We return from this land of tamales and iguanas to our Canadian homeland in a few days. But first, a few postcards from the Yucatán’s Valladolid colonial city where we have lived for three months.

Gentleman Vendor
In the people’s market, a ten-minute walk away, food stalls line the ‘walls’ under a temporary tent structure of wooden pallets and tarpaulin. They stretch at least two long Canadian city blocks. We shop here for local fresh fruit and vegetables. Although we only speak Spanglish, we enjoy the verbal exchanges.
The vendors probably find us --- and other visiting gringos --- amusing. Or a huge bother. They watch with much curiosity. What we buy. How we pinch-test the avocados. Or ask the name of a weird looking food that looks like oversized kiwi fruit. (zapote, they reply, muy dulce…very sweet).
There is one problem with shopping at the market, though. These vendors cannot change large denominations of pesos. Their produce costs small amounts. And often we forget that.

Last week we stopped at the stall of an elderly male vendor --- he with mucho wrinkles, small chocolate-coloured eyes, white strands of hair, and a kind face --- who was selling tomatoes. We chose a few, asked how much. Norm handed him more than the agreed amount because he had no small change. The old man looked at the pesos and shook his head. We understood him to say we were paying too much for what we bought. Said he was sorry but couldn’t make any change.
No problemo, we said, indicating he should keep the extra money.
This would not do for the old fellow. He looked at his table, picking up one tomato after another. Finally, he chose a larger tomato to make up for our overpayment. Handed it to us with a missing tooth smile.
The tomato was heart-shaped.

Beware the Roof Dogs
Lesson One: when walking in many Latino cities, keep your eyes on the ground otherwise you will break a leg: broken sidewalks, sudden sink holes and dips, mysterious liquids, strewn garbage, low hanging signs on which to hit your head. It’s all part of the walking obstacle course.
And then, there are the roof dogs.
In Valladolid, and elsewhere in Mexico, most cement casas are flat-roofed. This in case the owner decides to add another floor when there is enough money to do so. Many people use that flat roof as another ‘living’ room. Some have chairs on the roof. Others have plants. Makes sense to increase your living space when you don’t have much.
However, while concentrating on navigating the broken sidewalk, remember these flat roofs are sometimes home to the owners’ dogs. Recently, while walking, we heard a low menacing growl. Our instincts snapped to attention. Looking up, we gasped in fear at the sight of open canine jaws: the many-fanged mouth of a drooling roof dog! Ready to pounce on us!
He is the Guard Dog from Hell. He follows alongside us from atop the roof --- not far from the street --- and snarls and snaps and pants and bares his fangs, threatening to leap and attack us. A most intimidating, terrifying experience. Especially when this aerial attack is an unexpected shock.
Although excellent guard dogs for their owners, they spell instant heart attack for the unaware pedestrian below. After our breathless recovery, we quickly snapped a photo of the attack dog. Can you find Fang on the roof ? Almost hidden by the blinding sun.

El Escorpión
One particularly groggy, I mean me --- I was groggy --- morning in Valladolid, I struggled to tell my brain it was time to exercise.
The morning was already hot (24 degrees) and I hadn’t slept well because of the heat and well, staying in bed seemed a far better idea than hauling out my exercise mat and attempting half-hearted yoga poses.
In somewhat of a trance, I grabbed my exercise mat to unroll along the tiled floor.
That’s when I did a double-take. It looked like a dead leaf --- a curled rusty-coloured vegetation at first glance --- clinging to my exercise mat.
I went to touch it, fling it off, and proceed with my floor exercises. For some reason, I thought to inspect it more closely.
That’s when I realized that was no plant hanging on my mat.
“Norm,” I clamoured –-- not too hysterically --- “I think there’s a scorpion on my exercise mat.”
He dropped his weights. Hurried over. Confirmed my worst fears. “That’s a red scorpion,” he agreed. (We later learned the red scorpion sting is more severe than the black or brown species.)
Quickly he lifted my rolled-up exercise mat at arm's length, rushed outside, shook the mat until the small but dangerous demon dropped off.  Then he stepped on it with one of his running shoes. Dead.
We watched for signs of life. Nada.
And then, fascinated, we watched at the sudden arrival of an army of tiny red ants. As if practicing military manoeuvres, they surrounded the scorpion carcass and as one, began moving it into the grass where they could munch on their unexpected delicacy.
No more groggy me. Suddenly I was wide awake.
Scorpions on your exercise mat will do that for you. A jolt of instant adrenaline.

And then…there’s Tigré…
We knew we were accepted into this middle-class neighbourhood because of Tigré. So-called because of faint tiger-like stripes lining his black fur coat, Tigré belongs to the family across the street. When we first arrived, he barked lustily and long. At us. And in front of us. We were strangers in his territory. His message was clear: Get Out!
It didn’t take long, though, until he realized we fell under his heading of added responsibilities.
Now he lies along the front of our shaded driveway, surveying his neighbourhood from this vantage point. If anyone --- like the garbageman --- approaches our territory, he barks mercilessly. He does not stop barking until he perceives any danger to us has passed. Or we tell him the visitors are okay (like the pizza delivery man).
Our three-month stay here ends shortly. We are going to miss Tigré. I wish he could understand.
How do you say goodbye to a sweet dawg who’s captured your heart?

Cenote 1         
        We both saw him at the same time. At the side of this lonely paved road as we passed in our small white rental car.
        Dressed from head to toe in black. Black motorbike. Black helmet. Black visor. Black jacket. Black clothing. He looked menacing.
         It is mid morning in the Yucatán where we are wintering and it’s hot. As in sweating profusely, 30 C degrees hot.

        We are on the search for an off-the-beaten-path cenote. (In the Yucatán, there are no above ground rivers due to the limestone bedrock. A cenote is a natural pit or sinkhole of fresh water, exposed by the collapse of limestone bedrock. During ancient Maya times, cenotes were valuable water sources but also used occasionally for sacrificial offerings. Most Maya cities were founded around a nearby cenote.)

