Wow … so much that I want to write, and I haven’t even been here 72 hours yet. It was my plan to be off exploring this morning, but a little voice inside is saying, “No, you don’t know what you want. You really want to write. You will explore later. Now start writing.” It was as if some Jedi Master was using mind control techniques to put different voices into my head.
“But I don’t want to bore people with too much writing. I want to go out and experience Cozumel!” I protested.
Then my mind flashed to one of my favorite quotes from Abraham Maslow, as quoted by Wayne Dyer in his precious little book “10 Secrets for Success and Inner Peace.” The quote is as follows:
A musician must make music,
An artist must paint,
A poet must write,
If he be at peace with himself.
What a man can be, he must be.
–Abraham Maslow
So my urge to write won out in the mental debate, and here I am. I have a very strong internal ‘knowing’ that I must write if I am to be at peace with myself. In fact, that is one of the primary reasons for me being here in the first place.
Mystical Clouds
On Saturday afternoon, I spent four hours exploring the waterfront area towards the southern end of town. I had a delightful lunch at a restaurant called “Tiki Tok.” The restaurant is on the second floor, overlooking a peaceful view of the waterfront. The ambience and décor were enchanting, with a hint of Polynesian flavor. The walls were painted with images of large stone statues, like the ones you might see on Easter Island in the South Pacific. My table was one of about eight, near the balcony’s edge, that were situated in at least six inches of smooth, clean, warm, white sand. I immediately slipped off my sandals and let my toes absorb the radiant energy of the beach.
As I resumed my stroll on a now full and completely satisfied stomach, I was taken back by the absence of tourists in the vicinity, and how desperate the shop owners seemed to be. As I walked through the waterfront areas—areas that are normally filled with cruise ship passengers—every shop was almost completely empty except for a few employees standing around. I soon developed a sort of routine. Almost without pause, as I neared a small shop, the shopkeeper would stand up, motion towards his or her store, and would persistently summons me “You shop here lady?” “You need hat?” You want buy Silver?” To every gesture, I returned a warm loving smile, and simply replied “No, gracias.” The waterfront area is abundant with hundreds of such shops, so I am at least getting substantial practice in certain phrases of the Spanish language.
Continuing my stroll southward, I suddenly found myself looking up at a huge store, with the name “Mega” in giant letters high up on the front of the huge two-story complex. Before I could fully absorb what I was seeing, I was completely surprised when a man on a yellow bicycle rode up, positioned his bicycle right in front of me, and asked boldly, “Remember me?” I looked at him with a surprised look, paused for two seconds, and exclaimed “Berto?” Almost immediately, he leaned over, gave me a small peck on the cheek, and then apologized for the sweat that he left behind.
Before continuing, I need to confess something. Over the last two months, as I shared my excitement about my upcoming adventures, friends have repeatedly asked me “Do you have any friends in Cozumel?” My answer has always been a confident, “No, not yet, but I will.” Well, there is just one slight twist to the story that I haven’t shared with most people. I do have an acquaintance that I met while spending eight days here, 18 months ago—and his name is “Berto.” Oh, and by the way, “Berto” is not his real name—I changed it to protect his identity.
Berto is the last person I was hoping to run into on the island. Back in 2007, I had a crush on him that lasted for about 36 hours. I have a strong hunch that I’ll be sharing the story with you in a few days, but for now, I’m going to leave you hanging. Suffice it to say that there is absolutely no romantic interest between us, and I don’t anticipate spending much time with him (if any) while I am here. But who knows, I am here on a spiritual growth adventure, and I have no idea what the universe has in store for me. I am completely open to respond to whatever comes my way.
As I explored the Mega Store, I was surprised to see a section of bicycles for sale. I have known for weeks that I would be purchasing a bicycle while in Cozumel—but I had intended to find an old used bicycle—one I could use and then leave behind. But now, right here in front of me was a display with about 10 brand new 21-speed bicycles for 1898 pesos each. This equates to just over $150 (US dollars) depending on the exchange rate you use. I admired the beautiful bicycles, thinking how nice it would be to have a reliable bicycle—one I would not need to worry about while I am here. I then moved on like a child in a huge candy store, anxious to explore what other candies were just around the next corner—knowing full well that I would probably be back to the bicycle section in the not-too-distant future.
