Travel Writing & Photography

Playing Judo with the Wind

By Mary Ann Macklin

             Last spring I surprised myself and others by embarking on a “Soul of Travel Writing” journey to Mexico.  As I enter midlife, travel has lost some of its appeal.  I find that engaging unknown territory shakes my foundation more than in previous years. When it comes to traveling, I feel as if I am jumping off a cliff into a deep, dark abyss.  So much unknown.    Plus, I bring along more baggage than just my luggage. The extra baggage I carry is my despair regarding the reality of global climate change.  My brother, an ecological botanist, died in 1991 from a virus contracted while traveling to initiate reforestation projects in Africa and Asia.  In his absence, I sometimes feel that it is up to me to help save our planet from ecological disaster.

            Yet, surprise, here I am in the Yucatan Peninsula with fellow travel writers.

Forty nine years ago I was born in Indiana, a mere blip on the Yucatan life cycle scale.  Sixty million years ago, shifting sands of calcium carbonate collected to rise beyond the ocean surface to form the Yucatan Peninsula of southern Mexico.  When the sands lifted to form the Yucatan Peninsula, there was no viable soil for vegetation.  Enter the red mangrove tree, genus Rhizophora, one of two mangrove species that inhabit the area.  The red mangrove can live in fresh or salt water, and stretch its roots to create vast networks of botanical stability.  Mangroves helped consolidate the land of the Yucatan.

            I learn this earthy birthing story from Ramón Aguayo, a sailor born in central Mexico who sits at the tiller of his 27 foot bone-white catamaran.  A crisp red, yellow, and blue flag snaps above us as we sail the waters of Laguna Bacalar in the southern Yucatan Peninsula.  “Breathe,” he instructs us, “We are playing judo with the wind.”  Tan, with hair that curls fern-like to frame his bearded face, he wears a loose long-sleeved white shirt and cut-off black pants.  He looks both pirate and poet.  “We will use the strength of the wind,” he speaks in a soft Spanish-French accent, “I want to promote sailing, not jet skis.  The ecosystem here is very fragile.  The wake from motorboats erodes the shorelines and mangrove swamps.”

Cool waters from the lagoon of seven colors, Laguna Bacalar, spit over the bow and tickle my face.  Only seven colors? The ever-changing rainbow of aqua, jade, turquoise and emerald seems infinite.  Ramón points to a castle on shore.   Built in the 17^th century to fight off marauding pirates, it houses dark holes where cannons and guns once protruded.  Now the holes look like sad eyes surveying the lagoon.  Remembering a slick tourist brochure of Bacalar with a jet-ski popping out of the waters, I wonder if individual water craft are the new pirating threat.  Suddenly Ramón’s face brightens, and he stands and waves to the castle.  “My daughter!  She is nine and is taking class at the castle.  She is there today! The castle is a museum now.  They teach art.” He pauses and turns to us. “I will teach children about sailing!”  I know he will, and more.  Ramón has degrees in biology, aquaculture, and oceanology.  He recently founded “Yucatan Outback Expeditions” to share his passion for these waters.

As I plop a cayenne-pepper-covered papaya in my mouth, I lean over the side of the boat to view the white sands through the clear waters below.  Suddenly these fair sands vanish into a dark black purple.  My chest tightens as I feel an abyss drawing me forward.  The unknown grasps me toward a gaping hole. What is happening?  “It is a cenote,” Ramón’s voice pulls me back into the boat, “a sinkhole that forms an aquatic cave.  They can run a depth of 300-600 meters and are fed by underground rivers which continually recycle the laguna waters.”  We are above an abyss, yet safely held by the waters.

   As we float over the abyss, several faces from our Yucatan travels appear before me.  A Maya holy man and curanderos (folk healers) who blessed us with copal smoke as a cleansing ritual before entering the rainforest--“each stone, tree, river is living—all is one” we are told through a translator.  The smiling face of one of our guides, who called himself ‘nature boy’ and joyfully connected to the flora and fauna of the jungle area. Dareth Enriquez, a young woman who had a visible respect for her Maya grandmother.  When questioned about the wisdom she had gleaned from her grandmother, Dareth replied, “be more careful with the earth…bring peace to your families first, that will bring peace to the world.”

I sigh a long breath into the cenote.  These faces, the encounters of my travels, remind me once again that this spinning blue-green planet we call home has many compañeros.  It is not all on my shoulders.  And perhaps if we each play our small part, the storms of our time will shift.  As I sit here above the abyss dragging my fingers in the cool waters, the unknown seems a little less scary.  “Breathe.” Ramón whispers as we leave the cenote, “We are playing judo with the wind.” 

Ramón Aguayo: hidro2@ hotmail.com*

+52 1 120 6990

 *remove space