        The Yucatán is peppered with 6,000 cenotes, some groomed with tourist amenities: change rooms, handicraft markets, restaurants. We want to find one that is not crowded with turistas. And our map shows this lonely road –-- meaning no other traffic --- through the dry jungle leads to an area of cenotes (zona de cenotes arqueológicos).
        Which is where we encounter our man in black. Immediately we are on high alert. Is he a policía ready to pounce and ask for our ID papers? (Never give up your original documents, like passports, to the pólice we have been warned. Always carry a copy.)

        I quickly glance at him, then go back to studying the narrow, pot-holed road ahead.
        My husband, Norm, does not. Through the car’s rearview mirror, he watches the man in black on the motorbike begin to follow us. Norm mentally sizes up the situation: two silver-haired gringos in a rental car, driving alone on an isolated road with no other visible signs of habitation. Hmmm.
        After a time, the man in black disappears offroad. Is he taking a shortcut through the jungle to suddenly appear in front of us? How far should we venture along this road into the unknown?
        Suddenly Norm brakes the car. With difficulty we turn around.
        A cenote is not obvious.
        But we are.    

Cenote 2
        Following our map again, we veer off a main highway in the opposite direction. Delighted to notice a crude homemade sign pointing to a cenote. 3 km away claims the sign. At a casual glance, the cenote road looks rough. Sort of a farmer’s wagon trail.
        However, we reason, at least this cenote is marked. Carefully, we navigate the ‘road’ and pass a cluster of stick casas. (These provide air circulation in this climate).   Few people live here. But those who do wave in friendly greeting. We smile and wave.  Then we begin the drive along this rough and bumpy road to the cenote.

        Full disclosure: there was a sign in Spanish at the start directing us to a casa for information. But we ignored it. After all, we had already wasted enough time on our quest.
        Norm carefully, gingerly, repeatedly, braked and accelerated, moving slowly and carefully along this stony, uneven ‘road’ for about one km.
        Me? I was getting antsy. What if we hit something and ruptured the undercarriage?! Who could help? Certainly not CAA. Besides, our cell coverage here was spotty.
        We passed two more Cenote signs pointing further inland. Looking ahead on the ‘trail’, we could see only more twists and turns on an uneven surface that disappeared into the jungle.
        In a melodramatic moment, I insisted we stop. For the sake of car safety.

        Norm braked atop a rough terrain ridge. He was determined to walk the rest of the way to the cenote. With his camera.
        Hmmm. Here we are. In the middle of nowhere on a rutted trail. Surrounded by dry jungle. Hot. Humid.
        “Leave the car keys with me please,” I said.
        After which he set off following the pitted, winding trail until disappearing from view. The silence was deafening. After one minute I texted “Come back!” No service.
        I looked back from whence we had come. Saw two motorbikes with riders slowly bump their way along the trail. As they rattled closer, Norm reappeared complaining the ‘road’ ahead was more of the same.
        Finally, the motorbikes, the first carrying an older fellow, the other two young men, reached us. Stopped.
        “Cenote?” we asked, pointing down the impossible trail.
        “Si,” smiled the old man showing a wide front tooth gap. “Three kilometres.”
        We thought it best to head back. The old man and the young men helped direct Norm’s turnaround.
        As we retraced our track, I muttered, “We should have asked for information first.”
        In reply my husband casually remarked: “We needed motorbikes. Or a 4-wheel drive.”

        Thus, our search continued for an uncrowded cenote.
        We are now driving along the highway towards the next town.
        Then bingo! On our left. We see a large sign beckoning us to Cenote x-cajum. No cars or buses in sight! We turn in and follow a well-kept driveway towards a low-lying building.
        We turn the bend and --- to our horror --- we count six turista buses parked in front. Hordes of people are milling around. Worse, as we silently curse, a seventh turista bus appears.
        We are off on our search again.

        Later that afternoon, we arrive at Ek Balam, a Maya archeological excavation. Next to it is Xcanché cenote. And hurray --- because of our timing --- there are no buses! Only a few people.

        Changing into our bathing suits, we congratulate ourselves on this great find. When we finally ease ourselves into the green-hued water --- after a long descent on water-logged wooden steps --- we notice small black fish dart away immediately.

        As we reclimb the steps next to the cenote stone wall, we disturb a dusty grey-coloured iguana that is obviously not used to two-legged creatures.
        This cenote is 30 m deep and 15 m from ground level to the water’s surface. With a diameter of 50 m, it is surrounded by green vegetation. If you feel like Tarzan or Jane, grab a rope or long vine to swing out over the fresh water before releasing and splashing into the cool pool below.

        We learned access to this cenote’s fresh waters was almost impossible a few years ago, until the local Maya people formed a cooperative with the purpose of providing a source of income for the surrounding population. Over the years, the cenote’s facilities have been upgraded, like placing wooden stairs attached to the stone wall to allow access. There is even a restaurant on site specializing in Maya cuisine prepared by local Maya women.

Finally…
        …we begin the drive back to Valladolid.
        Little did we know we would run into a massive construction zone resulting in a long delay of snarled traffic backed up in long lines.
        But that’s a story for another day.

So, we made a run for the Mexican border this month. Desperate to discard the gray and  snow that now envelops our homespace. Craving the sun and hot days. The kind of heat that permeates your bones and injects your weary body with strong doses of natural Vitamin D. 
Welcome to Valladolid, an inland Spanish colonial city in the state of Yucatán in Mexico with a strong Maya history. We are living here for three months with so-so Spanish language skills. And welcome to our impressions of settling into a typical cement casa in a different culture in a middle-class working neighbourhood.

