Airing The Laundry

Yesterday, some people I encountered on the beach asked me whether I had read a certain book about Bahia Soliman. Fool that I am, I thought they might be talking about my book, Tulum. No, they said, not that book. Never heard of that book. Well, OK. This led to my downloading and reading Jeff Ashmead’s “Tropical Delusions.”

The short: The book is a roman a clef in which the names have been changed “to protect the innocent” (read: the writer). It’s about Jeff and his wife’s struggles to renovate a building here on Bahia Soliman and turn it into a small B&B or hotel and their ultimately deciding to bail out, to leave Mexico.

I am not in this book, thank goodness. But I recognize every person in the book, because they are or have been my neighbors. Yes, some might be somewhat eccentric. But ultimately, I believe they were not treated fairly. Their charm, their friendliness, their being free spirits, their tackling whatever stood in the way of their living here is ignored. And I wonder whether they would have told their stories to Jeff if they knew these anecdotes were eventually going to end up in print.

The book could have been a simple and in this case wistful memoir like Jeanine Lee Kitchel’s “Where the Sky is Born” (Enchanted Island Press, 2004), the tale of the founding of the Alma Libre Bookstore in Puerto Morelos and of the author’s leaving California for Quintana Roo. But another choice was made here: there is a score to be settled with Jeff’s general contractor and the deranged, annoying neighbor who drove Jeff and his wife away. Significantly, Jeff never fired the GC, who ultimately finished the project at a price below what he expected. And the deranged neighbor is probably in no condition to respond to his anger or complaints.

Also blamed for various unacceptable peculiarities are the Mexican Army, the police, gas station attendants, Federales, municipal and state governments, building inspectors, of course, the neighbors. Jeff thinks that Mexico is the Third World (read: it is not the US). And he thinks that Mexico and Mexicans are his problem, but the fact is that the people he has the most trouble with are all Gringos, like him, and he happily acquits the few powerful Mexicans. Those with less status, not so much. This is an irony, because the author pays obligatory lip service to the maxim that people bring their problems with them to Mexico, even when they think they are escaping them. Evidently, the truism doesn’t apply to him.

Jeff's building is still for sale. I can't understand how this book is going to help sell it. After all, if the neighbor is that big a problem, who wants to buy it?

Up On A Roof

In late June, before any of the tropical storms or hurricanes came to this corner of the Caribbean, the palaperos came. Four generations of them. Palaperos are the people, traditionally men, who make palapa roofs. Palapa roofs are roofs made of palm thatch. The calling of being a palapero is passed down withsin various families, as its been traditionally way for thousands of years. Typically, palaperos work without nets, without good ladders, without helmets, or restraints. And they wear sandals while climbing in high places on narrow, wood supports.

The roof on the Nah Yaxche, this house, was 15 years old. The original roof was installed by Sixto and his family. And though we'd been repairing it, the time had come, as it does eventually with all things, to replace the roof. It was worn out. And it couldn't be repaired any more. It would not stop leaking from TSs or bigger Hs. This was a big task: the roof is extremely tall,and round, and has many poles supporting it. The supports were all still in great shape, so they did not have to be changed. Sixto again returned and with his family replaced the whole thing. There are before and after and during photos for another essay (one to be put up when I have an Internet connection like a fire hose rather than the straw I'm using here).

This essay is just to show you two photos of the finished roof. Inside:

and outside:

And, of course, to note that this kind of indigenous, traditional, green architecture is art. Of course. Just look at what goes into it and how it's done. But more important, and essential to its being great art, it works. It's cool in the house even when it's bright and hot outside like today. And ceiling fans are more than enough to keep it cool. It's dry even when there are gail winds and downpours from TSs and Hs. Put simply, if you were going to design a green house for this corner of the Caribbean, one with a small carbon footprint, you just not do better than this house. What a remarkable structure it is. Is it any wonder why I love it so much?

A Sense Of Place

The entrance to Nah Yaxche from the Beach in Bahia Soliman

Today while walking on the only road in Bahia Soliman, as I do virtually every morning, I stopped and stared at a huge house that has been under construction for at least two years. The gigantic, very tall, concrete building with a small faux bell tower, has a huge advertisement in front of it stating that it is an “investment opportunity” that you can get into for as little as a mere $50,000.00 US money for starters. But what caught my attention today is that amidst the mass of concrete, an actual palazzo at the entrance to this seeming palace, which will eventually (thank goddess) be behind a high wall, there is now a tall, concrete fountain reminiscent of Versailles. I didn’t believe this. The building itself is not even finished. Of course not. But now there is a fountain worthy of Louis XIV. And it stands prominently in the entrance palazzo. Which will probably be finished in marble. This fountain is not depicted on the investment advertisement.

I don’t quite know what to make of this structure and my overwhelming distaste for it. I consider it a monstrosity. Or worse. I have ranted before about some buildings’ inappropriate adoption of Hacienda architecture in this Mayan part of Mexico and the historical significance of all that, true, but this building makes all of those complaints about history and symbolism seem hypercritical. And maybe even unjust. No. This house is the new nadir. This house is the prime example of not fitting. I am not even going to think about whether it might be a misplaced homage to Carlota, Hapsburg Empress of Mexico. I prefer not to speculate about the how that could even transpire.

