Incidental Tourists

On Tuesday, our second day in the country, we headed to the largest archaeological site in spitting distance of Merida: Chichen-Itza. I was skeptical about dragging the kids around a ruin in 95 degree heat, but as neither our children nor the weather showed any signs of changing, we figured there was no reason to delay. We rented a car the night before so we could leave at 6:30 am and beat the heat and crowds.

I was also skeptical about driving in Mexico, but it was liberating to have our own wheels and not be subject to the schedule or tariff of a tour company. The little Chevy “Spark” had little pick-up, but handled well enough. When we arrived at the ruins the parking lot was practically empty. We loaded up on sunscreen and bug spray and, armed with sun hats and water bottles, headed inside to meet our guide (as arranged by a colleague of Peter’s).

Vendors crowded the entrance and lined every path inside the park. They sold identical wares: hats, embroidered shirts and dressed, Mayan calendars and carvings, t-shirts, silver jewelry. At first their presence was jarring, lending the feeling more of a shopping mall than an archaeological site. However, Chichen-Itza was a bustling metropolis with more than 50,000 inhabitants in its heyday. It made sense for the grounds to be crowded and complicated by commerce.

Our guide was unfathomably knowledgeable, rattling off facts and statistics faster than any of us could follow. Josie declared early on, “I just don’t understand any of this!” and settled in to counting iguanas and complaining in the shade. Jasper tried his best to follow along, until the heat eventually got to him as well and he devoted his energy to throwing rocks at targets. Peter and I took turns paying attention to the guide or the children alternately.

By the time we got to the main pyramid, the complex was teeming with tourists. Flocks of teenagers and families in matching t-shirts, groups carrying matching neon colored umbrellas, couples sporting matching wicker sombreros and sunburns. To cross from one site to the next required strategy and patience, as we attempted to navigate through the crowds without getting in the way of someone’s snap shot.  

The kids had been remarkably patient all considering, so on the way out I consented to forking over 100 pesos for some trinkets (a ceramic toy that imitates the call of a Jaguar for Jasper, and a silver bracelet for Josie which she lost by the end of the day). After paying nearly US$8.00 for sunscreen at the door, and another 100 pesos for two popsicles and a soda, I nearly ran out of the park lest the rest of my money evaporate in the heat. The parking lot was now filled bumper to bumper with tour buses, most of which advertised an affinity with Cancun or some cruise line. We couldn’t leave fast enough.

Next stop was the Cenote Ikkil. Just a few kilometers down the road from the ruins, it has also been highly developed for tourists. Once again, we arrived to a nearly empty parking lot and a tranquil setting. The grounds were scattered with a gift shop, restaurant, snack bar, bathrooms and showers, with only a few people in each, almost all speaking Spanish. After changing into our suits, we headed down the long winding staircase to the cenote. A cenote is a circular sink hole, a body of fresh water of varying size and remarkable depth carved into the limestone over millions of years. They sometimes form on the surface of the land, and sometimes are only accessible by descending into a cylindrical cave. There were 15 cenotes on the Chichen-Itza site that the Mayans used for drinking water (Ikkil was one of them). They have found human remains and treasure at the bottom of many cenotes, indicating that the Mayans used them for ritual burials and sacrifices to Cha’ac, the rain god. Some of these reservoirs extend so far they eventually terminate in the Gulf of Mexico.

Ikkil is over 43 meters deep, and the surface is 30 meters down from the rim. The roots of strangler figs and epiphytes descend down to the bright green pool below. Birds nest in the limestone walls and stalactites of the cave. Dark catfish swim lazily in the clear water. There are wooden ladders to assist bathers with entry to and exit from the pool, designated places for jumping, and one disinterested life guard standing on the water’s edge. You can rent a life preserver for 30 pesos if you wish, but there are no signs indicating specific rules or requirements. Only one sign says, “Swim at your own risk.” Good luck, and have fun.

