We left behind the structure of our school, Habla, the center for language and culture. This tightly wound educational immersion structure that surrounded us unwound like shedding the city highway by highway from Parque Central to the outer periferico.
My Siri, a cultured sounding Irishman, patiently called out directions. “In one mile stay in the second lane from the right and merge onto the Anillo Periferico Licenciado Manuel Berzunza.” He kindly redirected us a few times, when his directions seemed dubious, until we headed out of Merida and straight away.
All we knew was that we were heading for the small coastal town of Celestun, leaving our familiar apartment and neighborhood behind. We will miss the crazy traffic flow around and through the glorietas (roundabouts) under the care of our personal stream of Uber drivers. All fast and sure despite such low fares it seemed impossible to make a profit. In the morning we could practice Spanish with them. But on the way home we were too stymied to talk, with visions of verb conjugations flattening our brains.
Car by car the traffic dropped away. The last few miles, the two-lane road was smooth. Terry relaxed into the drivers seat with mask off, and symptoms in the rear view. And then a hint of the approaching ocean air found us. Terry enthusiastically deemed this road as one he must bike even though there were none. It did promise a salubrious affect of coasting to the sea without a care.
We didn’t have reservations, and we didn’t concern ourselves with viewing images or knowing a damn thing about this place except we had heard there were Flamingos. So Terry had called the flamingo guy who said, “Segaro que tenemos flamencos. Encuéntranos a las 8:00 en la playa.”
Terry announced, “I think it’s set. We’re meeting a guy at the beach at 8:00. I think I heard him say mañana. We’ll get up early and just go and see.”
We drove into the town. The promise of flamingos kept us buoyant despite the main square presenting a bleak looking affair. The road down the beach front only had an occasional car. Dogs ruled. They walked right down the middle of the Main Street giving way to nothing and no body. They were well-nourished and self-assured. They didn’t hang near garbage or people. They swaggered slowly and occasionally looked at other dogs while giving one another berth and a nod and a smirk. You could find a dog on a balcony looking down on you. Or on the crisply ironed table cloth in a restaurant. Some ascended to the rooftops. The more experienced climbers jumped to a neighboring roof. In groups they would hit the water to surf. In groups they would torment a lone cat.
Our hotel room was colorful but uncomfortable. Plastic sheets, one lone hanging light bulb, paper-thin walls, we’ve all been there. The one open restaurant in town, informed us as soon as we got our food, that we had 10 minutes before closing.
Somehow, Saturday was charmed. By 8:40 a.m. we were in a good sized boat with two other couples and a captain heading out to open waters. We were the only English speakers, so we translated for each other. It was a lot of, “I think he said” and “Ya I think that probably is it.” The Flamingos we’re standouts in a sea of pelicans and the boat was speedy. We crossed over the Celestun river from the Caribbean to the Gulf of Mexico and into the mangroves. Quite the morning trip!
Mountain Peace 