Dogs
They are everywhere. Mostly sleeping on the street. Or hidden behind wrought-iron fences in an enclosed backyard. Dogs here probably wish they were born in North America where they would be pampered, fed organic food, receive shots from expensive veterinarians for optimum health and walked daily by their owners via a special doggie leash.
Not here.
Whoops! Except for this man in the photo who agreed to hold his teeny-tiny dog for me. Despite the heat, the little fellow was shaking.

Mercado
The people’s market is a 15-minute walk from our casa. Most food stalls are tended by Maya women in snow-white huipils, their traditional tunic dress embroidered at the edges with colourful floral designs.          

Produce is plentiful and local. Among many Maya specialties are chaya (a spinach-like leaf reputed to be more nutritious than Popeye’s favourite); nopal, the pad of the pear cactus with thistles removed; discs of Maya bitter chocolate; and a fruit that looks like a large kiwi. Called a zapote, this early-in-the-new-year delicacy reveals a deep amber-coloured flesh when cut open. As the locals say: ‘Dulce! Dulce! Sweet. Sweet!’ And it is!

The market is so much more: meat, handicrafts, flowers, plants, spices, body creams…and fascinating locals.
We are partial to the vendor opposite Stall # 130. She has come to recognize us and we are sure she charges a fair price.

Disinfecting food
When purchasing produce like lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, poblanos, habaneros, we use a disinfectant to sanitize the skins before eating to avoid stomach troubles, like Montezuma’s Revenge.
The product is called microdyne, sold in bodegas (supermarkets, 3 major ones in town). 10 drops per 1 litre for 15 minutes to remove contaminants and pesticides. And
we drink bottled water.
But hey…no problemo with tequila or mezcal!

Anoles
My favourite creatures to watch in our garden. These tiny lizards, like mini-dragons the size of your little finger, dart to and fro, leaping magnificently into the air, landing safely in a nearby bush, as if they have wings. Sometimes puffing out their throats, they remain silently in one spot. Blink and they’re gone.

Our Post Office caper
Something typical happened on the way to the Valladolid post office. Which is in the middle of nowhere.
The P.O. is located on the other side of the city. Norm suggested we wait until after the noon hour crush before taking a taxi. It's that far away.
After our driver wound his way through many pot-holed one-way streets, we arrived at the post office. A desolate location, it was part of a cement building with one lonely agent in a bare, windowless room.
It appears no-one uses the post office anymore. Maybe this is why we rarely see postcards?
We had asked our taxi driver to wait for us while we posted our letters. After our business, we scrambled into his back seat as he started his car. Except no response. The engine had died. He called a friend and while waiting, kept re-trying the ignition. No luck. Finally, his taxi friend appeared and we transferred into his back seat.
But not before our new driver helped his friend push his stalled vehicle. That's all the car needed...a push to get started!
Will our mail ever make it to its destination?

Snow!
When we stopped at a nearby cenote, we chatted (in Spanglish) to the attendants. They were curious to know why we would stay in Valladolid for three months.
So Norm showed them a live video from our doorbell camera at home. It was recording the recent heavy snowfall as the white stuff piled high on our street and driveway.
One attendant gasped in disbelief. Astonished, he beckoned his co-workers to see this extraordinary spectacle---where humans actually lived---of wild blowing snow swirling thickly from the sky.
They all stared in amazement. Wow! they exclaimed.
Then they turned back to us, emphatically nodding their heads. Ahora entendemos! Muy frio en Canada! Now we understand! Much cold in Canada!

So, what am I doing here in the sky…
…clinging to my scruffy looking seat in this small regional (Merpati Airlines, now defunct) propeller driven plane that uses a large Velcro strap to hold fast the exterior cabin door?
And what’s that damp stain… is that rain seeping through the small window pane, sliding down the interior wall beside me?
I am hyperventilating, praying, willing a safe landing on this short flight from the mainland of Indonesia to Kalimantan, the Indonesian section of this giant, rugged island of Borneo. My husband, Norm, seated beside me, is asleep. Calm, relaxed, always ready for an adventure, his head flops back and forth as the plane dipsy doodles up and down. He does not know how close we are to not making our destination, I think.

Gingerly, I glance around at our fellow passengers. Since we are independent travellers, I am always interested in spotting, and studying, others like us.  I spy another twosome, a North American couple judging by their clothing, burrowing into guidebooks on Kalimantan/Borneo. The Indonesian guy across the aisle is reading a magazine. No-one, but me, appears concerned.
Why am I the only one so stressed?

Once, the reluctant traveller
Years ago, I used to be the reluctant traveller. But I’ve changed. Sort of. Sometimes. Partly it’s because my husband and I have had some marvelously life changing --- a charitable word --- adventures on our world travels. Deep down inside, I knew I always wanted to experience my own unadulterated delight in exploring a culture other than my own. But it’s taken me years to get to this acceptance stage. Meaning, I get it now. I can leave for uncharted territory without a bad case of culture shock, jittery nerves, and hysteria.
But I don’t get this current situation we’re in…flying on an out-of-date airplane in an area of the world where safety first does not seem the motto.
We’ve explored Indonesia for six weeks now. This forthcoming Kalimantan excursion is our final destination.

Off to visit People of the Forest
We are heading for Tanjung Puting National Park and Camp Leakey, an Orangutan Recovery Station. Camp Leakey was founded by Canadian orangutan researcher Dr. Biruté Galdikas in 1971. The camp’s name honours famed paleo-anthropologist Louis Leakey, who funded Galdikas' orangutan research. (Leakey also funded Jane Goodall's work with chimpanzees and Dian Fossey's studies with mountain gorillas. The three women became known as The Trimates, or Leakey’s Angels.)
But before we get to meet our orangutan relatives, we hole up in Surabaya, East Java. From this city’s airport we will fly to Kalimantan.
At last --- after a depressing two day stay in our gloomy vintage English-style lodgings--- we arrive at the Surabaya airport, eager to move on, to study the orangutans at Camp Leakey.