 

When we first arrived we had the cenote nearly to ourselves. Jasper leaped in right away, doggy paddling quickly back to the ladder in an exhilarated panic, but proud. Josie crept down the ladder carefully into papa’s arms. At first she refused to wear a life preserver, insisting that she could swim (which she can, barely). But as soon as she saw the water she zipped one on without protest. Thank god. Peter and I took turns jumping in from the higher platforms and swimming out to the waterfalls and root tendrils with the kids. It was tiring, but immensely satisfying. After less than a half hour the deck of the cenote began to fill up, so we gathered our things and headed to the café for lunch. While drinking our beers and lemonades we watched as the sleepy resort turned into a bustling theme park. The buses had arrived. Tourists lined up for the showers, the gift shop, the cenote itself. We had trouble finding our tiny rental car among the buses in the parking lot, and felt relieved to distance ourselves from the squall of gringos on our way back to our little casita in Merida.

In the next six weeks we will doubtlessly throw ourselves into the throngs of tourism again as we continue to check off our bucket list of must-see destinations and activities, but we hope to steer clear whenever possible. We will always be gringos, and tourists ourselves, but we will all be better off if we can keep at least one foot off the beaten path. 

Heat

We must figure out how to deal with the heat.

According to the internet, the high will only be 94 degrees today (10 degrees shy of the average temperature at this time of year). However, at 7 am it was already uncomfortably warm on our roof terrace. Between the hours of 10 am and 5 pm the sun outside is relentless. The difference between sun and shade is significant. We spent the day at Chichen-Itza yesterday cowering in shadows of chewing gum trees. At first I scoffed at the gaggles of tourists from the cruise ships with their matching umbrellas, but by the second hour came to envy their ingenuity. The kids woke up today with a firm declaration that they were not going out again. Ever. It’s too [damn] hot.

 Our house has air conditioning in each room, but we can’t find the remote control to the unit in the main room, so AC is not a viable option. I have tried opening the house up at 6 am and placing fans in the windows to get some of the cooler air into the house, but it doesn’t seem to help. We sit in front of fans, wear as few clothes as is reasonable, try to be still, and wait for evening. If we go out, it is imperative that we walk on the shaded side of the street, and we are efficient with our errands. We have a two hour siesta every afternoon. We are learning to navigate this climate.

The biggest grace is the swimming pool. In the thick, hot air my children are like wilted flowers: limp, pathetic, dying. They refuse to read, write, play or talk (unless to complain).  As soon as they hit the water, however, they come alive. Color restored to their faces, their limbs fill with energy, and their voices begin to race with conversation, questions, and constant narration. The pool is only 10 feet in diameter and four feet deep. (To call it a “pool” is generous; it looks more like a hotel fountain.) But it is enough. As I write this, Jasper and Josie have been in the water for two hours, with no signs of fatigue. And I have no intention of pulling them out before lunch. It’s too damn hot.

The heat is familiar. Growing up in Washington, DC I slept in the attic and rarely used the window unit air conditioner, preferring to sleep, with wet towels and the exhaust fan. Summer after summer I sweat through sports camps and outdoor jobs, thinking nothing of it. In college I lived in San Pedro Sula, Honduras for a year, a city known most for its extreme pollution, crime and heat. I lived on cold coca-cola, licuados and frozen paletas. I came to crave lime, chile and salt in everything I consumed. After college I followed my boyfriend (and eventual husband) to the Peace Corps in Gabon. In the hot, coastal city of Libreville I found a perverse pleasure in the mixture of lethargy and restlessness one experiences along the equator. The heat made everything more intense, which is just what one is looking for when she is in her 20s and seeking her fortune.

But I am no longer in my 20s. I am now nearly 40 years old and responsible for two small children. My job is to keep them safe and when possible comfortable, because uncomfortable children are no fun to be around. Heat that I might otherwise dismiss or embrace, I now feel I need to combat, no holds barred. So I will search feverishly for that remote control to the AC, stock the freezer with popsicles, and look up movie times for the matinee. Once we figure out how to deal with this heat, I feel confident Merida will be our playground. For now, it’s an inferno.

