Actun Tunichil Muknal

Belize’s Actun Tunichil Muknal has been named the #1 Sacred Cave in the World by National Geographic. That distinction alone is enough to attract serious archaeology fans and spelunkers from all over the world. Add the fact that accessing the cave requires a one hour hike through the jungle, while crossing the meandering Roaring River three times- just to get to the mouth of the cave- and you have an adventure that narrows it down to those who are fit enough for this Indiana Jones experience.

My first visit to Mayan ruins was Belize’s Altun Ha in 1990.  Between 2005 and 2015, I visited Lamanai and Xunantunich in Belize, and Chichen-Itza in Mexico.

I didn’t learn about Actun Tunichil Muknal- the cave of the “Crystal Maiden”- until 2010. I was intrigued that even though this site offers a unique opportunity to view skeletal remains in the place where the victims were sacrificed, there’s very little information available- especially about what a visit to this cave entails.

I began to ask around. In 2010, Actun Tunichil Muknal wasn’t on the list of standard Belizean tours, and the Belize Institute of Archaeology’s website still has no information about Actun Tunichil Muknal in 2016- even though it’s one of their own archaeological sites. Not sure why.

The only detail that I knew for sure was that Actun Tunichil Muknal is not for wimps. It’s a veritable obstacle course of jungle, river, caving and climbing.

I had to seek out word of mouth accounts in an attempt to judge my own ability, and it took me a couple of years to get mentally and physically fit for the adventure.

This year I was confident that I could do it. When I arrived in Belize, I acclimated myself to the heat by spending the ten days prior to the trip with a daily 2-hour fitness combination of either 1-hour hike + 1-hour bike ride or 1-hour hike + 1-hour kayaking.

The morning of the trip, I paced back and forth on the dock watching the sunrise, while waiting for the boat to take me to town where I would board a flight to Belize City on Maya Island Air. I still had doubts. I was really nervous.

On the dock, I met my travel companions, a couple from Fairbanks, Alaska who were in their 50s, and had the same travel, hiking, caving and climbing experience as I. That was a huge plus because we were going to need to become a support team for each other. I began to feel better.

In retrospect, now that it’s over, I’m in awe. If you asked me to go back tomorrow, this is one trip that I’d repeat without hesitation for the sheer opportunity to absorb the experience again and to try to retain as much as possible.

One is limited to carrying in only the clothes on one’s back, so there’s no photography, no audio recording, and no note taking. Bring a change of dry clothes. They’ll be locked in your guide’s vehicle. (I’ve included a few photos from the time prior to the change in regulations, and have included credits.) The reason for the regulations is that visitors to the cave have damaged skulls by dropping items onto them, most notably, a man dropped a heavy SLR camera onto a skull breaking it. Another person’s carelessness broke a tooth on a skull.

It’s difficult to judge the time and distance during the hike and in the cave, but I’m going to do my best to be accurate in all details.

From the boat to the airport in San Pedro, we were accompanied by Guide #1, Vince. Our flight to Belize City was delayed for an hour (?) or more due to fog on the mainland. Visual flight rules.

When we finally arrived in Belize City, we met Guide #2, Freddy, who was going to drive us out to the cave’s access road. We share his enthusiasm for his native Belize. We talked all the way out of the city and on the Western Highway from Belize District and into Cayo. Belize politics, economics, business, agriculture, history, flora & fauna, gossip & misinformation- and more. The time flew by as the terrain changed from tropical to sub-tropical. Meanwhile, Freddy received two or three phone calls from our official cave guide, wanting to know where we were. Freddy was driving the speed limit. He was doing his best.

We passed the Belize Zoo (a very small, very nice, animal preserve) and the Sleeping Giant Mountains. After a little over an hour’s drive, we arrived at a place somewhere beyond the turnoff for Belmopan, the capital city.

We left Freddy at the beginning of an eight-mile dirt road (At least, I’ve been told it’s eight miles.) and we transferred to another vehicle with Driver #3, in order to meet  our official Actun Tunichil Muknal guide #4. It was beginning to feel like we were trying to shake a tail in a film noir.

On the dirt road, we passed mahogany plantations, beautifully pruned to reach the sky with straight stock. Our vehicle drove through the Roaring River, about ten inches deep at this place, just like the creeks I was used to crossing back in the US when we lived in northwest Arkansas. The young women, who had joined us at the beginning of the dirt road, squealed.

There are only 24 guides for Actun Tunichil Muknal. It requires study of a two-inch-thick textbook and extensive classes in San Ignacio. A big commitment, followed by testing. Once licensed, the guides can take only groups of eight into the cave, usually one group per day. This is not a Disney-esque concession.

At this point, I have to say that I have good news and bad news. The good news is that Actun Tunichil Muknal Cave was definitely the best adventure I’ve ever come across in a foreign country.

The bad news? Our guide was really nasty and unprofessional. He was annoyed about the flight delays and took it out on us- even though there was no problem with the cave schedule and nothing else was affected by our delay. His frustration caused him to put us in danger as he forged ahead without looking back- both on the trail, and inside the cave.

The writing was on the wall as soon as I got out of the car. The absolute only thing that we’d been told was that we would be swimming in our clothes and shoes, and that we should bring a pair of dry socks to wear once we got to the part of the cave that holds the sacred skeletal remains and artifacts.

I got out of the car and asked:
“What should we do with our socks?”

Well, that was a mistake. I got blasted.

“Never mind thee socks! Go to the bah-throom! Get back here and get your helmet and head lamp!”

Uh. OK. I did as directed. I’m not going to reveal his real name here, even though the danger that he subjected us to surely calls for some kind of disciplinary action. Let’s just call him “Bozo”.

The three of us were joined by five others, a 50ish couple from Vancouver, Canada and three young women from New York. Looking around the parking lot, it was obvious that 95% of the others were under 30 years old. Under 30? Piece a cake. Did I mention that I’m 65? I asked another guide how old his oldest participant has been. He said 90-something.

Me: “Former Triathalete type?”

Guide: “Yes.”

As soon as we eight were assembled with our gear, Bozo led us into the jungle down a well-cleared clay path. Just slippery enough to get your attention.

