! See?!” he points. “Hanging over the branch? See his face? Look! Look!”
Yes. Finally, we see.
Indeed, the baby crocodile is clearly visible.
And my immediate question is: But where is the mother?
But…but…but..
We are still jabbering about this exciting but potentially dangerous discovery after our safe return on land.
And then, the questions jab our brains like needles into our skin:
--is this a real or fake croc? Surely there is no way a thriving tourist enterprise would dare endanger its livelihood by exposing visitors to a crocodile. Right?
--how did our guides know where to look? And if it was real, would they really point it out to visitors?
--we noticed the croc was conveniently ‘discovered’ AFTER the channel float
--we researched whether there are freshwater crocs in this area. YES.
---then we researched…can crocodiles crawl onto low-lying branches? YES.
So, your mission, should you choose to accept it:
Did we -- or didn’t we -- see a live baby crocodile lounging on a branch over the beautifully clear aqua water in the place where the sky is born?