What ever happened to the idea that a building should actually fit in its environment? Just because the lot size in 20 meters in width is not an invitation to build to 18.5 meters. Just because there is a height restriction is not a reason to build exactly to that height. Just because cement and rebar, sliding doors and channel windows are available is not a reason to use them. Just because you can buy marble for the floors and countertops and brass fixtures and gigantic air conditioners is not a reason to do that. Just because you can build something that is excessive and overcooked and gaudy and gauche is not a reason to do that. And if one does all of that, as I think it happened in this case, the very first casualty, and probably the most important is that the building no longer fits this environment. At all. It becomes an eyesore. It does not fit Mayan Mexico, the jungle, the mangrove, the beach. It does not fit in a country that is not a monarchy. It is a white elephant. I spare you the conjecture about where such construction might belong. And I spare you my hypotheses about the psychopathology that this kind of grandiose, ill fitting, pompous structure evidences.

I note in passing that Bob’s Store, a tiny, new convenience vendor next door to the horrid Palace, has a sign leaning against its wall that says “Colonial Café.” You cannot invent these kinds of ironies.

I am probably preaching to the choir. It’s a sermon I’ve given before. Often. I beg that you forgive my ranting.

I don’t want to dwell on the ugliness. Eventually, if we are all lucky the Palace of Versailles, Bahia Soliman Branch, will be completed and be practically invisible from the beach, and when its gates are closed it will be screened from our further appraisals by a high wall, hopefully with a thick, locked, impermeable Hacienda style gate or barricade.

When I returned from my walk, I immediately noticed the contrast, how brilliantly my house, Nah Yaxche, had been designed to fit right here. I can take no credit for this. None. I didn’t design this house. It was the first house built on Bahia Soliman more than fifteen years ago. It is basically as it was then. It has been slightly updated and improved. But its essence has always been preserved. I just love it and maintain it and admire it. That is what one does with a treasure.

Nah Yaxche’s design is round. In that it echoes on a somewhat larger scale traditional Mayan homes for the past 3 millennia. I yesterday found a 1981 tour guide to the Yucatan (Loraine Carlson, Traveleer Guide, Upland Press, Chicago). In it is an old black and white photo of a traditional Mayan home: round, palapa roof, stone or cement walls, window openings for cross-ventilation. It’s essentially the archetype from which Nah Yaxche sprang.

Another important part of the design of Nah Yaxche is the jungle on all sides of the house. The plants are absolutely critical to its seclusion, its being cool, its being a refuge from the direct heat and sun of the beach, its being quiet. When the wind blows you can hear the sea, and you can also hear the plants and cocos rustling. In other words, you are in Bahia Soliman, not insulated from it. TS Ernesto did not severely damage the plants in front of Nah Yaxche, as Wilma did. In fact, the plants sustained a little salt damage (they were flooded by the sea) and a little wind damage (some cocos' leaves are a bit yellow at the edge), but they are going to be just fine.

Being in this environment and sitting in a house that fits, makes for wonderful relaxation and calm. And oceans of gratitude for this house. I consider Nah Yaxche a refuge. And I am utterly delighted to be able to share this with others who come here.

UPDATE: August 28, 2012 9:40 am: I awoke this morning to a gentle shower. And the thought that many readers may have thought,"Oh, Mi Bloguero, you always exaggerate and expand, and that fountain cannot possibly be as garish as you made it out to be." OK. Have it your way:

Bahia Soliman Again

Bahia Soliman

In the beginning, there was only the bay, Bahia Soliman, just north of Tulum in Quintana Roo, Mexico, in the Mayan Riviera. The reef protected the bay from storms, sheltered the coral forests, and tinted the water the most gorgeous turquoise. You could hear the wind and waves rumble at the reef. Pelicans dove, frigate birds cruised. There were fish hawks. And barricudas. At the shore there was only the most gentle undulation and the turtle grass moved like a tai chi master. The sand was smooth and white. I love the Bay. I have loved it since I first saw it many, many years ago. And so, early next week I return there for a short stay.

There will, of course, be occasional postings, pictures while I am at the Bay. Maybe some new Tulum photos. But in general, my keyboard time will greatly decrease, and my blog output will become a thin trickle, maybe just a sporadic dripping, maybe even complete silence. You could imagine here instead of my voice, the clacking of the cocos in a humid breeze, the songs of birds and insects, the sounds of waves as they gently groom the reef. Sounds of life. Sounds of nature.

This is one of the cycles of creativity. Inhaling inspiration and exhaling words, dreaming and writing, abandoning conventional time, contemplating, renewing, resting, reinventing. Imagining. A lull, a pause, a brief hiatus. Who knows what will happen when time gently expands itself so that every minute has 63 seconds? Who knows what is hiding in plain sight? Who knows what treasure is in the lost and found?