After a while, we came to a clearing where we were directed to leave our water bottles. Since it was overcast, I removed my sunblock shirt and left it on the side of the trail. I was glad I did. A Speedo tank suit and lightweight river pants turned out to be just right for the swimming and climbing. Don’t wear clothes that will get hung up on the rocks. If I were to do it again, I’d wear capri-length yoga pants, the clingy kind. I was glad my knees were covered for the areas where we had to crawl in the sand and climb over the boulders, but my wet river pants were sometimes not stretchy enough.

For shoes, be sure that you have excellent traction. In many places, we had to climb very smooth limestone boulders with no cracks or other rough spots to stop our feet from sliding.

Along the trail, we crossed the Roaring River three times. The first crossing was about waist deep for me (I’m 5’4″.) The other two were about 10 to 18 inches deep. The river is filled with smooth stones that constantly knock you off balance. There’s a rope tethered across the river from tree to tree to use as a handhold. The current made my two companions and me fantasize about kayaking here.

This hike to the mouth of the cave was probably 45 to 60 minutes. Once we set out, Bozo didn’t look back more than once. We were watching. He didn’t check to see how anyone was doing. If anyone had any difficulty, he’d have never known. This is so unlike the usual guide experience. I guarantee that you won’t have this kind of treatment. The other guides were friendly, concerned and helpful of their groups.

Actun Tunichil Muknal

Actun Tunichil Muknal cave entrance, Picture from AlternateAdventures.com

At the mouth of the cave, the scene was magical: tall cliffs, thick vines hanging down fifty feet or more, dense green foliage everywhere.

We stepped down some nicely paved stairs to the waters edge. I asked Bozo: “What’s the air temperature in the cave?” A normal question, right? In North America, our caves are usually about 55 degrees F. I sincerely wanted to know. I was on this trip to be educated.

Bozo snarled: “I don’t know.”

Me: “Hmm. I guess you missed that one on the test.” (Yeah, I was surprised that I made such a quick retort.)

Bozo: 65 degrees!

We returned to the river and swam into the cave. The depth, we were told, is 14 feet. Ice cold. After the initial shock, it felt refreshing.

The National Geographic article that I read said that it’s 1 mile of swimming and wading until you get to the sacred area. Bozo said that it was 800 meters total: 500 meters in and out of the water to the sacred area and another 300 meters walking the sand in our socks. 500 meters equals 1/3 mile. We were told that our total time in the cave was more than two hours. My companions both wore FitBits and clocked eight total miles round trip from the parking lot. I think they said 19,000+ steps. My female companion and I were comparable size. FitBit said we burned 1910 calories.

Actun Tunichil Muknal

Actun Tunichil Muknal, Picture from GreenDragonBelize.com

During that 1/3 mile, we completely lost track of time. We were swimming and wading against the current in an underground river that rose 400′ in elevation inside of the mountain. As we swam, the river depth varied from neck deep to knee deep. There were lots of irregular rocks and boulders, some areas that required scrambling over rocks with no predictable conformity and swirling rapids that churned, disguising deep holes and sharp edges.

In some places we had to pull ourselves up nearly three foot rises to get up onto the next ledge. Bad knees- don’t even think about it. Upper body strength and leg strength an absolute must. Bad back? Don’t do it.

Actun Tunichil Muknal

Actun Tunichil Muknal, Photo from GreenDragonBelize.com

There was one tricky crevice where we had to slide our body sideways through the crack while lifting and twisting our head and neck into position to get our head through a small space over a very sharp rock. Fortunately this spot is close to the beginning. We saw one young woman turn back here due to claustrophobia.

Our guide didn’t bother to hang around to assist anyone who might need assistance. It’s been our experience that when you’re traveling with a guide in challenging terrain, the guide positions him or herself at the tricky spots to make sure that everyone gets through OK.

We helped each other, including one non-swimmer in our group.

There were many twists and turns in our trek, rising higher and higher through the cave.

Our guide’s instructions:

“Keep going! Take your time- but hurry up!” He repeated this periodically, laughing to himself and getting no responses from us.

One time he said “I don’t care if someone in another group dies, you keep going! We are a team!”

I heard one of the young women say “He’s affecting his tip…”  They had heard him make sexist remarks- which my companions also heard.

We climbed treacherous areas that I’m amazed have not resulted in more severe injuries. Example: a 60-degree climb up a wall with no ropes, no back-up. Just “follow me” straight up a wall in the pitch black with our dim headlamps and finding our own hand and footholds in the limestone cave wall. No climbing instruction! Fortunately the three of us all had our own caving and climbing experience in our favor.

I often had to select my footholds and handholds two or three times before finding the one that was going to be successful for my height and weight. In many, many places, we stretched up (or down) areas wider than a normal stride while placing our feet on small knobs of limestone.

Someone told us that a man fell off the wall here and it took eight hours to get him out of the cave, as it required waiting for help to bring a pallet to secure him in place on the way to the hospital in Belize City.

As we continued deeper into the mountain, the chambers became larger, the stalagmites and stalagtites became more impressive.

Our guide said “Keep going! Never mind the stones. They are just stones!”

“Don’t look at the ceiling! Look at your feet!” he shouted.

As we got closer to the area where the artifacts were to be found, we saw an 18′ ladder in one place- nearly straight up, and lashed onto something with duct tape.

It was somewhere before here that we all removed our shoes. Our guide passed out our socks, which he’d been carrying in a dry sack. The socks were to prevent the oils in our skin from affecting the sand and surfaces.

Remember how Lord Carnavon asked Howard Carter what he saw through the wall when they reached the tomb of Tuktankhamen?
“Beautiful things,” was the response.

We didn’t see classically “beautiful” things. We saw priceless artifacts– Mayan skeletons that were the result of human sacrifices, plus pottery and the incredible geology of the cave interior.

Most remarkably, the remains, the pottery shards and near whole pottery items were right there at our feet, where they had been left by the Mayans hundreds of years ago. I’m not going to quote specific historic periods of Mayan history because I simply don’t have that information. The guide did rattle through lots of accurate Mayan facts and dates, but it was difficult to remember.