I was drawn to the electronics section. I have considered buying a printer for use while I am here, and wanted to check out the prices and selection. As I walked towards the “Impresoras” (printers), I was approached by José, a sweet forty-something Mexican man who asked if he could help with anything. We smiled at each other as we struggled to communicate about printers. It was not long before the conversation shifted to other things. I was encouraged by the fact that, even though we struggled to understand each other, I at least “sort-of” was able to communicate with him. Before long, he knew that I had moved here, this was my second day on the island, that I was a writer, and that I wanted to learn the language.
José was a sweet gentle man. He asked for a way to contact me so that he could visit and officially welcome me to Cozumel. (At least that is what I think he was asking.) I told him I live on 4th street between 30th and 35th avenues. What I still find confusing is that the houses and buildings do not have individual numbers on them, and I didn’t know how to tell him “which” house was mine—my Spanish is not yet that good. He asked for my “numero de teléfono” (telephone number) and I explained that I only have a U.S. phone number. Finally in frustration, I drew him a map, labeled the streets, and put a box approximately where my home is, with the words “aqui” (here) written on the box.
Next, he looked me in the eyes and asked something like “When is the best time to visit, morning or afternoon?” I really was not at all sure what he was actually saying, but I responded “mornings.” Then he rattled off a couple of sentences that completely escaped me, except I had the feeling he was saying I’ll see you tomorrow at 12:30 p.m. Then he asked, “Do you understand?”
All I could say was, “mas or menos” (more or less), because I was clueless about what had just taken place. I did know that he was either going to visit me as a friend—or perhaps he asked me out on a date—and that he was going to visit me around noon tomorrow—or perhaps on some random other day. In other words, I really didn’t know what I had just agreed to. I just walked away with a smile in my heart, trusting that whatever happens will be perfect. I was just thrilled to have made a new friend, and know that I can probably find him in the Mega store if he doesn’t find me first.
Saturday evening was hot and muggy, and I was unable to sleep. My day had been full of wonder and new in-the-moment experiences, and I was still digesting all that had taken place. Normally I would have just taken a sleeping pill and forced myself to sleep, but I knew I am no longer living a normal life. I followed a little prompting and—still in my pajamas—I ascended the small metal spiral staircase to experience my roof at night.
It was about 11 pm, and the noisy streets below were now almost silent. Even at this time of the night, the warm and muggy humidity still lingered. The sky was clear and the stars overhead were calling out to me to pay attention. I noticed the big dipper off to my left and followed the tip of the cup to locate the “North Star.”
“Now I have my bearings.” I told myself. I was actually beginning to overcome my “directional disorientation.” Without any forethought, my mind flashed to a ten-step breathing exercise I had learned from my friend Angela, who teaches “Qi Gong” (pronounced Chi-Gong)—an ancient Chinese practice similar to Tai Chi. I learned this ten-step breathing exercise only a few weeks ago, and have not actually done it since. This seemed like the perfect opportunity.
I must have repeated the technique one hundred times, peacefully stretching, bending, breathing, and absorbing the energy of my surroundings. I started facing North, then East, South, and west respectively. I didn’t stop until I happened to glance upward. What I saw was breathtaking, and I simply had to immediately stop everything, lay down flat on my back on the hard and rough concrete roof, and just absorb what I was seeing.
Against the backdrop of the dark black sky, a series of small, puffy white clouds was slowly drifting by. The faint glow of the city lights was illuminating the low clouds in such a way that they literally glowed. A magical energy permeated throughout my body as I watched each glowing cloud drift slowly by. The shifting breezes caused them to change shapes as they moved, and I was taken back to childhood times when I used to watch the clouds float by, trying to identify the shapes as they formed.
In all of my 54 years, I have never seen clouds like this at night—low, puffy, and glowing—with a backdrop of black sky and twinkling stars. When I finally returned to my warm bed, I slept like a baby.
Plaza Magic
Sunday morning, as I started my day, I found tasks to keep me busy. As I finished my unpacking and worked on my computer, I was secretly wondering if José would show up at my home at 12:30 pm. I did not want to leave just in case he might actually come to my home.
By 12:45 pm I was off on my next adventure. I found a cozy little restaurant only a block from my home that served a delightful selection of daily specials for only 35 pesos (less than $3). The waiter and I began a slight friendship as I told him that I just moved here, and he told me to come back every day at this same time. I feel it is only a matter of time before I really connect with many more people like this.