I am bringing with me Novel Three. There are only about a thousand words, and there are, of course, lots of ideas. It is just a tiny, new sprout. Will it grow? Will it be nourished? What will be revealed? Of course, I'm aware of the injunction I received, that I should write even more joyfully. That seems good advice. I will take it.

Imagine now that this post is a small, shiny soap bubble and that when we come to the period in this sentence it will rise safely up through the cocos into the deep blue sky and silently disappear.

Again, A Storm

Here's a picture that is worth a few thousand words.

I left Nah Yaxche in Bahia Soliman on Monday for the usual anchovy inspired flight, first to Chicago, and then to Albany. It took all day. I couldn't buy the upgrade where they treat you like a human and not a fish in a can. No problem. I'm used to it.

While I was in the air, what I thought would be a minor Tropical Storm got upgraded to Hurricane Rina, and it looks like it's aiming for Bahia Soliman and the rest of the Mayan Riviera. Cozumel, Playa del Carmen, Tulum, Puerto Morelos. It is predicted to arrive Thursday or so.

This is what happens in the Caribe. Frequently. It is nothing new. Out of nowhere, a big storm. A massive storm surge. Lots of sand in the front door. It will rain a great deal. And gail winds will blow. Hard. Then, after a while, depending on how fast it is moving, it will move on. After it's left, the sky will be beautifully blue, the sun will shine, and the sea will again become calm. It will be as if nothing happened.

Of course, everyone should lock everything up and tie everything down, and then leave the Bay and go inland. Why? Because during and after the storm, the access road will no doubt (again) be under water. And there will be no electricity or phone or cell service. And it will be hard to find something to eat. Especially if it needed to be refrigerated. And nobody wants to be around if the trees break and fall.

This is also a serious test of architecture and design. Will Nah Yaxche weather the storm well? Will newer the houses with their height and their glass doors and windows? I hope they all do. I suspect that the low houses without the glass are a better choice. We will see.

The Calmest Of Seas

October in the Riviera Maya is a risk. Six years ago today Hurricane Wilma arrived. That category 5 storm destroyed everything and killed people. And then there’s today: the calmest of seas, a bay like a mirror, the softest of breezes, and a slightly overcast sky. In other words, a day of beauty. And sighs. And maybe naps.

There are virtually no tourists here now. This really is the off, off season, the time for maintenance. The palaperos, workers who for generations have repaired and constructed palapas, palm thatch roofs, were working next door. You can hear their chainsaw and the hammering, but when the stop, there is silence. And lovely bird song.

It’s so quiet and calm that small herons, usually skittish, have been fishing at the shore. And the needlefish, usually driven away by swimmers, are gliding in the shallows. They are almost invisible when they are still and are over turtle grass. And of course, my favorite bird, the sociable flycatcher, has been hanging out with me all day and offering me literary advise.

What a delight it is to be here.

The Caribe

The Caribe is churned up. There is a gigantic, hovering low, now called Invest 95, roosting over the Yucatan. Rain. Wind. Churned up sea. Everything dripping. In Bahia Soliman it just looks like this:

On Weather Underground it is much more dramatic and looks like this:

‘Tis the season. The mangrove, the lush plants, the cocos, the selva all need this inundation. It is what makes Tulum so green, the plants so dense, the air so clean. And your Bloguero? Reading, writing, napping, relaxing. Yes, your Bloguero loves the sun. And yes, it hasn’t really shone since Friday morning. But there is something luxurious, wonderful, exquisite about napping while the tropical rain falls on the roof and the cocos clack their leaves.

Where We Have Gone Astray

Today, we have the last official warnings before the dreaded onslaught of "Carmageddon". MSNBC reports the road closing in Los Angeles as if it were an impending visit from Rodan:

The City of Angels is on edge as the hours tick off until "Carmageddon" — the shutdown of a 10-mile stretch of one of the busiest highways in the United States, on one of the city's busiest summer weekends.

Will it bring traffic to a standstill like a scene out of a summer disaster movie? Or fail to come to pass, like other apocalypse predictions?

Everyone will find out soon enough as authorities prepare to close Interstate 405 for 53 hours beginning Friday night.

Cue the scary music. Cue the voiceover. "Will it bring traffic to a standstill? Will the city be destroyed? Will this be the end of the world... It's Carmageddon!"

Meanwhile, we've come a long way from simple roads, like the potholed road between Highway 307 and Bahia Soliman. And maybe it's that we've gone completely astray:

Is it too much to ask that people not drive, that they stay at home, relax and barbecue? I guess.

Same Old, Same Old

Once again, I find myself riding a crowded, very large beer can as it hurtles through the stratosphere. I am headed for Chicago. This particular can does not allow me to determine where I might be on the progress of my journey. All I know is that at about 4 pm I will open the window shade, respectfully closed now so that others may watch the small screens, and see before me the Second City, hog butcher of the world. Until then, some of the passengers will stare at the screens hanging from the baggage compartment. Others will sleep. And I, I will try to understand the ocean of my present negative judgments.