At this stage, we were allowed to stop and look at the massive chambers, shelves, stalagmites, stalagtites, calcified remains. There was more than one skeleton fused to the cave floor by crystallization- but don’t quote me on the science of it.

Actun Tunichil Muknal

Crystal Maiden, Actun Tunichil Muknal, Picture from Wikimedia.com

Finally, 300 meters in from where we removed our shoes, we arrived at the skeleton of the Crystal Maiden, the most famous of the remains in the cave. Probably the most famous remains in Belize- or Central America. Our guide told us, while pointing out the physical characteristics of the skeleton, that archaeologists now believe it’s possible that the skeleton is male. Not definite, but possible. He pointed out the area where the weapon was found, and speculated that the dying victim may have crawled the eight feet or so to the location where he or she collapsed and died.

Why did the human sacrifices take place? The Mayan civilization was experiencing a long drought which threatened their crop production to the point of possible starvation. The Mayans- as I understood the guide- began by offering up plants and food stuffs. When that didn’t work to bring rain, they sacrificed animals. Finally, they began to sacrifice humans.

He pointed out that each skull had a small round hole where a weapon had been used to place the death blow. Babies were sacrificed. Young virgins were sacrificed.

As you stand in the cave of Actun Tunichil Muknal, the overwhelming feeling that surpasses other emotions is that you’re standing in the same rooms where Mayans once stood, climbing the boulders and shelves that they also climbed, and swimming in their waters.

At the location of the Crystal Maiden, the Institute of Archaeology has placed a fence to prevent passage beyond that point. We turned around and began our return trip. Replaced our shoes, and slid back into the water, this time traveling with the rapids instead of against them.
Every one of our footsteps was made by shining our lamplight through the water. Our guide would direct “Stand right. Rocks left.” That was somewhat helpful.

Towards the end, Bozo could tell that we were all silent and unenthusiastic about his actions. At the 60-degree climb, he stood and for the first time, helped each female down, but insisted that we sit down and skoot over the edge- the exact wrong way to negotiate down a steep vertical drop. When the man in my companion group of three got to this place, Bozo turned and left him completely without assistance. He’s a big guy and has a slightly wonky ankle- football injury- so he was looking for some help. Due to the steep terrain, and dearth of footholds and handholds, it wasn’t possible for any of us to go back up and help.

Soon we were back at the deep water. I lay back and floated for a bit, letting the cold water rise up inside my helmet to soak my hair for the return hike. Once outside the cave, we all stopped and looked back, wishing we could photograph what our eyes were seeing.

Our return hike was fueled by the excitement of what we had just experienced.

I regret that our bad experience with our guide had to mar this adventure, and that I had to include it in this telling. It wouldn’t be right for me to neglect that fact.

As we made our way through the jungle and crossed the river three times again, our guide was long gone. He didn’t wait for us, and we decided that we were not going to run along the path. We had to follow at his dangerous pace inside the cave, but here in the jungle, we decided to take time to enjoy our surroundings and listen to the birds calling in the distance.

At the parking lot, we changed into dry clothes, and were served a simple lunch of chicken, rice and vegetables with Coca-Cola or water. We got back in the car, while our guide hovered around expectantly.

This is the very first time I have ever stiffed a guide. There was no doubt that I was not going to reward this man for his rudeness and lack of safety.

As we drove away to meet Freddy, one question did cross my mind.

I wonder when they will have female tour guides in Belize?

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The Hunted

I was breathless. I darted barefoot across the length of my mother’s kitchen on the second floor of the creaky hundred-year-old farmhouse, bumping around chairs and pushing off the harsh edge of the table top as I cut a vee through the pungent scent of the morning’s coffee and burnt toast. The chilly floor was sloped with age, and the cracks in the linoleum threatened to topple my clumsy three-year-old self.

The young rabbit was enjoying the tender grass at the side of the gravel road when a beagle came over the rise, its nose to the ground, tail raised high and waggling back and forth with excitement. The rabbit scurried along the dusty stretch of pale dirt road, springing left, then right. Gravel sprayed.

I tripped over the shallow threshold of the back bedroom. My heaving chest hit the dirty floor hard. Sliding into the shadows, I sought asylum in my usual hideout.

The rabbit knew instinctively that the beagle was its enemy and made a quick choice. Deep alfalfa, stone wall crevice, abandoned rubber tire.

Under the bunk bed was dark and dusty. I clawed my way to the wall. “I’ve got the army belt!” she bawled. My dingy t-shirt rose up to my armpits, my tiny fingers brushing away the globs of dust.

The beagle was excited, sniffing with the concentration of the hunt, the imprint of previous canine generations fueling its quest. The rabbit froze, eyes bright and bulging.

Paralyzed with fear, I tried to slow my breathing. The floor shook with her angry footsteps. I listened intently, my ears trained for the source. White ankle socks and brown penny loafers paced back and forth inches from my nose. Lucky penny Lincolns, heads up.

The rabbit blinked once, a cautionary test of its security. At dawn, it didn’t expect the beagle to be in its path. Its fur was dotted with burrs from the chase. The rabbit waited. Long seconds became longer minutes.

My disheveled hair was tangled in the galvanized bedsprings. I couldn’t turn my head and pressed deeper into the chilling chasm. Claustrophobia set in.

“God-damned little brat,” she muttered to herself.

Soon Mummy was flinging Daddy’s army belt from one side to the other under the bed. Its heavy brass buckle clanged against the bed frame tolling my fate.

The rabbit’s mottled brown and gray fur blended into the grass.

I was scarcely noticeable in the shadow of the bunk bed. I scooted further back, and made myself small, afraid to be caught and dragged out by my dirty bare feet.

The rabbit didn’t make a sound. Its survival depended upon it.

I didn’t cry. Eventually she would stop.

Soon the rabbit sensed that the beagle was gone. It moved with one tentative hop at first, followed by a pause to listen. Then it resumed nibbling the grass at the side of the road.

When I was sure she had given up and gone away. I slowly crept out and brushed the fuzzy grey globs off my red corduroy pants. The wale had worn off the knees and the elasticized waist was no longer capable of resuming its original shape, but they were familiar and  soft as a rabbit on a roadside.