First Impressions

Driving in from the airport last night, we were most struck by the similarities. The vast stretches of two story garages, warehouses, and apartments along a four lane avenue could have been a suburb of DC. As I asked Jasper, who was staring glassy eyed out the cab window, if he thought Mexico seemed different, he replied sleepily, “No. It’s the same.” I followed his gaze to the Subway sandwich shop and 7-11 at the gas station. The only discernable difference was that the flashing neon sign said, “Abierto 24 Horas.” Otherwise, just like home.

But the actual home we arrived to could not be more different.

We are staying in a renovated colonial row house with cool mosaic tiles and bright colors throughout the spacious rooms. The high vaulted ceilings are riddled with ceiling fans that turn tirelessly in a futile effort to move the thick air. The bedrooms open onto a courtyard with a small swimming pool and garden. When we arrived at 10:30 last night the kids tore off their clothes and jumped in. By noon today, they had been swimming four more times. Josie can cross the pool in four strokes (it takes an adult less than one), but already they have spent hours perfecting the back stroke and crawl. The existence of this pool inspired both of them to declare, “Mexico is awesome!” before even leaving the house.

We did leave the house today. Twice. First, on a mission to collect fruits and vegetables from the open air market three blocks away. I ordered huevos rancheros at a sidewalk cafeteria and watched the kids play at a playground while I ate and sipped my café. Even then, at 9 am, the heat was oppressive, so we retreated back to the house for another swim and the requisite “Spanish lesson.” We struck out again before noon, this time to a grocery store for eggs, cheese and other staples. An errand that was at best tolerated by my wilted companions. As I write this they are both sleeping naked in front of fans, and I am cataloguing all of the things we can do indoors between the hours of 10 and 4 each day to keep from going mad. I fear we will be confined to shadows and airconditioning.

Josie has asked several times, “Is there grass in Mexico?” I haven’t known what to tell her. She has also said more than once, “Tomorrow when we start meeting kids, can we invite them over for a pool party?” I do not know if they are going to be meeting kids, at least not how she is imagining. It has been a relief to see her and Jasper act as playmates again, accepting one another as companions instead of enemies. But I am not sure how long the truce will last. If we don’t find other kids to play with soon, at least as far as Josie is concerned, I will never hear the end of it.

Jasper is more curious about Spanish. Repeating words as I say them, asking what things mean, reading signs. In his quiet way he continues to observe, take it in, record. He is impressionable and I know he will remember this summer. As we walked through the streets on our brief excursions, I tried to point out beautiful differences: the rows of shiny used motors at the appliance repair shop, the ice cream peddler with his rainbow colored liquids and candy bags teetering on his cart, the strange sounds of the mysterious birds in the park. Perhaps they would notice these things, swimming beneath the heat and exhaust fumes, without my narration. But maybe they wouldn’t. And somehow it seems important that they do. In the end I want Mexico to be much more than a swimming pool.

What to Do with the Stuff

What to do about STUFF.

Did I mention that we are moving? And I don’t just mean to Mexico for the summer.

Last month we had to pack up our entire house and put most of our belongings into storage because we are in the process of buying a house. (I tried to explain to my husband that the summer you are buying a house is perhaps NOT the ideal summer to take your family abroad for two months… but he disagreed.)

I am also an elementary school teacher. Last week I spent no less than 18 hours sorting, packing and cleaning up my classroom. It is a painful ritual that is tolerated only for the sense of relief and closure it brings.

So I have been swimming in stuff. As I cleared out the corners and crevices of both my home and work place I was confronted with unfathomable quantities of, there is no better word for it: crap. Toys, clothes, writing tools, books, plastic containers, the list goes on. It would have taken me endless hours to properly sort, repair and catalogue each item, so I ended up throwing many things away. If it wasn’t “like new,” I trashed it. If I hadn’t used it in the past six months, I tossed it. If it wasn’t part of a set, it was headed for the landfill. Single marbles, individual Legos, notebooks with only two written pages, half-sized pencils, partially used markers and pens, single socks (dozens of them!), stained shirts, torn stuffed animals and pillows, puzzles with one piece missing, games with no directions, outdated technology (“Where did we get that printer anyway?” “What the heck is that power chord for?”), reams of sheets of paper that would be good if they weren’t faded around the edges and I had somewhere to put them, the list goes on. I cringed with each sacrificial item, feeling as if I were appeasing the God of Capitalism and consumption, and somehow losing my soul in the process.