Sorry, no room on the flight
But first we must board our flight. The open concept airport is bustling: that familiar humid, sticky smell of the tropics is stifling. Large overhead ceiling fans do little to provide relief. My stomach butterflies are in full flight.
Confirmed tickets in hand, we step to the counter.
“Sorry. No room,” says the airline attendant.
“What? But we have confirmed tickets. Right here….” And we show our printed proof.
“Sorry. No room,” the attendant says again as if we are deaf. “Next please!”
We are unceremoniously given the bum’s rush.
Astonished, we look around in disbelief, and then despair. Our flight to Kalimantan is leaving shortly. Lucky for us (later I think not so lucky), one of our country contacts who drove us to the airport, has not left. He was waiting to make sure we made our flight.
Wide-eyed, we explain our predicament.
He says only one thing. “Do you have a plain white envelope?”
I’m slow to catch on. Norm is not.
“You mean a bribe?” when it finally dawns on me.
“These people do not make much money,” says our contact.
Norm stuffs the equivalent of $20 Cdn in the envelope, seals it, grabs our tickets and me again, says goodbye once more to our man on the ground, surreptitiously slips our white envelope to the same counter attendant. As if we are VIPs, we are whisked through the gate to the waiting plane on the tarmac.

Maybe we shouldn’t have boarded...
One look at the seen-better-days plane and I’m sorry we’ve spent money on a bribe.
So here we are now: me, my husband, and a few other foolish/hardy souls, aboard this flight to the jungle. I continually eyeball the Velcro strap holding closed the exterior door for fear it will release. Praying the Velcro will hold. And, what’s this now? Rain! Well, this is a tropical country. Sudden rainfalls are common. But since when does rainwater seep into, and slide down, the wall of an airplane in flight?
Somehow, after a one-a-half-hour-hold-my-breath flight, we land --- safely --- and find ourselves in a seedy, damp smelling airport, the humidity ramped higher by the passing rainstorm. Our hotel is not far in this coastal jungle town of Pangkalan Bun, gateway to Tanjung Puting National Park and our orangutan venture.
Mishaps begin almost immediately. Our taxi, sputtering along a muddy, pot-holed road to our hotel, breaks down. Our driver is exasperatingly apologetic, waving down prospective replacements as they slosh by. I need to use a washroom in the worst way. Fetid smells mixed with steaming air are upsetting my fragile innards again.

Need mandi
Finally, in an actually operating taxi, we arrive at our top-rated hotel. ‘Top rated’ because each room has an attached mandi (bathroom), a frivolous detail I insist we include when finding accommodation in a jungle town. By this time, I am desperately in need of a mandi.
Bursting into the room, all looks fine…the usual accoutrements, bed, windows, wardrobe, mirror…but where’s the mandi? I spy a door on the far side of the room, race across the bare floor, thrust open the door. And stop suddenly.
To get to the mandi, I must first manoeuvre down a few steps to a lower room. The odour from this area is most foul: sewage mixed with heat, humidity, mildew, tropical rot.

Finally on our way to the Orangutans
The next morning, we begin our two hour --- seems much longer --- journey by motorboat to Tanjung Puting National Park and the Orangutan Rehabilitation Centre at Camp Leakey.
Our young male guide, Bayu (meaning Wind), is effervescent, accommodating, and knowledgeable. He offers us the only meal we will eat that day (although we do not know this at the time). Served cold, the two boxes come from his cache of items stowed beneath his driver’s seat at the stern of the motorboat where potent gasoline fumes are profuse.
Our cuisine is cold fried chicken, rice, gado gado (mix-mix), a traditional Indonesian dish of available vegetables --- bean sprouts, tofu, cucumbers, all mixed in a spicy peanut sauce --- and bottled water. (By the end of this Indonesian adventure, when we lived almost exclusively on fish, rice and gado-gado, I refused any of these foods for months after our return to Canada.)
Bayu proves a knowledgeable English-speaking guide. With a flashing smile that shows off his white teeth, he pronounces proudly: “On this (Sekonyer) river at night, we will see hundreds of monkeys, thousands of fireflies…” It’s a phrase we still use to exaggerate any claims. He also conveniently forgot to mention zillions of mosquitoes.

Monsoon-like rains
Soon after our departure on this muddy river, the menacing sky launches its monsoon-like rains.
We are drenched by this torrential downpour in the open speedboat. Bayu smiles and nods as he skillfully manoeuvres the boat through tangled jungle growth in the heavy deluge. At times there is no open water path, so, like Jungle Jim, he takes his machete and cuts a swathe through the overgrowth. Nonchalantly, he weaves his boat through this thick maze of wilderness. I keep watch for coiled snakes to drop in on us.

Camp Leakey
Finally, we arrive at Camp Leakey. Like a lucky omen, the hot tropical sun suddenly emerges to beat down and greet us. Now we are drenching in sweat.
As soon as Bayu docks, my husband, eager to finally see these People of the Forest, leaps from the boat to the long wooden boardwalk. I lag behind to take in a wider view of a low building at the end of the boardwalk surrounded by dense verdant bush. Then I hoist myself onto the walk.
That’s when I notice a reddish-brown, life-size, lumbering orangutan. A female from the look of her (Adult females weigh between 30 to 50 kg (66 to 110 lb.) and stand about one m (3.3 ft.) in height), she appears on the boardwalk from the surrounding jungle. Like a shy bride --- and studying us creatures with curiosity --- she cautiously approaches Norm, who looks enraptured. She only has eyes for him. He only has eyes for her.