In the back of my mind, I had a nagging “knowing” that it was time to buy my bicycle NOW, TODAY, AHORA, HOY. The old me would have insisted that I want to shop around for the best deal, find more options, more choices. The new me responded to my simple promptings with a sense of trust. So after lunch, I set off in the direction of the Mega store, but had no intention of rushing there.
I strolled through a whole new section of the city, taking in every site, reading every street sign, strolling through clothing stores, watching people, and constantly searching my Spanish/English dictionary in an attempt to enrich my vocabulary.
In my walking, I came across the main town square, situated ½ block from the waterfront, in the very center of town. It is beautifully landscaped with lush foliage, thick green trees, and flowering trees of many varieties adding beautiful colors. I sat down on a small bench to read for a while, and immediately knew that “I will be spending considerable time in this plaza before my journey is complete.”
Moving on, I finally made it to the Mega store. José was nowhere to be found, but the bicycles were still strongly calling, so I stopped and camped out in front of them. I noticed that a few of them were missing parts, most needed some adjustments to seats and handle bars, and all needed additional air in their tires. I immediately sank in confidence as I realized I didn’t have a clue how to communicate what I needed. A young sale’s boy came by to help me, and I struggled to ask him about where I could find tools I needed, a tire pump, a kick stand, etc… I simply did not know the words.
Before long, my confidence was at zero, and I told him I would come back later. I began to explore the store some more, and soon found the tool section, where I found everything I needed. I loaded up my arms and returned to the bicycles with full confidence. Within a few minutes a sales lady came by and asked if I needed help. A minute later two young men were performing all of the adjustments I needed and I walked out of the store with a renewed sense of freedom. I hopped onto my bicycle, hung my shopping bags from the handle bars, and was just struggling to get used to the bicycle brakes when Berto rode by again.
“Don’t use the front brakes first while you’re going fast.” He called out as he kept on going.
By 5:00 pm, I was off on my first adventure. I rode 15 kilometers southward, down the western coastline. This took me past a beach where I had been snorkeling with Berto some 18 months earlier—right past a little restaurant where we had eaten fish tacos. It amazes me how much I still remember. I inhaled the feeling of freedom as I finally was able to extend my reach beyond the city limits. I breathed the salty air as I rode by rocky beaches that were crowded by Mexican families on a late Sunday afternoon outing. My seat was starting to hurt so I finally gave in to my better judgment and turned around at a place called Chankanaab. By 7:00 pm I found myself back in the sanctuary of the town square, reading a book, simply absorbing the ambience and surrounding energy.
Not many minutes had passed before I noticed that people were beginning to gather, and that a band was setting up in a large gazebo at the center of the square. My thoughts of an early dinner went right out the window, and I immediately knew I was going to spend the next several hours watching people and absorbing the culture through my own form of osmosis.
About ten feet away, some children nearby were throwing shoes into a nearby tree. At first I had no idea what they were doing until a shoe landed on my backpack and I started to pay more attention. If their aim was good enough, they would hit a cluster of small fruits, causing some of them to fall onto the ground. As soon as they did so, the children would scramble to get as many as they could. I ran over and grabbed one to check it out. It looked like a small kiwi fruit, but when I opened it up, it had a sour apple like taste, and the juice was quite sticky. The kids were eating them, but I puckered and spit mine out.
I asked one young girl what they were, and she rattled off a name that now escapes me—something like “gualluva.” A few minutes later I noticed that a couple of eight to ten year old boys were hanging around me. I soon realized they were admiring my bicycle, and I began trying to chat with them. One boy asked me where I bought it, and then asked me where I lived, where I was from, etc… I was very humbled that an eight year old boy could talk circles around me—while I was constantly admitting “No lo comprendo.”
As the band played, the energy in the plaza was electric. The music was of a very distinctive Latin-American flavor, and many from the crowd were dancing with abandon in the center of the square. Those dancing were an eclectic mix. Some were tourists, but most were locals of varying ages. My favorites were watching sweet elderly couples sauntering around with some pretty slick moves, and two young girls, perhaps eight years old, with some incredible talent for their young age.
What struck me as amazing is that the plaza was filled with entire families celebrating together, from elderly grandparents to young babies—and everything else in between. There was no generation gap—they were all enjoying the event together. As I mounted my bicycle to ride off towards what increasingly feels like home, I was struck by the deep joy and peace I experienced in that Plaza. The “old me” would have missed it all—Sure, I would have been physically present, but I would have missed out on the incredible magic as each moment unfolded.
© Brenda Larsen, 2009