It’s all very simple. I went for a walk one morning. On my walk on the road that borders the mangrove of Bahia Soliman and the backs of the houses on the Bay, I pass some very elaborate, very luxurious vacation villas. I have discussed them and what I consider their ostentation before. Anyway, on my walk I saw, waiting to be picked up by the basureros, a very large, in tact carton from a 53” flat screen television. The television itself was probably at that moment in the house being comfortably cooled by the air conditioning. But the carton led me to a stream, no, not a stream, an avalanche of negative judgments. About the person who brought such a thing to Bahia Soliman. About the thing itself. About the state of affairs in Bahia Soliman. About the course of human destiny. About why our environment is in such terrible danger.

Was this person flaunting his monstrously large TV? Was this person trying to incite whatever burglars might be around? Was this merely thoughtless, a failure to think to break down the box? Was this the start of a test for the Security Service for which my neighbors and I all pay? Why am I paying the same security fee as somebody who has installed such a burglar magnet, something that clearly needs serious protection? I don’t have anything like that. And why does somebody want a ginormous television on Bahia Soliman anyway? On and on and on.

I’ve discussed before my love of Estilo Robinson Crusoe. Maybe my negative thoughts about this carton and, as important, its contents are an extension of that. Maybe it's the shadow of that. First, I wrote about my house, and what a marvel it is, with no glass and only wooden louvers, and how it invites the natural world of Bahia Soliman in and itself belongs to it. I love the house. Then, I wrote about the palaperos, those indigenous artisans who make millennia old roofs that withstand hurricanes and heat and last so very long. I love indigenous architecture. But I’ve also complained that my neighbors have left ERC far, far behind, and have instead embarked on what can only be called Akumalificacion: overbuilding their lots, tons of glass to shut out the breezes, lots of air conditioning, a plethora of distasteful homage to Spanish colonial architecture, including red tile roofs, faux mission motifs, and encircling walls and gates, and, of course, as if Bahia Soliman itself were not the reason for building a house there, lots of swimming pools, to be used instead of swimming in the very Bahia that brought all of these people. This is their taste. They are doubtless entitled to it. And I am entitled to react to it. And to my judgments about it. It saddens me. And it also angers me.

The carton for the 53” television, sitting shamelessly in front of the rest of the basura, signals the culmination of the change from ERC to overt Akumalificacion. Why else is there a 53” television in Bahia Soliman? Presumably, instead of sitting at the shore and watching the stars over the Bay, instead of listening to the glorious night sounds and the breeze and the rumble of the waves on the reef, instead of the hushed conversations and shooting stars and the playing of guitars and singing, instead of reading, instead of just going to bed early, instead of all of that, someone will shut all of that beautiful nature out. And watch television. Just as if he or she weren’t in Bahia Soliman. Just as if he were somewhere else in the world. In fact, anywhere else in the world. As if it does not matter where he is. I repeat: As if it doesn’t matter where he is.

And if the windows are open— an increasingly unlikely scenario given the unfortunate trend— you will hear above the hum of the air conditioners and mixed with the sounds of breeze and wave and wildlife and human voices, of all things, the horrible braying of television.

Tan vergonzoso! So shameful! What have we done?

I fear we have lost our way. Do people really want everything everywhere to be the same? Do we really want homogenization and standardization of everything everywhere? Blandness all the time everywhere? Complete, overwhelming, inescapable consistency? Do we really want television and music and ear buds and games all of the time no matter wherever we are? Is all of this “entertainment” (read: distraction) necessary to our being comfortable? Do we have to have all of this to transform new and different places and situations into the ones with which we are already so utterly, so boringly familiar?

And when we do this, isn’t it a fact that the importance of wherever we actually are on the planet is diminished? It becomes so unimportant. Wherever it is, is just like everywhere else. Everywhere is utterly the same and bathed in the same things that we use to make it all quite familiar. And ordinary. Your dwelling in magical, remarkable Bahia Soliman becomes the same as one in any standard, well equipped suburbia.

Well, I don’t want Bahia Soliman to be like everywhere else. It isn’t. I resent those who would attempt to make it so (their motivations in this don't matter). And I worry that this pervasive ignorance (read: ignoring) of where one is, is extremely dangerous to the environment. Not just to Bahia Soliman. But to the earth generally. Because the place in which we appear to live is no longer a specific place on the earth that needs and deserves specific kinds of our attention. No. Now we will live in the generalized, imagined space we have created with incessant media. And we will persistently shut out the real world and its murmuring what it needs out.

(Note: a special h/t to the woman from Belize who talked to me about her community there and inspired this essay.)

(Note: Your Bloguero is back in the states. He has brought some weather with him.)

Mr. Kaan's Visit(s)

A very rainy stretch in Bahia Soliman. First, the precursors to what would eventually become Tropical Storm Arlene. After that, the turbulence from an Invest just northeast of here. Sun in the morning, then all of a sudden, showers. Then partially cloudy. And showers. Repeat and repeat again. It is now overcast.