Love at first sight
Right now, my brain disengages, clicks into slow motion.
Languorously, the beautiful creature extends a long hairy arm towards Norm, as if to touch his hand in greeting. I can see he is thrilled with this gesture. He extends his. It is love at first sight.
I watch in awe as she curls those long, strong, human-like fingers around Norm’s wrist and hand. In a trance it appears, he willingly grasps her hand in return. Gradually, slowly, still mesmerizing with her dark chocolate-coloured eyes, she begins to walk away with him. Like an odd couple, my husband and Jezebel stroll hand in hand; they begin to veer off the ramp together towards the jungle. Little do I know my husband’s calm demeanour is beginning to fade as he realizes her grip is iron-clad. She tightens her hold but does not hurt. There is no escaping her clutch.
In my slow-motion mode, it appears she intends to take him with her, perhaps back to her nest.
And it occurs to me at that moment, I might lose him. Forever. To a fearfully strong rival.
Gone forever?
My mind flashes forward, entertains crazy thoughts. What will I tell our three sons…that their father chose an orangutan over me? Our youngest might think that’s cool.
What will I tell our friends --- he left me for a female orangutan? One of them might rebound with ‘was she sexy?’
What will I tell each set of parents? Norm’s parents will be horrified. Mine, at least my artist father, might be intrigued with the possibility this is a surreal adventure.
Suddenly, as if in a jungle movie when the director yells CUT!, an assistant from the camp appears, races along the boardwalk from the low building. He yells at Jezebel, gestures wildly, frantically waves his arms.
She turns and looks at him with soft, languid eyes.

Scolding…
The assistant speaks harshly in an Indonesian dialect to her. She looks confused. Her feelings are hurt. She suddenly releases Norm’s hand. Backs shyly into the dense bush. We all watch in awe as she swings from tree branch to tree branch, disappearing from sight without a backward glance at her jilted lover.
I stare at Norm. He stares back in disbelief, shakes his hand, as if to feel it’s still there.
We will always remember this close encounter with Jezebel as the day I almost lost my husband in the Indonesian Jungle.
And I forgot my camera.

  Maps:  (hover cursor for titles)

Once upon a time there was a beautiful little fair-haired girl named Wendy. She lived in a comfortable, loving home with her parents and brother in Ottawa in the Kingdom of Canada.
 As a child, Wendy was curious. Loving. Sometimes opinionated. Fragile when it came to matters of self-doubt. But fiercely competitive and intellectually stimulating. Also caring. She loved all animals, especially her dogs. She even had a pet rabbit that hopped freely around her apartment.

I remember when her Nana died. Wendy made it her personal project to celebrate Nana’s long life through a compilation of favourite recipes adorned with Nana photos. Wendy worked all night before the next day funeral to have it ready as a parting gift to friends and family. That booklet is a family classic. Her dedication and love for the project defines Wendy.
Her zest for living led her to embrace adventure. She screamed in delight when she rode wild roller coasters. She learned to scuba dive. She jumped into soccer, hockey, both as player and coach. Physical activity was integral to her lifestyle.

When she grew up, Wendy met her handsome Prince Charming. He, from the Kingdom of Europe, complemented her self-development. And when they married in a castle in Ottawa, she looked like a royal princess, resplendent in her white gown and tiara. She trembled as she thanked her parents for their constant support. Then she and her husband danced as one to the strains of Come Away With Me by Norah Jones.
Two sons, each an essential part of Wendy’s life, enriched the couple. As the boys grew, so did she, volunteering in her community as a coach and, among other contributions, a voice for those unable to help themselves. She was recognized for her selfless actions with several awards.
At the same time, she embraced an exacting and exciting career in scientific research. Her attention to detail led to co-authoring several scientific publications.
Life was full.

And then, unexpectedly, Wendy was diagnosed with cancer. For two and a half years, she fought this insidious disease. Her family watched helplessly as she slowly faded away.
The little girl, who captivated everyone with her enthusiasm for life, died this month at age 47.
Wendy is my beloved niece.
I cannot fathom the desolate heartache her close family suffers at this time: her grieving husband and two young sons, my devoted sister and her husband, and Wendy’s brother and his wife.  

I can only share the following piece*, read by my sister at her daughter’s funeral, in loving memory of Wendy:
"You can shed tears that she is gone,
or you can smile because she has lived.
You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back,
or you can open your eyes and see all she's left.
Your heart can be empty because you can't see her,
or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember her only that she is gone,
or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind,
be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what she'd want:
smile, open your eyes, love, and go on."

*British poet and artist David Harkins

Satisfied and smug, we stuffed the final pieces of straw into our life-size, life-like mannequin.   Hallowe’en was the perfect time to test the reality of our creation. Standing up our version of Frankenstein in front of a makeshift brace, we four rang the stranger’s doorbell. Then quickly hid behind juniper bushes shielding us from view.
The door opened and the quintessential little old lady stepped forth holding a dish filled with candy. As she held out her goodies, our strawman collapsed and fell in a heap on the porch.
The old lady screamed. We collapsed in giggling hysteria as she slammed shut her door.

On a high now, we continued from house to house pulling the stunt over and over. After witnessing our scheme’s wild success --- and growing bored with its predictable response --- we decided to up the ante.
A great idea hit us collectively. The highway overpass presented the perfect opportunity. We’d throw our straw man over the bridge onto the road below just as a car came careening into sight.
And that’s exactly what we did.

The driver of the car slammed on his brakes as our mannequin hit the road in front of him. With squealing tires, he pulled over to the side while we ran to hide in the nearest cover. Heard him curse and swear and then start up the hill with a flashlight. 
We scattered, of course. Except me.
Reasoning our victimized driver would think no-one would hide near the crime scene, I hid in a nest of evergreens, just off the overpass. Big mistake.
Meanwhile, my friends were running like the wind across it.

Glued to my spot, I watched the beam from his flashlight jump around the conifers. My heart stopped. Thrashing through the trees, he methodically swept the beam back and forth. Back and forth.
The beam stopped. Oh, too close.
Dropping my head facedown onto a floor of dried pine needles, I lay prostrate on the cold earth. Barely breathing. Waiting for the beam --- and him --- to pass.
Suddenly I felt a rough punch on my back. Strong fingers clutched the collar of my coat. Fear set in as he hauled me to my feet. Can’t see his face. But I do see the Canada toque he is wearing. His angry eyes flash like red lights.
“Think that’s funny, do you?” he shouts. His spittle hits my face.
I shake.

