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

        I have just received word from her grandmother that Isabella has run away with a 19 -year-old boy.
        We are stunned to read this news in a text from our contact.
        Isabella is our Nicaraguan ‘daughter’.
            Years ago, on one of our trips to Nicaragua, we met Isabella. 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 the rejection, the girl lived at home, developing a close bond with her aging grandmother, her Abuela. Abuela sold handmade souvenirs to tourists to augment the family’s meagre income.

        As English-speaking volunteers at an Universidad in Managua, capital of Nicaragua, we met Isabella through a teaching pastor. His enduring mission has been to help lift Nicaraguan girls out of poverty through education. So many become mothers when they are children themselves.

Dismal future
        Nicaraguan girls in poverty face a dismal future. Teen pregnancy in Nicaragua is the result of a machismo culture and a lack of education, including sex education.  When girls become pregnant, boyfriends disappear.
        According to a report called "Stolen Lives" by Planned Parenthood Global, the rate of 10- to 14-year-old girls having babies in Nicaragua has increased…one in three teenagers gives birth to a child before she turns 18.
        Nicaragua is the poorest country in Central America, the second poorest in the Western Hemisphere, and has widespread underemployment and poverty.

Meeting Isabella
        Our Managua teaching pastor --- approached by Abuela for help --- asked whether we would be interested in meeting Isabella.
        We were.
        Isabella’s home, a concrete casa, sits on an unpaved road in a satellite town outside of Managua. It is small with little furniture; cement floors and a tiny, ill-equipped kitchen are in sight as we enter a side opening. There is no door.

Abuela
        First, we meet Abuela: a wise old woman suffering from chronic health issues.
Yet her priority is Isabella. She seeks a sponsor for her granddaughter. Someone to help with school expenses. She wants her 10-year-old granddaughter to have a future. She knows the only way is through education.
Isabella
        We are introduced to a shy and pretty 10-year-old with a ready smile and dark, flashing eyes. Shoulder length, chestnut coloured hair frames her open face. She proudly shows us her Abuela’s handicrafts and presses a ceramic rooster in my hand.

Support
        Since 2013, we have supported Isabella in her quest for higher education. She has willingly signed a contract drawn up by our Nica pastor contact; she must attain good grades and maintain high standards of conduct to qualify for continued support.
        Occasionally, as she grows older and her needs increase, we contribute spending money for a two-wheel bike (later stolen), a second-hand cell phone, a small monetary reward for graduation from Grade 8 with honours. (She is elated…as are we!)

Letters, we get letters
        In return, Isabella and her Abuela write us separate, regular (translated) letters about her progress in school. We respond in kind. Whenever possible we return to Nicaragua and visit Isabella and her Abuela. Isabella is learning English because she understands its importance in the ‘outside’ world.    
        Sometimes when we receive her letters, she expresses frustration or fear: an illness, lack of confidence. Eventually she confides she does not want to get pregnant like so many of her classmates. She wants a career. Independence. A future.
        To keep her dream alive --- it is so easy to stray --- we write back to ignite encouragement, citing examples of successful women who came from humble beginnings. Like Michelle Obama.

High School Graduation!
        Thanks to Abuela and our Nica teaching contact, we receive real-time videos and photos of Isabella, wearing a white graduation gown, receiving her Honours diploma from High School last year. At 17, she is radiant, proud, a young woman on the edge of success, escaping her past. We are elated!
        Sensing a wonderful future for Isabella, we promise to continue our financial support as she continues her education and enters Nursing.  
        Excited, we text her: when you graduate as a nurse, we will be honoured to attend the ceremony and watch you receive your diploma as you walk across the stage.
        We can hardly wait.

And then…
        It took Abuela a week to write a heart-broken note to our contact who texted us immediately:
        I have just received word from her grandmother that Isabella has run away with a 19-year-old boy.
        Abuela suspects her mother’s rejection was only one of a number of issues that sent Isabella into an unknown future. We are very disturbed, heartbroken. Deeply concerned.

Postscript
        If Isabella returns, Abuela knows our offer of financial support still stands, as long as our Nica daughter wishes to further her education. It’s a promise we will honour.
        Unfortunately, to date there is no news.  

My Latest Travel Blog: What do the Chapel of Bones, Cork Trees, and Megaliths Have in Common?

         “What a strange looking motel this is,” I comment to my husband.
        We are independent travellers, crossing the lower section of Mexico.
       It is March, the month of newly awakening flowers and foliage. We are bone weary after an all-night bus ride and arrival in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, capital of the state of Chiapas. We need a place to sleep. Badly. The bus depot ticket seller has directed us here.

        I glance around me. From the road, this motel with the blazing neon lights, even in daylight, looks like a fortress. The shrubbery adorning the front lawn is shaped like a heart. High windowless walls surround the contained units. You can’t see what’s on the other side.
        Even the darkly tinted windows of the office make me wonder…this is a motel?!
        However, the price is right. Cheap.
        And this is when it should have hit me: you can rent a unit by the hour.

Registration
        We knock on the office window to register. The window slides back an inch.
        “No need to register,” says the husky voice within.
        What? I think. No passport requirement? No name?
Discreet Garage
        We are directed to a nearby unit with an adjoining garage; said garage door is open. If you look down the mini street of similar units, all garage doors are closed. Office instructions, in Spanish, direct us to close the garage door from within by pressing a wall button, then enter the unit via the side door.
        Obviously, you don’t want anyone to identify your family car.

Discreet Unit
        We step into the unit. Switch on lights. Glance around the room after a beam of soft red light bathes the interior. We notice no windows.
        The room is clean, spacious. A king-size bed in the middle, facing a wall-sized mirror, dominates the room. Pale purple satin sheets peek from under a soft jungle-patterned bedspread. White cotton towels, twist-formed into a heart shape, sit atop the bedspread. Disney cartoon character scatter rugs on the tiled floor lie on either side of the bed.
        Mini packages of mints are surreptitiously within reach on each bedside table. Overhead pot lights are dimmed. The furniture has fake wooden drawers and cabinets.
But the large flatscreen TV is real.

Sliding Window, Perfumed Tissue
        Plus, there is a discreetly curtained sliding window, hidden behind another wall mirror. It opens to the garage. A red button sits on the frame above the window.
        The clean baño, with a full sky-light, features an indigo bidet and toilet, a multi-body sized glassed-in shower and more white fluffy towels. The toilet tissue is sweetly scented.
        Impossible to use the internet because there is none. And you aren’t here to use it anyway. But there are mucho lists of adult movies.
Gone for the Day
          Despite our exhaustion, we quietly leave and explore the rest of the city before returning to our lovenest. Famished.

Food
        We are hungry. Not with passion now but with empty stomachs.
        No restaurant because guests wish to remain anonymous.
        So, we phone our order to the officina: bottle of white wine, fried chicken, French fries, salad: American comfort food. We want a break from Mexican road food: burritos, tacos, enchiladas…
        After a short wait, the red button above the curtained window flashes. Then, a loud buzz.
        We slide back the curtain, open the window. A tray of food silently appears from the other side. We cannot see who delivers it. We remove the food. An anonymous she/he/it pushes la cuenta across the tray for cash payment por favor.
        In Spanish, we read the accompanying note: please telephone the officina when we want dishes removed. We are to use the same buttons and buzzers.
Overnighters
        I’m sure we were the only renters who remained all night.
        But we had the best sleep ever. Bueno!
                                                            ***

Hoteles de Paso         
        Love Motels in Mexico are known as hoteles de paso or ‘no-tell motels/hotels’.
        These lovenest hideaways are a Mexican phenomenon that underlines a sexual double standard. These days many hoteles de paso have gone upscale: units with private swimming pools, luxury furnishings, high-end entertainment units, specially outfitted banôs.
        Many love motels rely on young people who earn decent incomes but still live with their parents. These couples would never think of having sex in the family home, even with a bona-fide accepted spouse.
        Gay, straight or mixed couples, and those involved in other diversions, also take advantage of these love hotel clandestine arrangements.
        Finally, we understand these no tell motels/hotels are booked solid during National Secretaries’ Day in Mexico!