All of this unusual, inclement weather has brought certain creatures out that one does not usually see. They are here all of the time, rest assured of that, but they stay away from people. Three days ago I opened the door from the beach and startled a nice sized snake (3 to 4 feet) who was until then enjoying the coolness of my tile floor in solitude. The snake ran away, making that wild sidewinder motion. In the induced mutual freak out and massive adrenalin overload, I lost sight of it. And as a result, I have no idea where it may have gone. It may still be in the house. I doubt it, but it could still be here hiding. Somewhere. Also, sorry to report, I am not entirely sure whether it was green or black or black and green or some other color. It was long. It was thin. It was quick. This passes for the best description I can give. Naturally, I asked Obdulio, who is my expert on matters herpetological, about this event and he assured me that said visitor may have fallen from above (from the roof? from a tree? surely not from the sky) but that it was probably harmless. There. The freak out was unnecessary. Fine. I put the matter behind me. Obdulio who is also my consultant on the Mayan language informs me that the word for snake is “kaan.” “Cancun” is the Mayan word for the Place of the Golden Serpeant.

Time passes. The pounding heart and shallow breath Mr. Kaan brought me as a surprise disappear, and they are soon mercifully forgotten, tiny droplets in a vast undulating ocean of relaxation. In other words, life continues.

This morning I went out for my usual early morning walk. As I strode down the road in bright sunlight and a gentle breeze, listening to the birds’ inventive songs and approaching my house, a long stick in the road decided instantaneously to transform itself into a snake and to beat a hasty, side winding, rapid retreat from the dirt road into the thick brush. I only got within 10 feet of it. This Mr. Kaan was also between 3 and 4 feet long, similarly thin, and today was wearing a coat of bright green and dark green, which on reflection seems to be what the other Mr. Kaan may have been wearing when he called at my house. Was this the same Mr. Kaan who had visited me before? His impertinence, his rapidly absenting himself, possibly twice, without the courtesy of even a single calling card, leaves the important question unanswered. One should not assume that bad manners in the form of an abrupt departure reveals whether it was one Mr. Kaan or two.

Interestingly after this second Mr. Kaan made his abrupt departure from the road, I noticed that there were in fact a large number of similar thin sticks between 3 and 4 feet long lying in the road as well. I inspected them carefully as I walked by, hoping that one of them might in fact be a camouflaged snake, a relative or friend or acquaintance of Mr. Kaan. Alas, none were. They were all just sticks.

I have been aware while I am walking in Bahia Soliman of the vast, interconnected web of life here. Sometimes I see animals on the road, sometimes not. After today’s brief interlude with Mr. Kaan, however, I have begun to think that while I am walking down the road, various animals watch me go by and then rapidly cross the road behind me. They are surreptitious. Silent. Move quickly. They know that I will probably not turn around, that I will not see them as they run across the road behind me. Today I imagined that a whole pack of coatis silently crossed the road behind me as I was headed toward Hiway 307. I wish they wouldn’t do that. I would really enjoy seeing them.

This Week In The Dream Antilles

Greetings from Paraiso! For the past week, your Bloguero has been in Bahia Soliman, a sheltered bay just north of the famous ruins at Tulum, Mexico. Your Bloguero spends as much time here as he can. And as you can probably see from the essays at The Dream Antilles this week, from here the world of politics and government seems remote, so your Bloguero tends to stick to writing a “lit blog,” which is how The Dream Antilles began almost 6 years ago.

How, you might ask, can politics and the narco war seem remote? Is not your Bloguero in narco-war dominated Mexico? Short answers abound. Mexico is a big country. The violence has concentrated in the states bordering the US and on the west coast of Mexico. Tulum, about an hour and a half’s drive south of Cancun, is on the east coast, near the Belize border, and hasn’t really had anything to do with any of that. So in a way, staying away from Tulum and the rest of the Riviera Maya in fear of impending narco violencia is like staying away from Philadelphia because there is a crime wave in Pittsburgh. This is a fact that the US State Department and the US Department of Homeland Security have done little to clarify. And their lack of explanation and the seemingly well founded fear it has nourished have badly hurt the tourism industry in this part of Mexico. And that, in turn, has badly hurt all of those many people who came to the coast of Quintana Roo from the interior in the past decade to work in construction and tourism and the numerous service industries. It is a shame that ignorance of the US’s neighbor to the South has these consequences.

Up On A Roof continues your Bloguero’s love of Estilo Robinson Crusue and Manayn, indigenous construction. This essay is an appreciation of the palaperos, whose skill and artisanship is making and fixing palapa roofs, traditional roofs thatched with palm. OSHA would never permit this to continue. But these are skilled professionals. Don’t try this at home.

Your Bloguero welcomed the July new moon with a Haiku.

Two Gathas For A Potholed Road is your Bloguero’s appreciation of the potholed road that leads to Bahia Soliman from Highway 307. Gathas are tools for mindfulness; the slow drive on the road so that the driver won’t flatten the tires or destroy the suspension is a perfect opportunity to bring one’s focus to the present. Two Gathas, one for coming, one for going.

Your Bloguero noted July Fourth. It’s not a holiday in Mexico. No matter. Your Bloguero extended holiday greetings to readers in the US.