“Realize you could have caused a god-damn accident!?” he shouts.
I tremble.
“You’re comin’ with me, Sister!” Twists my arm behind my back. Pushes, punches me down the slope to his car pulled over to the side.
“Get in!” A command. I feel his fury. He slams shut the back door. Jumps into the front. Locks the doors.
Am whimpering now. “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Just shut the fuck up you little priss.”
A nightmare, I tell myself. But I’m not waking up. Quivering in the back of his moving car. Suddenly nauseated.
“Gonna be sick! Pull over! Please!”
“You think I’m falling for that little trick! If you’re sick, you damn well gonna clean it up Sister!”
He’s driving like a madman. Speeding. Am so scared. Wetting myself. Can’t talk. Weeping. Wailing. What the hell will happen?

Suddenly he curses. I glance out the front windshield. Loose dog tears across the road. In front of us. He swears non-stop. Swerves. Tires squeal. Hit a curb. He loses control. Car skids on its side now. Crunches.
For a second total darkness. The man is kind of hanging mid-air inside the car. His safety belt held. No sound. No air bag inflation.
I’m thrown against the far door. No safety belt. Curl up in a fetal position.
Hold my breath.
I listen. No sound from the front seat. No breathing. See only the back of the man’s head. Hanging to one side. Still wearing his toque.

For an eternity, I sit, silent, my body pushed against the door against the ground.
Thinking. How to escape? 
Hear sirens. Squealing stop of a police car.
Flashlight shines into the car. This time I welcome the beam.
Police see me. In a caring voice, they tell me to stay still. Remain calm. They will get me out.
“The driver?” I ask. Afraid to know.
“Think he’s in serious condition, miss. Unconscious. Ambulance on its way.”
“You know this man?” asks one officer.
“No.” Am telling the truth. “He forced me into this car.”
I hear conversation.
“Don’t panic. We’ll get you out, miss.”
They do. Very carefully.
Then, “you need to be checked out in the hospital.”
“Who is he?” they ask again after they make sure I’m okay.
“I don’t know. He forced me into his car. I was terrified.” My face starts to screw up as if I’m about to cry.

An officer holds me.
Red lights flash. Ambulance arrives.
Attendants work to remove the man with the toque from his hanging harness.
I watch. Terrified. Transfixed.
As they release the man’s body, his toque falls off.
Don’t bat an eyelash when I see them. Two horns. They are slightly curved. One on either side of his forehead.
That’s when I knew I had been on the road to Hell.

        We must be in northern British Columbia. Specifically, Smithers. Home to our artist/teacher son, writer/teacher wife, their three active kids and two cats, Bear and Cookie.
        Their property is a five-acre rural paradise backed by snow-covered mountain peaks. Complete with a bountiful vegetable, fruit tree and flower garden, the land also features a state-of-the-art wire-fenced chicken home for one cocky rooster and his harem of free-range hens that produce fresh eggs daily. Mr. Rooster needs to strut around to protect his hens. In the Spring, a wily fox had entered the pen leaving behind feathers and broken-hearted children. The one surviving hen was named 'Lucky'.

The Pet Cats and Deer
        Bear, beautiful gray in colour, is the older cat. Almost five years now. Hunter extraordinaire. At times he drops his dead prey at the side door of the wide overhanging deck: a muskrat from the on-site pond. Field mice galore. Feathers from his latest flying (didn’t-take-off-fast-enough) victim. Despite the bell tied around his neck, Bear reigns supreme on his land. Neighbours (how close is a neighbour to a five-acre homestead?) confirm that with Bear roaming the area, their mice population has disappeared.
        Cookie, wearing a tuxedo-look-alike coat, is not yet one year. Like all kittens, he is busy honing his hunting skills. He crouches. Waits. An insect flies by. Cookie launches his attack. Misses. Oh well. He also pounces on field mice. Alas, whereas Bear eats his prey, Cookie tends to play with it. The kids are not pleased.

        Deer roam in and out of the property. The Garden of Eden attracts these gentle creatures. Unfortunately for them, the edible goodies are surrounded by a deer-proof fence so these soft, quiet mammals settle for munching grass on their way towards the house and art studio.
        Cookie does not mess with the large, brown-eyed deer families. Bear is nowhere to be seen. He is hunting more accessible game.

Silver Fox
        We explore the rocky shores at the fork where the Bulkley and Skeena Rivers merge. The kids build rock people, like Inukshuks. They create rock patterns, decorated with different coloured rocks. They skip flat stones in the fast-flowing water. A perfect summer afternoon pastime.
        And that’s when we see him. He sees the kids by the water. He does not see us, hidden in tall grass, behind him.
        A black (silver) fox. A beauty. Pointed perky ears. On his way to the water. He notices the commotion by the little people at the river edge. Stops. We watch him watch them. His front paw is poised in mid-air, as if to continue his silent trek. His silver-tipped tail behind him wafts loftily in the air. He sits and watches the kids. We sit and watch him.
        A perfect wildlife moment.

Bear
        But the pièce de resistance awaits at home. We are gathered in an open space between the front door of the house and art studio.
        “Bear! Bear!” shouts our 8-year-old sweet miss, pointing through the open space.
        “What’s Bear up to now?” we wonder aloud.
        “NO. Not Bear. BEAR-BEAR!” she repeats.
        We dash to the wide deck that overlooks the pond and firepit on the side of the house with the snow-covered mountain in the background.
        Yes, there he is! By the picnic table. Near the saskatoon berry bushes. He doesn’t care that a strange human family watches him with excitement: snapping photos, exclaiming, pointing, whispering, oohing and awing, jockeying for the best viewing position.
        The young black bear continues to swoosh, swipe and pull down the bushy branches, somehow managing to scarf down those delicious saskatoon berries. To our delight, he continues to forage and munch the saskatoons completely ignoring his captive audience.