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Write Now

Do you put pressure on yourself to produce X number of pages or X number of words per day? When you fail, do you beat yourself up?

It’s no wonder. Writers are constantly being directed to produce, produce, produce!

Never mind the quality. Just spit it out! Quantity is what they want. Preferably 80,000 words in a year or less. Spit it out. You can edit the whole mess later.

They do the math for us. And if you can’t produce? Well, you should be ashamed of yourself, you lazy, undisciplined fool!

My question: Why are artists and composers not subjected to the same stringent self-discipline?

No one tells artists that they need to produce a gallery-acceptable painting every week or month.

No one tells composers that they need to warm the piano bench and crank out a hit tune every week or two.

I totally get that we should spew out all the content while it’s fresh in our mind. Let the ideas flow. Fact check later. Fine tune later. Visit #GrammarGirl later. But geez.

At the beginning of every year, articles pop up in writer magazines and online sites reminding us that if we sit our butt in front of the keyboard we could be accepting a PEN Award lickety-split.

220 words per day times 365 days equals 83,000 words.

I wrote the first draft of my memoir in 2013. Words were gushing out of unsuppressed open wounds. I traveled to Martha’s Vineyard in October for a week of peace and quiet to apply the antiseptic and bandage up what was left.

In my seven days of writer retreat, I wrote 21,112 words. (Yeah. I have a spreadsheet. For almost everything.)

3,030 average per day. My two most prolific days were just under 5,000 words each.

I was being really hard on myself. Up at 6. Get coffee. Write for a couple hours. Hike for an hour. Get more coffee and breakfast. Write for a few hours. Cook lunch. Write until the text blurs on the screen. Go for a walk on the beach. Get dinner out. With wine. Write some more. Carpe diem.

Those kinds of deadlines and goals are good for me. I won’t lie. It wasn’t difficult because I had a ton of content to spew. It’s the editing that takes the time. Now I’m finding that I can be very happy indeed with 1500 words of cleaned-up content per day.  Not too bad.

Except that I’ve backtracked to the beginning with new style formats three bleepin’ times in 2015.

So maybe they’re right. Maybe writers need more motivation. Maybe it’s for our own good.

I think 2016 is going to be the year.

write

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Babci and Me. Courage.

My babci (grandmother), Róża, was only seventeen when she boarded the train to Antwerp—alone— near Kolno, in northeast Poland. It was December 1911, three years shy of the turmoil of  World War I.

Stars sparkled in the moonlight on the coarse crust of the deep frozen snow and young Róża drew her cheap coat closer against the bitter cold. She stamped her feet to warm them.

When the train left the station that night, its whistle merged with the whistling wind and the howling of wolves in the forest, lifting with it the spirits of passengers bound for the Christmas holidays in Western Europe. Others on board, like Róża, may have shed a few tears for Mama and Ojciec left behind.

Odwaga

noun– on możliwość zrobić coś, co przeraża jedno.

I was eighteen, sitting silently in the back seat of my father’s Ford, when I began my own journey from our rural farm to Amherst, Massachusetts, bound for freshman orientation at the University of Massachusetts. I had never been to UMASS. The trip to Amherst— 49.7 miles—might as well have been across the ocean. Amherst would be my Antwerp.

Courage

noun– the ability to do something that frightens one.

I didn’t know a soul there, except for my orientation roommate. A classmate from my high school, she was, frankly, very sexy for a high school student and her voluptuous breasts made me feel even more like the boyish freak that I thought I was.

When we went to the Student Union Bookstore to buy t-shirts to show off our college student status to our peers back home, we held up the shirts to our bodies, trying to judge the sizes.

I knew right away that I was a t-shirt size Small.

Rifling through the stack of athletic grey shirts, my roommate asked, “What size do you think I should buy?”

Without hesitation, I said, “Extra-Large.”
“University of Massachusetts” would surely be distorted by the peaks and valleys of those breasts if she chose a smaller size.
We left the Student Union with our purchases and changed into our new t-shirts back at the dorm.

Mine fit perfectly, not too tight, not too loose, its hem reaching just a few inches below my waist.
Hers, unfortunately, fit like a nightgown.
I was shocked. At that moment I realized that our bodies were not all that dissimilar. Sure, she was sexier and she still had bigger breasts, but I suddenly grasped that my self-image was significantly distorted.
It was a testament to her good nature that she didn’t berate me for my poor judgment, but I’ll never forget my embarrassment.

We enjoyed the introduction to college life during that week. Not good enough to want to be freshman roommates, but good enough.

When it came time to leave home for the school year two weeks later, I once again sat silently in the back of my father’s Ford, this time with my mother in the front passenger seat and my youngest brother, a kindergartner, sitting in the back with me and my record turntable.

It didn’t take too long to unpack the car when we got to Amherst. One red Samsonite suitcase, one red Samsonite train case, my stereo and my milk crate of records. My family drove away without much comment. Certainly there were no hugs and kisses.

I lay back on my bed and listened to the quiet.

SS_Finland_underway_in_harbor_before_1917

SS Finland

At Antwerp, Róża boarded the gangplank of the passenger ship Finland with all of the other young people in steerage class. Was she also fleeing a less than happy home life?

She watched her trunk being stacked on the baggage wagon and hauled on board. Everything she owned was in that trunk. Her clothing, her Sunday church shoes, her rosary, a knitted shawl and a basket woven of native willow. Being peasant Polish, she couldn’t afford a stylish feathered hat like those she had seen en route. More likely, she wore a babushka, like the ones she wore almost every day for the rest of her life.

Steerage class on the Finland proved to be its own education, and Róża also was the victim of distorted information.

One day over cups of tea in her kitchen on the farm, Babci told me that she first saw people with black skin during that trans-Atlantic crossing. Someone told her they were devils. She laughed self-consciously when she said this. It was the slightly embarrassed character of that laugh that communicated to me—a ten-year-old who had only seen black people on television—that she might have actually believed it. She didn’t know better. Not any better than the 18-year-old college student who truly thought that her orientation roommate had a figure of outlandish proportions.