In Sweet Rain your Bloguero notes that Chaucer had the right adjective to describe the sweet, summer rains in Bahia Soliman.

Your Bloguero finished the manuscript for his second novel, Tulum, and he immediately launched an attack on the conventions concerning the use of italics to indicate foreign words in Italics Be Gone! Scram! Beat It! and in Italics Part Deux in manuscripts. The conclusion of all of this is probably that your Bloguero will not italicize any English or Spanish words in the new novel, so as to facilitate the continuing cross-pollination of these languages. Latin, on the other hand, is a dead language and probably deserves the salute.

The Sky Over Bahia Soliman features two incredible photographs of the twilight sky taken with a cell phone.

This Evening’s Caress is your Bloguero’s appreciation of the gentle summer rain in Bahia Soliman. Having written that last night, your Bloguero went out for a morning walk on Friday, and immediately was showered with kisses. And drenched. Mama-kocha has a wonderful sense of humor.

(Note to Readers: If you want quicker notification of new essays published at The Dream Antilles than this weekly digest, just scroll down the right margin of The Dream Antilles. There you will find the “Networked Blogs” logo. Click “Follow this Blog” and, presto chango! you will begin to receive notifications of new essays as soon as they are posted.)

This Week In The Dream Antilles is a weekly digest. Sometimes, like now, it is actually a digest of essays posted in the past week. Your Bloguero always solicits your support. No, not your money. Just leave a comment so that your Bloguero will know that you stopped by. Or, even easier, just click the “Encouragement jar”. Your Bloguero likes to know that you’re there.

This Evening's Caress

Sometimes, Bahia Soliman has the sweetest, most gentle rains. This evening was one of them. The clouds fill the sky and spray everything with mist, and they kiss the bay with their soft, puffy lips. And they hug and caress the trees and plants. And in their delight at nourishing all the varied life here, they shed zillions of the tiniest tears of joy.

Their embrace is so gentle that the birds continue to sing. And children continue to laugh and play. The lizards scamper across the deck. Turtles wonder whether tonight is the night to lay their eggs. Everything is gently wrapped in damp, thin, soft cotton. It’s only some of the adults who take cover. But from what? From Mama-kocha’s wet lips? Oh please don’t. Please stand out on the beach with me with your arms spread wide, and look up, look up at the sky, and feel how all the clouds are so very gently cuddling us against their puffy breasts and hugging us against them.

The Sky Over Bahia Soliman

This evening, just before dusk, there was a rainbow. I had been waiting for a rainbow for several days. It's been raining while the sun was shining. Often. But until this evening, no rainbow. This one was worth the wait. This is the sky to the North of Nah Yaxche, from the beach in Bahia Soliman.

But the rainbow wasn't the only thing worth looking at this evening. This is the horizon to the east over Bahia Soliman, a different part of the sky. This photo was taken with minutes of the first. What remarkable clouds, and what incredible light.

I have a good digital camera, but lately I haven't been using it much. Instead, I find myself taking photos with a cellphone, a Blackberry Bold. That's what I used to take these photos. It's much quicker. And I seem to be able to find it when I want it. Typically, I post most of my photos to a Facebook album, Tulum Summer 2011, which you are welcome to visit. But every so often, like right now, what I see is so remarkable to me that I post it here. So you, too, will see it, Facebook or not.

Enjoy.

A Sweet Rain

Chaucer had the right adjective when he wrote about shoures soote, sweet showers. That’s what we have today in Bahia Soliman, the gentlest, coolest drizzle. It’s as if the world were wrapped in damp tranquility. And stillness. There is no breeze. The birds are singing. You can hear the raindrops on the trees. And then there is the earthy smell of rain. A beautiful, peaceful day.

A Happy Fourth Of July!

It’s a beautiful day in Bahia Soliman, the bay is like a mirror. Today in Mexico is just another July Monday. It’s not a holiday for Mexicans. No matter, Gringos like me remember that it’s Independence Day.

I have already performed my holiday ritual of reading The Declaration of Independence. I did not read it out loud this year. I especially like this part:

accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security.

“A design to reduce them” is the language of specific intent. And it suggests that all colonies whose resources are exploited by Empire and whose petitions for change are ignored retain a similar duly to “provide new guards for their future security.” It took a lot of courage to sign one’s name under that. It takes as much courage more than two centuries later to acknowledge the universal appeal of the statement. And how it should apply everywhere.

The other two rituals of the day are going to be harder to complete in Mexico.

Maybe some expats around here have some fireworks. I hope so. This evening it would be great to set off some firecrackers. Forget the massive pyrotechnic display over the Bay. That’s not going to happen.

Even more difficult, some of the food. I woke this morning with a desire for a red, white and blue patriotic dessert: blueberry pie (from the Scottish Bake House on Martha’s Vineyard) and cherry pie (same) a la mode with vanilla ice cream (organic please). I don’t think there’s a blueberry within 100 miles of Bahia Soliman. Or a cherry. It looks like I’m going to have to wait until I return to the States to complete the fiesta. But that doesn’t really dampen my enthusiasm for the holiday, and I wish you, dear reader, a Happy Fourth of July!