        Indeed, we have discovered the land of deer and foxes and bear oh yes!

Suddenly I hear a heavy pounding on our solid wooden door that contains one small but important peephole. The door is our only entrance/exit to this place.
Each pounding is followed by a deep Spanish “Allo!” My heart hammers inside my chest. Fear grips my wired body. I bolt upright and glance at my husband beside me. Sound asleep. Like a baby.
“Wake up!” I whisper frantically. “Someone is pounding at the door!”

One of my husband’s greatest irritations is being abruptly awakened from a deep sleep. Takes him forever to get his bearings.
“Huh?” he manages.  
Pounding at the door persists.
“Someone’s trying to get in!” I gasp in fear.
Not quite awake, he tries to leap out of bed and into his shorts.  
“Look through the peephole!” I beg. “See who it is!”
He disappears. I hear nothing from him, only a steady pounding from outside the door. He reappears in our bedroom which faces the front of the street.  
“Can’t see anyone,” he says. “They’re gone.”  
It is true. The pounding has stopped.  
Loud voices are still audible as the intruder clomps down the stairs. Now more awake, my husband peers out the screened bedroom window that looks onto the street.
“There’s a white car with four-way flashers on in the condo parking lot across the street,” he whispers.  
Frozen with fear, I cannot will myself out of bed.
“Is it a police car?” I ask, shaking in the hot, sticky night air.
“No. Never seen it before. Armando (the condo custodian) is talking with the guy in the car. Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t answer the door.”
With that, he removes his shorts, climbs into bed and promptly falls back to sleep.  
I can’t believe his nonchalance. I am horrified.

I lie, stiff as a board, with heart pounding and eyes wide open staring into the darkness, my ears straining for strange noises while still hearing voices in the street below our balcony. Every inch of my inner fibre is stretched for the fight-and-flight mode. I am furious he can fall back to sleep so quickly when it is obvious our lives are in danger.
Who was pounding at the door? Why? What do they want? Did we do or say anything that may have offended a Progreseño?  
By now my fertile mind is rife with terrible scenarios. Am certain there are hordes of infiltrators from another province that Ivonne at the internet café told us about who are brandishing gleaming knives, ready to murder us and dump our bodies into the Gulf for the sharks to devour. I see us begging for our lives, offering money as bribes, pleading we didn’t mean to do whatever it was we did, if only they leave us alone. We will never again see our beloved sons, our wonderful families. I am paralyzed with anxious agony.
My eyes are wired open. My ears hear every sound --- the noise of the car --- or is it cars? Are they coming or going? I cannot sleep and need to use the washroom now but am terrified to go. What if the marauders hear the toilet flush and know that we are in here after all? They will try again to get us. Then I remember. There is a bottle of Javex in the bathroom. We can use it as a weapon. Throw the bleach into their eyes as they break down the door. We will not go down without a fight.

I look over at my husband, sound asleep, and can’t believe his indifference. I would scream at him but then the menacing band of marauding murderers would hear me. Am lying in a living hell.
Finally, the dawn arrives. By some miracle, we are still alive. Although still distraught, I need to know what happened last night.
I walk onto the balcony. It is amazing how comforting the light of day is to the eyes of a terrorized soul. I see a norteamericana woman across the street at the condo and she is talking with Armando, the condo custodian, and waving a piece of paper in her hand. At least Armando appears unscathed. The woman is Elizabeth who lives around the corner from us. Elizabeth sees me on the balcony. She shouts: “Do you know --- blah, blah, blah --- ?”  
I shake my head. I cannot hear her.
“...coming to see you,” she yells.
I dash out our wooden door leaping down the stairs while my husband sits in the apartamento calmly reading the morning news on the computer. Elizabeth is waiting at the bottom.  She shows me names scribbled on the paper I do not recognize.

And then I hear the story.
Robert from Toronto arrived in Progreso late last night to meet Canadian friends who weren’t there. The white car belongs to the taxi-driver Oswaldo, a wonderful man who helps anyone in distress. He drove all over Progreso in the middle of the night trying to find Robert’s friends. He banged on our door because Armando at the condo told him we were a Canadian couple. He suggested Oswaldo try us.  
Which he did. Which threw my active mind into overdrive.
When I climb back up the stairs to our apartamento, I explain all this to my husband as he scans his computer.
“See?” he shrugs, “there is a perfectly logical explanation and it involves a kind Mexican. Certainly not worth losing sleep over.”

        Two months ago, I wrote in this space about Isabella, our Nicaraguan ‘daughter’ who had run away from home after successfully graduating from high school.
Memory flashback
         Allow me to briefly refresh your memory.
       While in Nicaragua teaching English at a university, my husband and I met Isabella at the age of 10 through a teaching pastor. His mission has been to help lift Nicaraguan girls out of poverty through education. So many become mothers when they are children themselves.
        Isabella was the child of a rape. She lived in poverty with her family. Her mother --- because of the rape --- had difficulty accepting and connecting with Isabella. Despite this unhappy rejection, the girl lived at home developing a close bond with her abuela, her aging grandmother. Abuela sold handmade souvenirs to tourists to augment the family’s meagre income.
        Since 2013, we have happily supported Isabella in her quest for higher education. We have kept in touch through regularly translated letters from us to her and vice versa. Even Abuela wrote us: honest and forthright information about her granddaughter.
        To qualify for continued aid, Isabella maintained good grades and high standards of conduct.

Successful high school graduation and entry to Nursing
        Thanks to real-time videos and photos, we watched Isabella, wearing a white graduation gown, receive her Honours diploma from High School last year. At 17, she was radiant, proud, a young woman on the edge of success, escaping her past.
We were elated!
        Sensing a wonderful future for her, we promised to continue our financial support so Isabella could enter Nursing, her chosen profession.
            And then, Isabella ran off with a 19 year old youth. No-one had heard from her.

Fast Forward…
            Until last week when we received this from our teaching pastor:
          Her mother and her grandmother reported to me that she returned from Rivas a few days ago, pregnant and ill. The young man who stole her is unemployed and was unable to feed her.
        To return home, Isabella was required to apologize to her family. Our contact continues:
        She has already recognized the serious mistake she made and she expresses that, when she recovers her health and stabilizes her pregnancy and the birth of her baby, she will try to resume her studies.
        She says she is very sorry to disappoint both us and our pastor contact, who often counselled Isabella during rough moments.

        As disappointed as we are, our man-on-the-ground says for Isabella to achieve high school graduation is considered a major accomplishment.
        For Nica girls, Isabella is a success story.
        However, based on her grades, we know she is capable of higher achievement. We have decided that if Isabella wishes to continue her education, we will support her.
        Maybe knowing that she has financial backing --- and having tasted a small measure of educational success --- Isabella will enter Nursing after all in the future.

        We travel the world. Except not now with the COVID lockdown.
       So, we’ve been living on memories. For me, that also means recalling all those dire moments when I was caught somewhere looking for someplace to answer the Call of Nature.
        You’d be surprised what the world offers people like us.

Small Town, Texas
        The washrooms at a gas/fast food stop called Cowboys are another story. My mother judged all human beings by the state of their bathrooms. She would not have a good impression of Jefferson, Texas. 
        The ladies’ washroom was dark, dingy but passable.  At least it had toilet tissue and soap. On the wall was a sign: No gentlemens allowed in here. This is the ladies’ washroom. If you do use the toilet, please make sure the seat is up.
        In the men’s washroom my husband reported a sign also. Please close the door. We don’t want a show! The gents’ door opened into the kitchen of the Subway franchise.

Progreso, Mexico
        We loved our second floor apartamento in this typical Mexicano casa. This is also where we learned why Norte Americanos are considered anal about bathrooms.
        Our turquoise and white tiled tiny baño was, well, tiny. It looked like a leftover thought. We had to step up into this small room to use the toilet. A tiny window looked out on scarlet bougainvillea blossoms that you could see while standing in the small shower stall.
        The toilet was fine. But it was the handwritten sign in English beside the toilet I remember: Please do not throw papers into the toilet.  Please throw them in the wastebasket.
        We lived in a no-flush tissue zone. The status quo for most of the Yucatán Peninsula --- in fact much of Central America --- where antiquated/non-existent sewage systems are the norm.

Sierra Madre Mountains in Mexico
        After four-and-one-half hours of non-stop driving up, up, and just over the mountains, our driver stopped for breakfast and a washroom break. His choice of restaurant and washroom facilities matched his penchant for driving. Terrible. We were parked on a small projection of land that leaned over a long drop. 
        The washroom facilities, if that’s what you could call them, were uniquely inadequate and not so clean. Wooden buildings sat on the edge of the outcropping and hid two seatless and stained toilets (no surprise), one for each sex. Flushing was pouring a pail of water into the toilet. 
        Let’s not guess where the flushed contents go.

Miraflor, Nicaragua
        We hired a guide and took a day trip to an indigenous area outside Esteli called Miraflor. After a two-hour bus ride (30km, 18.6mi) over an almost impassable rocky road that began in darkness at 5:30 am, I thought it best to take a bathroom break before beginning our hike at 1400m (4600ft).
        It was impossible to describe the filth and inadequate facility. I took a photo of the toilet area instead (see accompanying picture). It was the only baño I’d encounter on the hike. In this area many homes are without running water.

Penang Airport, Malaysia
        Waiting for a flight to Thailand, and not feeling especially well, I thought it best to visit the washroom before we embarked.
        Airport washrooms generally get two thumbs up.
        I suppose if I’d chosen the right cubicle --- i.e. the one with the western-style toilet --- it would have been okay. However, a crowd of waiting, impatient women forced me to take the first available cubicle.
        Damn! It was a squat toilet. I should have backed out but it was too late.
        Now I know why so many Southeast Asian women wear the long skirted kebaya or sarong.
        Try using a squat toilet when you wear jeans.

Coastal Jungle Town of Pangkalan Bun, Kalimantan, Borneo/Indonesia
        Finally, we arrived at our top-rated hotel. ‘Top-rated’ because each room has an attached mandi (bathroom), a frivolous detail I insist we include when finding accommodation in a jungle town. After a one-hour flight from the mainland, bumpy roads, and a broken-down taxi, I am desperately in need of a mandi.
        Bursting into the room, all looks fine: the usual accoutrements, bed, windows, wardrobe, mirror. But where’s the mandi? I spy a door on the far side of the room, race across the bare floor, thrust open the door. Suddenly I stop.
        To get to where I want to go, I must first manoeuvre down a few steps to a lower room. Too bad for me, the odour from this area is most foul: sewage mixed with heat, humidity, mildew, tropical rot.

Lhasa, Tibet
        Public washrooms should be avoided at all costs. While in China, I learned washrooms were dismal. But in Lhasa, I almost endured the worst.
        I was forewarned, though, by a piece in Lonely Planet, our go-to bible during those early days of budget travel. Suffice it to know, toilets were of the squat variety. The standard model is a deep hole in the ground from which rise noxious odours.
        Before entering the public toilet shack, know your doors. A reader reported that she entered through the wrong door. It was quite dark and she could also see it was very dirty. She also thought she was on a floor but had to take a step down to the squat toilet. Terrible mistake. She fell into a vat of excrement.
        At least I didn’t take that near fatal step. But I did come away from Lhasa with a bladder infection.

What I Have Learned about the Worldwide Call of Nature…
        There’s no place like home. And there’s no toilet like your own.
        Strategies for women travellers using squat toilets - click here