Oftentimes, I opened Babci’s trunk in the attic on the farm when I was sent up to fetch onions from the braids that hung from the rafters. The trunk stood near a window under the peak of the roof. It was empty inside, and its pale paper lining had flaked away in parts. I often opened and shut its lid multiple times, clasping and unclasping the draw-bolts, and running my fingers along its wooden slats while daydreaming of Róża, curled up in a bunk, trying to stay warm with her mediocre steerage-issued blanket, as the Finland rose and fell on the high seas.

The devils sometimes infiltrated the dreams that she had of a new life in America as she slept in her bunk in the Finland.

A couple years later, the devil in her world became the man whom she would meet in a small town in Connecticut and marry, beginning a life within the farmhouse where the trunk sits in the attic, empty of her dreams.

My red Samsonite cases traveled with me for quite a few years, and they too eventually crossed the Atlantic. When their linings began to smell slightly of mildew and they had served their purpose, I donated them to the Salvation Army.

Babci’s willow basket sits in my kitchen today where it contains my last memories of my grandmother and the times we spent together. I think that she’d be surprised to learn that not long after college, I became quite a proficient basket weaver.

At eighteen, I was navigating my own troubled waters. Having grown up in a cold and hostile household where animosity always seemed to be simmering beneath the surface, I had not yet learned how to communicate properly with others. I’d always been a loner.

At sea on the Finland, Róża was alone too, preferring to keep to herself as Christmas came and went.

Three days later, when Róża processed through the Great Hall on Ellis Island on December 28, I suspect that she received the greatest Christmas gift of her life. For her, Ellis Island was the “island of hope.” The Ellis Island Immigration Museum describes how others, who were not permitted entry, found Ellis Island to be an “island of tears” as they were put on ships and returned to their countries of origin.

What if Babci had never arrived in the America? What if her spirit had not harbored the desire to surpass her humble beginnings? What if she had placidly continued to live the peasant life somewhere in Eastern Europe, killing and plucking chickens on a tree stump in her barnyard?

What if, supposing that I still had been born—but with different genealogy—I had never arrived at UMASS? What if I had stayed at home and, as my father had proposed, had gotten that job operating a keypunch machine at the factory? Or, barring that, apprenticed to become a bank teller, in spite of my absolute incompetence with numbers?

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Attention, Whiners (That Would Be Me)

Midlife Crisis Alert.

The day before yesterday, I had a weird day of self-pitying confusion. I was chalking it up to just general tiredness after a busy day, writing deep self-exploratory memoir material in a beautiful tropical setting that contrasted vastly with my frame of mind.

However, this morning a link to an article about this precise issue for Midlifers popped up in my Facebook feed from #KripaluCenterforYoga&Health- including quotes from #MariaSirois and #TheHarvardBusinessReview. Nowww I get it!

You would think that I, as a recent student of Maria’s wonderful Kripalu program Rejuvenate & Reclaim Life after 40, would especially be aware of this, but no- I forgot. Every thing in the article’s reference material precisely described what I experienced.

From Hannes Schwandt, The Harvard Business Review:

“Paradoxically, those who objectively have the least reason to complain (e.g. if they have a desirable job) often suffer most. They feel ungrateful and disappointed with themselves particularly because their discontent seems so unjustified – which creates a potentially vicious circle.”

I thought I was being whiny. Whiny is not what I’m about. I’m here alone so there was only one person in whom I confided my confusion.

Yes, I’m a lot old for a Midlife Crisis. That’s what I thought, but if you envision the “100 Good Years” of Ayurveda, I could very well be at the bottom of the U.

The U: In youth, 20s, 30s, we go merrily along. Then we can hit the bottom of this visual “U” in our 40s, 50s (or 60s, in my case). After hitting bottom, in our 60s, 70s, 80s and beyond, we gain insight and rise up again.

Janet Arnold-Grych:

“In our youth, we are filled with fire and expectation. In midlife, we begin to become aware of a balance sheet we’ve constructed that tallies effort and outcome, anticipation and realization. In many cases, we feel we’ve come up short somehow in what we’ve done or who we’ve become. Even if we stand in a very good place, things can somehow seem flawed. Add to that our increasing awareness of the ticking of time, and we might find ourselves wading in dis-ease, exhaustion, or befuddlement.”

 Yeah. That’s where I was the other day.

Maria Sirois, Kripalu:

“You don’t want to deny what’s happening because, in some ways, it’s part of normal human development,” says Maria. “You might not even have language for this burgeoning transition and that’s okay. Explore it the way a young child might—get really interested in it.”

“Get really interested in it.” YES! I was really trying to figure out the “why” of it.

I confess. Two days ago I was even saying: Maybe I should just chuck this whole writing thing. WTF! I love writing!

From the Kripalu article:

“Harvard Business Review labels midlife malaise a natural state; Maria terms it a wake-up moment. ‘Yes, it can be scary,’ she says, ‘but it can also be tremendously exciting when we recognize that we do have options in terms of reshaping our lives.’ You might naturally bob up from that midlife murkiness without paying it too much attention, but taking the time to thoughtfully explore both the downward slope and rising terrain will give you clarity as you move into the next exciting phase—whatever that might be.”

For more insight, I suggest that you explore the articles below. There’s some very beneficial content for anyone at the bottom of the U.
I’m on my way up.
Links to the referenced content:
Janet Arnold Grych for Kripalu The Midlife Roller Coaster
Hannes Schwandt, The Harvard Business Review, Why So Many of Us Are Experiencing a Midlife Crisis
Jonathan Rauch, The Atlantic, The Real Roots of the Midlife Crisis

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Two Birthdays

This is a re-write of my earlier chapter “I Am Born”.

Two Birthdays

It was a few days before Memorial Day 1929, the last week in May. My maternal grandparents were out on the town, partying in the rumble seat of their best friends’ Buick Coupe. Mémère loved to dance and sing, personifying the quintessential Roaring Twenties gal. She liked her fashion glitzy and glamorous, and her Prohibition beverage of choice was brandy. She dyed her hair reddish brown and had it cut in a stylish bob. Mémère was also six months pregnant with my mother at the time, and her water broke as the coupe bounced down the pot-holed dirt road into town.