Two Gathas For A Potholed Road

Today is Sunday. A perfect day. And this is the road from Highway 307 to Bahia Soliman. It is a bumpy, potholed road. Right now it is in fairly good shape: the many potholes are relatively small and they are not so deep that they make the road utterly impassable. The road is in reasonably good condition because of the efforts of my neighbors. In the stormy season, the road sometimes is under water and sometimes it has deep potholes that have made driving it extremely difficult. Sometimes the potholes are enormous, and they destroy cars and trucks and bring travel to a complete crawl.

There are many advantages to having a potholed road like this one. Because the potholes will flatten tires of cars and trucks that go too fast, and because the potholes will destroy the vehicles’ suspensions, drivers have to slow down. And they slow down even though there is no speed limit sign. This enforced slowing has saved the lives of numerous coatis, iguanas, foxes, and birds. Also, it has preserved isolation. Nobody who is out for a Sunday wander around wants to be intensely buffeted while trying to explore a new road. Most daytrippers with no real destination don’t go very far up the road. It’s just too much trouble. So the potholes insulate Bahia Soliman from people who don’t know it is here. It’s easier to find another road to some other beach, one that is going to be smoother. And not threaten flat tires and vehicle destruction.

But the greatest benefit of the potholes is that it slows down the obvious transition from highway fast to Bahia Soliman slow, from business to vacation, from work stress to play relaxation, from the outside world to seclusion. A road with potholes makes these transitions take longer and makes them more gentle. And all of this happens because of the potholes. It takes a while to get from Highway 307 to Bahia Soliman, and it takes time to return to the outside world. And that's a real benefit to the spirit.

Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh explains gathas:

Gathas are short verses to recite during daily activities to help us return to mindfulness. At Plum Village in France, we practice gathas all day long--when we wake up, when we enter the meditation hall, during meals, when we wash the dishes, and with each activity. To meditate is to be aware of what is going on in our bodies, our feelings, our minds, and the world. Dwelling in the present moment, we can see so many beauties and wonders right before our eyes--a child's smile, the sun rising, the autumn leaves. We can be happy just by being aware of what is in front of us. Practicing with a gatha can help us return to ourselves and to what is going on in the present moment.

And so I offer two gathas I have made up for the potholed road, one coming to Bahia Soliman, one returning to the highway:

I.

I am driving on the potholed road to Bahia Soliman. I inhale gently the slowness of my careful journey. And I exhale all of the events that are behind me on Highway 307. I inhale the coming Caribe, the sweet smell of salt, the gentle waves, the breeze. I exhale all of the speed and hurry I was carrying with me. I am present on the potholed road, and I am travelling with each breath toward greater joy and relaxation.

II.

I am driving on the potholed road from Bahia Soliman to the highway. I inhale gently the slowness of my careful journey. And I exhale all of my anticipation and planning and thinking about what may lie ahead of me on Highway 307. I inhale the continuing relaxation, the Caribe, the sweet smell of salt, the gentle waves, the breezes that are now behind me. And I exhale all of my thoughts and planning about what may lie ahead of me. I am present on the potholed road, and I carry with me with each breath all of my joy and relaxation.

.

May all beings be happy and may all beings be free from suffering.

May you have a wonderful Sunday.

Haiku

New moon means no moon
to glisten on Soliman.
The waves do not care.

Up On A Roof

(Note: This essay is an appreciation of traditional architecture in Quintana Roo, Mexico. It is the second in an informal series. The first essay is here.)

One of the greatest, if not the greatest invention of Mayan traditional building is the palapa roof. A palapa is made of palm that has been dried and tied together so that it can then be fastened to a wooden frame and withstand both high wind (hurricane winds, in fact) and heavy, driving rain (hurriane rain, in fact). It also provides shade from a hot tropical sun. Put on a building with the right openings, it can create a delicious cool spot in the midst of intense heat and humidity. Put simply, the palapa is a natural wonder.

At Nah Yaxche there are a number of palapa roofs. Each is slightly different in shape, but the construction is basically the same. These roofs are constructed by palaperos. The artisanship of being a palapero is passed down within a family. It is not unusual to see two or three generations working on the same roof. The oldest, most skilled member might not go up on the roof. The youngest member gets to do the heavy lifting, carrying material up and down the ladder. The main artisan work is done by those who stand on the roof and install it. None of this is approved by OSHA. These are trained professionals. Do Not Try This At Home.

Here is what a palapa roof looks like from outside. This photo is of the main roof at Nah Yaxche. It is very tall. As you can see, after the roof is completed, a net is placed over the roofing material. This keeps wind from twisting the material and making it stand on end. A roof like this can last decades if it is maintained and repaired. Eventually, as with all natural, organic building materials, it will either rot (and become porous) or dry out (and become porous) and have to be replaced. When that happens, the old roof is removed, the framework is tightened up, and a new roof is installed.

Here are two additional roofs. The one in the foreground is the casita at Nah Yaxche. The big roof in the background is the main roof at Tulipanes, our neighbor.