Every year when I open up my classroom I swear it is going to be different. Next year I won’t waste so much. Each time we move (about once every 3 – 5 years) we pledge to buy less and reuse more. My husband, the Carbon Scientist, is better about this. He lives in his three pairs of pants and four dress shirts that he washes only when I insist, and could fit all of his belongings into two boxes if he had to. But when the rat race gets moving and it’s all I can do to make sure everyone is dressed and fed and at work on time, conservation goes on the back burner. Convenience rules the day.

As I prepare for Mexico, I find myself stuck in the same quandary. On the one hand, I know we could get by with only the basics. We don’t need a thing beyond a few clothes. Patching together the rest and meeting our needs there would be part of the adventure. On the other I am worried we won’t have enough or the right stuff. Will they have the right kind of sunscreen? Should I get bug spray with no deet? Shouldn’t I bring those dorky hats with the flap down the neck so my kids don’t get cancer? Do we have enough books? We need more books. What if we want to fly a kite? What if the kids get bored and drive me nuts? We’ll need more toys. I need another / different pair of shoes. What if we get sick from the food? Should I bring my own meds? And on and on. Slowly but surely our one bag has ballooned in to three.

So what does this have to do with carbon?

I feel like this summer we are heading to the source. Beyond the shelves of Target, before the factories in Honduras and China, all the “crap” originates in, and is destined for, a single element: carbon. The building block of all living substance. If we can come to understand all of the things we produce, consume and throw away as more than just clutter and trash, but as pieces of a larger system connected intimately to the very air we breathe, perhaps there is hope. Perhaps there will be change.

For now, I find comfort in that extra bottle of SPF 50 paraben-free sunscreen. In August, I hope to feel differently. 

Ready... Set...

It’s the end of the school year and I am about to lose my mind. Every day there is another Important Event that threatens to be forgotten but cannot be missed: baseball games, graduation ceremonies, potlucks, birthday parties (why are there so many kids born in June?). There are final reports, final conferences, final performances. We race from one Important Event to the next while trying, and not quite managing, to keep up with the daily routine of making lunches, arriving on time to school, checking homework, eating dinner, bathing, sleeping.

I cannot wait for summer. And yet I haven’t had time to think about summer for ten seconds.

This summer we will be in Mexico.

In eight days we leave for Mexico.

 I should probably start packing.

How does one prepare to spend seven weeks in Mexico with an eight year old and a five year old? I am pretty sure my husband has already purchased our tickets and that the information is in our google calendar. I think I know where our passports are. I have money in the bank account. I can throw some clothes together in a jiffy (bathing suit, sundress, t-shirt, shorts, underwear, flip-flops). I’ll swing by Barnes and Noble and pick up two journals for the kids and some chapter books. They’ll probably sell sunscreen there. How hard can it be?

But how does one prepare MENTALLY to spend seven weeks in Mexico with an eight year old and a five year old? That is a task that requires more attention.

My husband is a Forest Carbon Analyst with the Nature Conservancy. This summer he will be working with the government of Mexico to develop their REDD (Reduced Emissions Deforestation and Degradation) programs, with a focus on measuring and monitoring carbon emissions within these projects. I think. I actually understand very little about what my husband does.

We will be joining him this summer, as faithful sidekicks and certain distractions, with the purpose of learning more about what he does. Also on our agenda are: see ruins, learn Spanish, eat beans and tortillas, drink licuados, visit the rain forest, and study iguanas. I am most looking forward is to exploring a new culture with my kids, more as visitors than as tourists, and to learning that there is far more to this world than meets the eye in Mt. Rainier, Maryland. But my primary objective is to get close to their father’s work. I want them to come away knowing what carbon is and why papa is working so hard to conserve it. I want them to understand that people are responsible for the environment all over the world, at many different levels, and to know how they might play a part in protecting their planet.

First, however, I need to find the roller-bags, do another load of laundry, and frost the cupcakes for the Final Baseball Game of the Year. Wish me luck.