I had just put my knitting down and had risen to take the whistling kettle off the stove for a cup of chamomile tea when my water broke on that warm Sunday afternoon. May 1981. I was wearing my favorite purple heather hand-sewn maternity jumper. Underneath I wore a cozy white cotton turtleneck that had been stretched to its limits with my swollen belly. I leaned back a little, rubbing my lower back as I crossed the room. I brushed a few strands of my long brown hair out of my weary eyes and noticed that my ankles had swollen that day for the very first time. I was a Back-to-the-Land type, a do-it-yourselfer. Gardening, bread baking, quilting.

Mémère shrieked as the cold amniotic fluid seeped onto the seat and soaked the hem of her dress. “Gerrrrald! The baby! The baby’s coming!!”

My grandmother always tended to shriek with emphasis when she was anxious. That night the amniotic fluid and the brandy flowed together to render a potent mix of anxiety.

I remained calm. I hadn’t had a glass of wine since Christmas. It took me a minute to associate the puddle on the parquet floor with the fluid that had cushioned my sweet babe for the past seven months. This was too early. I had just had an ultrasound the week before last. It couldn’t be. But it was.

Mémère and Pépère were hastened back to the triple decker. Pépère helped her down onto the running board and then carefully up the stairs to the apartment before he sprinted off to fetch the doctor.

Roger had just cracked open a Budweiser, turned on the TV, and put his feet up on the coffee table to watch the final game of the NBA Eastern Conference Finals—the Boston Celtics vs Philadelphia 76ers. The Celtics would wipe out a double-digit deficit in the second half and defeat Philadelphia 91-90 in Game 7. A huge game that Roger had been anticipating. I grabbed my overnight bag and called the doctor and let him know that we were on our way.

Pépère and the doctor arrived barely in time to deliver my mother. Pépère wouldn’t be pitching for his local baseball team that weekend. He was their star pitcher, a lefty known in town for once pitching a perfect game. The young doctor shook his head nervously. Mummy weighed a mere two pounds. There weren’t a lot of options back then for a premature home birth. The doctor returned his instruments to his black leather bag.

Roger drove as swiftly as he could on Route 28. Thankfully it was off-season and traffic was light. The two birthing rooms were occupied so I was prepped in an old-fashioned delivery room, but happy to be there. Considering the circumstances, our baby took his time arriving. The transition from initial contractions to delivery took six hours.

In the third floor tenement apartment, the doctor asked Pépère to find a shoebox. He nested Mummy in the box like a robin chick found beneath an apple tree in April, wrapped her with a diaper folded over multiple times and configured into a swaddling blanket. His instructions were simple. “Keep her in the oven with the door open.” It was a gas oven.

He tapped his bowler onto his head, while Pépère accompanied him to the door. “Best of luck to you,” said the doctor.

Christopher was swiftly transferred to an incubator with an IV and oxygen. I waited anxiously for the results of his initial examination and the determination of his Apgar score. Our new pediatrician came in to introduce herself, flipping open her wallet to a school photo of a smiling little girl as she pulled a chair up to my side.

“Don’t you worry about Christopher even a second,” she said, holding the photo up closer for my viewing. “This is my little preemie. She’s in first grade now. Straight A student. Christopher is going to be fine.”

Mummy thrived in the warmth of the gas oven on Old Town Road. She’s never been sick a day in her life, with the except of that gallstone operation back in ’74. She’ll be 87 when the lilacs bloom.

The next day, when the doctor appeared on his morning rounds, I had tiny Christopher unwrapped as I gazed in amazement at the gift of life before me. His color was yellowed with jaundice, not like the pink skin I had imagined. He was as fragile as a newly hatched chick.  I explored his tiny toes and fingers, the transparent fingernails, the little chest lifting with each miraculous breath. I gently grasped his tiny hand between my thumb and forefinger. A spray of lilacs bloomed on my bed stand, cut from the homestead bushes where we built our home. It filled the room with sweet memories.

Kim Carnes’ “Betty Davis Eyes” was playing softly on the hospital sound system. Christopher’s eyes were large for the size of his tiny head that was not much bigger than a tennis ball. His knit cap was loose. I lifted him and stroked his hand as he sucked at my breast.

“It looks like you two are doing fine. You’ll be on your way in a few more days,” said the doctor.

We drove home on Mother’s Day 1981. Christopher is now a happy healthy 34-year-old. The little bird has fledged.

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Belize Day 4 – Morning Has Broken

“Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird.” Cat Stevens

At 5:10 AM, I peel back my comforter and step out onto my porch. Yikes, the burrito man, with his bicycle and a cooler full of breakfast, is standing there in front of me with a broad smile on his round brown face. No problem. I know him. He saw my light and selected me as his first customer.

“Burrrritos! Beef! Chee-ken! Pork!”
“Vegetable?”
“Sur-ry, no ve-je-ta-bull. Is the meestair inside?”
“No, sorry. He’s not. I’m sorry. I’m not eating meat… but have a great day!”

“Si!”

I go back to bed and get distracted with some reading and writing online. The sun comes up and the sky turns blue. Damn. I’d better get out there.

Day 1 was breezy. Days 2 and 3 were cloudy. I barely broke a sweat during my early morning walks those days. I didn’t even wear a hat. I had insane amounts of energy.

Today is blazing sunny and I know I’m gonna fry if I wait much longer.

Shorts, tank top, quarter cup of sunblock, wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses.

After one mile, something weird is going on. It is HOT, but I’m not sweating. Wiped a few drops of sweat off my upper lip. No, I’m not dehydrated and bordering on hallucination. I’m just not sweating.

A couple guys my age jog by with shiny shoulders and ear buds. Millennial women running fast.

After two miles, normally, I’d be a ball of sweat and looking for the Palapa Bar over the horizon, thinking that it can’t be that much farther. It marks my half-way mark, where I turn around and head north.

This year, I don’t even notice when I get to the Palapa Bar. The time flies and I have tons of energy. I wipe another line of sweat off my upper lip.