But what holds this up? Traditionally, trees of the correct diameter are cut, the bark is removed, and they are made into a framework to support the palapa. This is not done with heavy equipment. When something needs to be lifted, several people pick it up and move it into place. This can be heavy, backbreaking work. Here is the inside of the big palapa at Nah Yaxche:

How very beautiful. The tree at the center, holding up the roof is about 14 inches in diameter at the base (about 1/3 m). It is approximately 30 feet tall (about 10 m).

Yesterday, the palaperos arrived to fix some wind damage from the storm that would become TS Arlene. It is fascinating to watch them work. What language are they speaking? Mostly Mayan with some Spanish thrown in. They work quickly and quietly. The repair is done in a flash. I climb a roof to take a photo.

The palapa roof is a wonder. Unfortunately, as there is little new construction in Estilo Robinson Crusoe, and more and more buildings are being built with tile or other material roofs and no full size palapas. But the palapa continues up and down the beach.

A Short Walk In Honor Of Michel Peissel

Michel Peissel is a French explorer who in 1956, long before there was Cancun, long before there were paved roads, long before the Riviera Maya was a tourist destination, long before there was Highway 307 running from Cancun to Chetumal, walked from where Playa del Carmen is now, down the coast of Quintana Roo, all the way to Belize. His purpose was to explore the area and he ended up finding 14 Mayan archeological sites. His adventure is reported in his 1963 book, The Lost World Of Quintana Roo, which is now sadly out of print.

Peissel walked down the beach in front of my house, down the sand of Bahia Soliman, headed south. So today, in his honor, when the sun was finally shining, I pulled on my water sandals, jammed a few pesos in my pocket, and I headed out for the territory, south, down the beach, following Peissel's route. Some of the walking was easy, on sandy beaches with the most gentle waves. It's easy to walk in the water. Midday today the tide was incredibly low. Soft sand can slow down walking, but the beach walk was easy.

At the point, at the end of Bahia Soliman, where the land reaches out to touch the coral reef that runs from Cancun south all the way to Panama, there is rock. The going there is a good deal rougher and a good deal slower. Peissel wasn't well equipped: he had hot clothing, bad shoes, a jacket (don't ask), and no water. He walked it anyway.

On all of these rocks, it's hot. And it's windy. There are a zillion fossils in the rock. There are tiny sea creatures living in tidal holes. And the plants tenaciously hold on to whatever sand or drift wood there is for dear life. There's not a lot of rock. It doesn't go on for very far. Eventually you come near the end of the point and can see the far south side of the bay in Tankah 3.

And then you walk on sandy beach again. Down Tankah 3. Walking in the water past the houses. If you wanted to, you could walk all the way to Punta Allen or Belize. I don't want to.

The destination and turn around of this walk? Casa Cenote, where the beer is cold, and there is shade and service:

And there's a special treat. Not the beer. That's a treat on a hot day, but not that special. Outside Casa Cenote ever so slightly inland is a cenote. A cenote is a pool of fresh water where the limestone of the ground has given way. It could be a deep sinkhole, or as in this case, it could look like a pond. It's the Manatee Cenote. I have no idea why it is named for a Manatee. As far as I can tell, there has never been one in it. Yes, all the furniture from Casa Cenote was deposited in there by Hurricane Wilma, but alas, no manatee. And nobody seems to claim there was.

And then the trek back, north. I choose to follow the road past the mangrove, which right now is full of water, frog choirs, birds, snakes, and flowers. This cuts the time of the trip significantly, but the road is much hotter than the beach. As I walk, I conclude that we should all support our Local Mangrove. How do we do that? Best answer: leave it alone.

No Warnings

As I write this I am just north of Tulum facing the Caribe at Bahia Soliman. You would think that if a big storm were to be headed in this direction, over the sea and into my front door, I would hear about it before it arrived. And you'd be wrong. Sometimes I'm just the very last to know.

On Monday and Tuesday, there were incredibly high winds and tons of rain. How odd, I thought. It sounds worse than last year's tropical storm. It's howling and rumbling and roaring. And the rain drops are like grapes. It hurts when they hit. And they are loud on the cocs. And the roof seems to be doing the kind of drip it does only when there are immense, persistent tropical rains. Maybe, I thought, it's just bad June weather. After all, I don't see any alerts on the Internet. Or in my email. And the usual weather sites just predict thunderstorms. This is what it says every day, regardless of the weather. Nothing unusual. I shrugged.

After all, I thought, it is June. And in June this area tends to get thunderstorms. And some of those, sometimes, have high winds. It sounds bad, but I'm dry. I've got great books. I'll wait for it to blow over. It's just bad weather. Nothing very important.

Today I found out that Hurricane Arlene was named last night, and that it's apparently a consolidation of what we had here. Apparently, it's now raging away in the Bay of Campeche, just northwest of here, and Tampico has high wind. Tamaulipas look out!

And now, all of the turtle grass that got deposited on the beach on Monday and Tuesday makes complete sense:

And now that it has passed us by, and today is yet another exquisitely beautiful day: