In 2017, after Hurricanes Irma and María devastated the Caribbean, Honey and I booked a week-long vacation in Tulum. We were lucky to be abroad when Irma hit the island, but my parents and all of my paternal family were there. The reports we could get of the storm’s passage were devastating. All communication was down on the island and we spent two wretched, anxious days waiting for news of our family and friends. My sister and I could only bear to text each other, so close were we to falling apart with worry. When my parents finally made it to the other side of the island where the government set up an emergency wifi hotspot, I sobbed with relief. Miraculously, no one on the island had died. My mother spoke of an apocalypse, but somehow everyone was alive. That wasn’t the case on other islands and the stories we read of the situation elsewhere were full of heartbreak and desolation.
The weeks that followed our return were intense and full of challenges. The two category 5 hurricanes damaged nearly every shipping port in the Caribbean. Power and water were down and didn’t return for weeks in some places. There were loading and scheduling problems for shipments of supplies and fresh food. The family compound where my parents live set up a system of shared generators so everyone could at least plug in their refrigerators. Every night we drove over and shared the big communal meals that my family took turns cooking together. The rifts between my cousins seemed like they might finally heal. Everyone was shaken and we listened countless times to the telling and retelling of everyone’s hurricane experience.
The intensity of those weeks soon had us running on empty and we looked for nearby destinations where we could escape for a short break. Abhorring crowds and resorts, we booked a small apartment in the Tulum pueblo and only spent one day in one of the boho chic boutiquey places on the beach. The cenotes of the Yucatán are magical and we tried to visit as many as possible. One day we took a very early bus and explored Chichen Itzá, which was one of Honey’s childhood dreams. Another day we booked an eco tour with an awesome guide and visited the Mayan ruins of Cobá and a wildlife refuge run by a very passionate Mayan local. On one of our outings, under the mocking laughter of our Mayan guides, I swallowed my fear of caves and clambered down a ladder set in a hole in the ground, landing in a spectacular cenote where many skulls had been found. The water was cool and obscenely clear (and, no, I did not spot any skulls at the bottom).
That trip marked Honey’s first time in Mexico and my second. If my first visit to this country was a rough & tumble exploration with a close friend in 2012, this second visit hit the sweet balance of rest and exploration. There were really only two things about Tulum we didn’t care for: 1) The overhyped, overdeveloped, overly touristy kilometers-long stretch of beach catering to the kind of tourism we’ve been getting more of in the Caribbean (aka New Yorkers); 2) The overabundance of trash and stray dogs all over the pueblo. The stark difference between the opulence of the beach zone and the poverty of the pueblo is jarring. Reports of this place 10 or 15 years ago talk of simple beach huts and palapas where fisherman lived and kept their boats. All of that is gone. All of those people displaced. The entire coast of the Yucatán is being privatized in huge stretches to develop massive luxury resorts. All in the guise of “progress.”
Progress in this context means privatizing. Taking what was once free or communal and restricting access to those grounds. Turning it into something people now have to pay for and turning away those whose footsteps historically graced the land. We need to reconsider the story of progress and question whose interests it really serves. This isn’t just happening in the Yucatán, or in other parts of Mexico. In the US in the past year, Bill Gates has become the largest owner of farmland. His involvment in privatizing land and seed banks and his general history of corrupting governments and profiteering, detailed in Vandana Shiva’s Oneness vs the 1%, mean this is a truly worrisome development. Nothing good can come of that man’s involvment in any aspect of food production.
But I digress. For now we are in Sayulita, an increasingly popular, but for the moment still charming surf town. Our rental is in a mixed part of town where local houses are gradually being replaced with taller builings and private vacation rentals. Every night music from live bands in various restaurants and rooftop bars rings until the early hours (3am on Friday, 4am last night), making it difficult to sleep. This mixing of very local places and more touristy spots is evident all over town. Souvenir vendors, street food stalls and mobile bars line the streets around the main plaza, whereas restaurants and shops cater almost entirely to tourists. Prices for clothing, art and decor easily match prices in the US, but many of the wares are artisan-made, and there are some truy beautiful items on display. In the window of a shop I pass everyday there is the most enchanting turmeric yellow dress with an elaborately embroidered neckline. Perhaps I’ll try it on before we leave, if only for the pleasure of feeling the gentle fabric against my skin.
Normally I’m the one who books and organizes our travel, but this time, filled with his desire to surf, Honey made all of the arrangements. The surf in Sayulita hasn’t been great since we arrived, so four days ago, we took a shuttle to La Lancha, a pristine and undeveloped beach about 20 minutes away by car. I had some sort of lock-jaw thing happening and had thrown out my neck, so I was just along for the ride. Honey picked up his SUP from the shop and off he paddled to the break. Goya and I stayed on the beach, meditating and enjoying the sunshine, occasionally looking up to see Honey catch a wave. About an hour in he came back to shore, and I was so surprised to see him returning this soon that I got up to meet him.
The first thing I noticed was an inch-long gash above his eyebrow and a line of blood running down his face. His paddle (the oar, not the board) hit him in the face while he was in the water. Seeing how deep it was I sent him to the surf shack to find some disinfectant and butterfly stitches. They didn’t have them and we discovered that this latter item is surprisingly hard to find here. There are easily a dozen pharmacies in Sayulita and none of them had anything beyond the most basic of bandaids and strip bandages. Butterfly stitches or a liquid bandage would have allowed him to head back into the water that same day. Instead, he had to wait for the gash to scab over. He’d rather not have a big scar so we figured a couple of days off would give his cut enough time to heal so he could still enjoy a week in the waves.
The odd thing is that in the days preceding our flight to Mexico, I had the strongest sense that Honey was going to have a surfing accident. I didn’t know where, or when, or how bad it would be, but I fairly rang with the certainty that something was going to happen. Not wanting to influence or scare him, I kept this feeling to myself, only revealing it after the fact. I figured he’d gotten it out of the way so the rest of our trip should be smooth sailing.
Two days ago we decided to rent beach chairs and spend the day on the beach—something we rarely do because Honey gets bored and antsy sitting still for too long. The waves were actually pretty good so we parked ourselves in a good spot to watch the surfers and ordered drinks and some snacks. A bit later, a Mexican couple grabbed the chairs next to us and by the end of the afternoon we were all grouped together under our umbrella talking about nothing and everything. “Remaking the world,” as we say in French. I got to practice my Spanish, the woman got to practice her English. Her husband, who understood a bit of German, but no French and only very little English, got to toast endlessly with Honey, his newfound compadre, and they bought us several rounds of drinks at the Mexican price (not the 2/3 extra that tourists get charged on the beach). At one point Honey went to cool off in the water and when he came back, he had a deep, bloody cut on the inside of his pinky toe. Having had two very large passionfruit margaritas, it could not be said that I was in a state of mental clarity, but even then I thought it looked pretty bad.
We washed the sand off Honey’s foot as best we could and convinced our newfound friends to get a bite to eat in town to help soak up the alcohol. Honey hustled home to disinfect his foot and when we finished eating, we all said goodbye and went our separate ways. By the time we got back to our rental, my mind was beginning to clear and I thought, “This is way worse than I thought.” I wanted to go to the clinic so he could get stitches, but my doctor-adverse husband kept hemming and hawing, insisting that it was probably impossible to correctly stitch that area. So I boiled water for him to soak his foot and went to the pharmacy to find something I could use to flush out the bits of sand I hadn’t been able to dig out with my tweezers.
I came back with a syringe and the number for a doctor who could make a housecall if we wanted to go that route. After looking at the photos of the cut I sent him by WhatsApp, his advice was simply to wash the wound well and apply antibiotic cream. Back to the pharmacy to pick up the cream, which I hadn’t thought to get on my first run. If I was close to vomiting when I patched up Honey’s forehead a few days before, digging around the cut to his foot was a million times worse. Thinking about it now makes me nauseous all over again. As a massage therapist I like my bodies whole, with no visible blood or open wounds, thank you very much! A few years ago, I entertained the idea of going back to school for holistic or functional medecine, but my aversion to open flesh has me fully convinced that I do not have the stomach for formal medical training.
Yesterday Honey was in a fair amount of pain, but he remained uncharacteristically stoic about it. I stayed home to keep him company, going out to grab food for lunch and to let Goya out. He’s staying off his feet, keeping his foot elevated and trying not to be too disappointed with this turn of events. His foot is looking ok so far—a bit swollen, but no discharge or discoloration, and there’s no sign of fever. If I could find some aloe vera leaf, it would heal much faster, but I haven’t had any luck with that yet. In the meantime, we’re both practicing Resonant Attention to support his body’s self-healing and I’m giving him lymphatic drainage treatments (being a MT has its benefits!) to accelerate and clear out the cellular by-products of the healing process.
Although we’re disappointed, things could always be worse. We’re fortunate to be staying in a charming airy apartment with many great food options at our fingertips. We also spent several lovely days exploring before Honey got hurt. Wednesday, we fly back to Phoenix and from there we head north towards the southern part of Utah for our last stretch of time in the desert. A couple of weeks off his feet and Honey should be good to go.