In earlier years, I’d be so sweaty on a day like this that I’d sometimes peel off my sweaty clothes and go for a swim in my underwear off the back porch at the (closed until 11 AM) bar. It’s over water at the end of the dock. (Don’t tell my husband.) Then I’d dry myself off with my wadded up cotton shorts, get dressed and make my return.

After mile 3, I wipe the sweat off my upper lip again. Mile 4, I’m home. My hatband isn’t even wet!

It’s the sugar. This is Day 24 of No Sugar. The cravings are gone. My metabolism is changing. I’ve lost a chunk of weight. Down 7.5 pounds when I left home. Don’t know where I’m at now but my buttoned shorts are sliding off my hips. There’s a dimple on my right cheek that I haven’t seen since 1989. Looking in the mirror, I see a vertical line appearing from my belly button to my breasts. Can it be? The space between my ribs is showing up.

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Belize Day 3 – Synchronicity, continued

In 1970, I was an undergraduate student at UMASS Amherst trying to come up with a suitable subject for a lithography printmaking assignment. I wasn’t terribly inspired in those days. I had a Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary that had been a graduation gift from my local hometown newspaper, where I was a high school journalist. I flipped the dictionary open at random that day and saw a tree/shrub called “mangrove.”

mangrovesI had never heard of this species but I’d always had an interest in plants. An illustration of the mangrove with its small leaves and tangled roots accompanied the definition. I sketched it on drawing paper and the following day, I copied my sketch onto the limestone and printed it. It’s the only print that I still have from those days. The black and white litho-crayon sketch hangs in the stairwell of our home in coastal Washington.

macalriverBelize

Mangrove swamps along the Macal RIver. Image source: “Schaamacal2” by Original uploader was Anlace at en.wikipedia – Transferred from en.wikipedia; transferred to Commons by User:Leoboudv using CommonsHelper.. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.5 via Commons – Wikipedia source attribution: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Schaamacal2.jpg#/media/File:Schaamacal2.jpg

 

In 1990, our family was in a open motorboat at low tide, navigating  the shallows off the Belizean coast enroute to the entrance of the Macal River, then traveling upriver to meet our guide to the Mayan ruins at Altun Ha. At one point, we grounded on the shoals. Our boat pilot hopped out to lessen the weight in the boat and braced himself in the soft sand to push off and free us. We continued to the Macal and entered the mangrove swamps, stopping once to view a Fer-de-Lance snoozing in camouflage.

How does a timid college student in a cold North American climate select a subject matter that will turn up twenty years later and become a recurring botanical theme in the travels of a middle-aged woman? Synchronicity.

mangroves

Mangrove swamps, coastal Belize, 2016. Linda Summersea.

In 2016, as Maya Island Flight 2181 made the fifteen minutes crossing from Belize City to San Pedro, I took a few photos from my seat behind the pilot. This image shows the dense forests of mangroves that line the Belizean coast and many of its islands. The salt-tolerant trees with leggy, exposed roots are useful in preventing erosion and offer a certain amount of protection from storm surge during hurricanes.

The mangroves are more important than that to me. They’re a touchstone. Synchronicity.

After a day filled with bicycling, cooking, writing and even a swim off the dock, I carried my Eno DoubleNest Hammock to the seawall. Found two cooperative palm trees. That is, two palm trees aligned so that I would receive the delicious breeze off the water, yet block the unforgiving rays of the Central American sun, and spaced just right for the hammock length and its sturdy carabinered straps.

Took me just 5 or 6 minutes to set-up. Tucked in with my Nook, thinking that this is crazy tight for two persons. It would have to be two very intimate persons. Or two very skinny persons. Or two persons who wouldn’t mind spooning all night long with no way to change position. I suppose you could lie with heads are opposite ends, but the images online all show happy couples cuddling in its cocoon shape.

Lounging in the Eno DoubleNest alone, the hammock completely encapsulated me. I wiggled around to Suggested Position 2, which is to lie crosswise. Then I lay back and prepared to read, but I became totally distracted as I lifted my eyes to the sky.

A row of perfectly painted clouds was stretched out before me hugging the eastern horizon, just above the fringe of waves crashing on the coral reef. The clouds were reflecting the color of the water, which at this time of day was the precise color of tender blue bruises. The tops of the clouds were shaded pink. Romantic pinks.  Thomas Cole landscape pinks. Hudson River Valley pinks.

As the sun inched downward to kiss the tops of the palm trees in the west, the clouds became more and more blue, less and less pink. The scene was so beautiful, it almost hurt.

Actually, it did hurt. All this beauty and no one to share it with. It hurt.

I saw a man photographing the scene from the end of a dock. Two pelicans sat on two wooden pilings, totally ignoring the incredible scene, which was destined to be viewed on a hundred Instagram accounts that night.

Two persons came by in a kayak, enjoying the calmer water at this time of day, their paddling totally synchronized like two lovers who have been enmeshed in each others’ moves for the better part of a lifetime.

Finally the clouds were totally blue. The palm trees in the west transitioned to a black silhouette as a water taxi zipped by with its running lights on.

I returned to my Nook and the 2013 Best American Essays that I had downloaded from the library.

I haven’t read any of the annual Best American Essay collections, but when Cheryl Strayed showed me her home library, after pointing out the books that had belonged to her mother, she was most proud of her collection of Best American Essays.

This was several months before Wild hit the film screens at the Toronto International Film Festival. And several months before Strayed began the resulting rock star ride of her life. She was well-know to readers, of course, but the film brought her work to the masses.

Cheryl, being Cheryl, didn’t tell me that she had essays in those volumes, and she didn’t share that she had been invited to edit the latest (at that time) volume of the Best American Essays. Always modest and low-key, always concerned more about you, Cheryl Strayed is a woman who personifies the highest order of best intentions- not to be confused with the road to hell that’s paved with good intentions.

Finally comfortable in my hammock, I clicked to the Introduction from the Editor:

“When I teach writing I tell my students that the invisible, unwritten last line of every essay should be and nothing was ever the same again. By which I mean the reader should feel the ground shift, if only for a little bit, when he or she comes to the end of the essay. Also, there should be something at stake in the writing of it. Or, better yet, everything.”

As I read this, something suddenly clicked. I read it again.

I’ve never had a course in essay-writing. It seems that the general interest in writing instruction prevails upon Fiction and Non, mostly in book length. Short form is usually relegated to Poetry.

I read on. Everything the editor had written was so on target with what I needed to hear. By the end of the introduction, I was pretty much convinced that essays are meant to play a significant role in my writing.

Then I saw the signature line of the editor. Cheryl Strayed.

Synchronicity.

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Belize Day 2

It’s been less than 12 hours since arrival in Belize and, already, I’m back in the groove. Any thoughts I had of maybe going elsewhere next winter are slowly getting squashed by the synchronicity that I always experience here.

syn·chro·nic·i·ty1
/ˌsiNGkrəˈnisitē/

noun

  1. the simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection.

I’m thinking that I need to assemble some writing based on the experiences that I’ve had here during 10 trips spaced over the past 26 years (8 of them in the past 8 years.). I’ve been visiting here since before electricity was brought to this island. In the early days of my visits, huge generators supplied the island with its power. There was an ever-present hummm in the background. Except when they went down and the lights went out.

It never occurred to me that my Belizean experiences might have some memoir aspects to them, but after this morning’s events, I see that they have.

Here’s an example of synchronicity from last winter.

One morning in February 2015, I stepped down into a water taxi with a half dozen school children of assorted ages, all of them dressed in the public school uniform of white shirts and navy blue pants. As we pulled away from the dock, I looked at my companions and began to reflect on the various school children that I have met here over the years.

A high school boy sat quietly on the bench beside me. I turned to him and said:

“I’ve been wondering… Years ago, maybe 10 years, there was a little boy, maybe 7 or 8 years old, who used to sell jewelry outside the Capricorn restaurant up the beach. His uncle works at Capt. Morgan’s. Would you happen to know who that boy is?”

The young man turned to me and smiled.

“Mum, I am that boy.”

I still get goosebumps when I remember that conversation.

We talked all the way into town re: his little sister, his brother, his parents. I asked him what he is studying. What he likes best. Updated all. Synchronicity.

Now. January 3, 2016.

Today as I bicycled into town, I met the usual assortment of golf carts and bicycles, tourists and locals. I noticed that the newly-arrived tourists, the ones without tans, were not terribly comfortably looking. Maybe it’s their first visit to a third world country. They’re ignoring the people around them.

The locals peddle along minding their own business, realizing that 99% of the tourists have zero interest in them. Here’s where I say that I am among the 1% that do have an interest in them. As fellow human beings.

I want to be perfectly clear that we are all 100% equals. I don’t engage with the locals in some kind of condescending phony-friendly, chit-chat.

I simply smile and call out “Good Morning” to everyone I meet as I pedal along. The smile and another “Good Morning” gets reflected back at me warmly. …and this day, I add “Happy New Year”.

It’s a simple premise. It’s always best to appreciate those around you. As a woman traveling alone, I naturally don’t do anything stupid. I’m aware of my surroundings at all times. I don’t travel alone after dark. At the same time, I don’t let my solo situation block me from having rich experiences. I explore. I ask questions. I don’t take anything for granted. But I’m not fear-faced.

Belize day 2

Arriving at the market:

That’s my bike out front. I was pleased to see that I was able to get everything I need to make the vegetable soup that is my daily Ayurvedic lunch, as well as the local fish that is my dinner. Sea bass, lobster. Everything  except the kale and broccoli. I’ll substitute seaweed (nori) in the meantime. The fact that you can even get kale is a very big deal. I’m glad to see that there’s a demand for it from the expats living here. The Mennonite community of about 10,000 members inland grows the vegetables supplied to the island and raises pasture-fed beef.

Since it’s my first day in the heat and I have a heavy load to balance on my handlebars, I didn’t stop to take any photos, but my eyes took in the changes and additions to town. I’ll take pictures on Thursday when the kale comes in. Normally I don’t go into town at all, but kale- that’s a good reason.

As I crossed over the one bridge on the island and left town pedaling north, I passed a boy, maybe 11 or 12 years old, on a bicycle. I smiled “Good morning” and “Happy New Year”. He responded the same, and then a little later, I heard his bicycle coming up behind me so I called out to him with a smile over my shoulder-
“Wanna race?”

Chuckle.

Well, that was all he needed to hear. We didn’t race, of course, but he pulled up alongside of me and the two of us, the boy and the lady, bicycled side by side for a couple of miles, talking about the day to day like two old friends.

His name is Jessum. He lives not far from where I’m staying. His mother owns a local hotel there. “The pink one.”

Was I here for the fireworks?

“No, I just arrived yesterday.”

The fireworks are fairly new. Now there are enough prosperous businesses to donate the cost.

I can tell that he’s a bright young man who will do well. He has the natural curiosity that one needs to thrive and succeed.

A couple miles later, he pulled off the road, saying “Maybe I’ll see you… on the road.”

“Yes, maybe!”

After that, I was so engrossed in thoughts about Belize and how it has become part of my life, that I totally missed the turn for the place where I’m staying! That’s pretty incredible- considering the fact that I was toting a heavy load and it is Hot outside and my First Day in the heat. Normally I would be keen to get back.

Once I realized what I had done, I stopped, came about, and back-tracked the half-mile that I had overshot my destination. I’m staying at Captain Morgan’s Retreat, a Belizean-style resort with 1000′ feet of sandy shoreline.

Belize Day 2

I unpacked and made my breakfast: banana pineapple carrot protein smoothie with cinnamon and maca powder. I didn’t have IMG_5785Belize Day 1any ice (yet) so I put it in the freezer in two glasses. By the time I got to the second one, I discovered that I had inadvertently created an awesome banana pineapple carrot popsicle!

Tonight I’m cooking sea bass. Have never cooked (nor eaten!) sea bass, but I think almonds and cashews are going to play a role. Stay tuned.

Here it is: Sauteed Sea Bass Summersea with Snow Peas and Fresh Pineapple. Delicious!

seabass

 

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