Perspective
“There was a spider the size of my hand on this door when we got here. I did not like it.”
Not, “Hello.” Not, “How was the flight?” Words of welcome from our dear friend, a notorious arachnophobe, are about a spider and his disconcert as to the spider’s current whereabouts.
“Where?!”
“Can I see it?”
“How big?”
The children rejoice. A spider as big as a hand? Whether without concern or notice for Papa Bear’s unease, this is a thrilling prospect. A long plane ride to a new country, a long van ride to an unfamiliar town, all together, all laughing and being loud, and now a gigantic spider. The spirit of adventure lay strong in the youth.
——
Night one played out just as expected. An alluvial fan of shoes, hats, and luggage strewn throughout the entryway illustrates the group’s priorities. We devour al pastor, fish, and chicken tacos, rice, beans, and chips. The food is a little cold because the chef came and went punctually while most of us navigated travel delays and crowds.
Children reuniting in a new, wondrous place provides the soundtrack. They lug their suitcases up the metal stairs while whisper-yelling to claim bedrooms. The two youngest friends and their mother are nursing maladies and thus already asleep.
Our three-year-old daughter shows her seven-year-old idol her baby dolls. They unpack their clothes in the dresser and situate their toys on the bedside tables, leaving no room for parental interference. They will bunk together, and that is final.
The boys, born two months apart are five now. Last summer, when we picked them up from a summer camp at the Denver Zoo, the counselor asked if they were cousins because they had been telling her so all day. They really are chosen cousins. They will share a room and a bed this week as well, no questions asked.
We grown-ups settle in, recount the travel day, and reunite over Modelos. An NFL football game is on the television. It’s a bit laggy, but we don’t mind. Excitement builds for the week. The house is beautiful. Beach, pool, and boats define the itinerary. We’re together, which matters most. The kids fall asleep well after usual bedtime, appropriate for such reunions. The rest of us sink into the soft embrace of the L-shaped sofa and talk.
Twice, the power fails. The lights go out, and the air conditioners turn off. Little blips. We think little of it.
We say goodnight and head to bed.
That night, as it should in the jungle, it pours.
——
The rain continues the next morning. It comes in heavy waves. Not used to such monsoons, we sip coffee and watch the storm unfold. It’s pleasant and relaxing for the first hour.
As we brainstorm activities for a rainy day on a beach vacation, which we had hoped against, the clouds part. Like a halo, the sun emerges. The children dig up swimsuits and goggles in a rabid race to the pool. We jump in. The water is cold but welcome. The massive pool chairs resembling bean bags are soaked, but we lounge anyway. We throw a small football, swim laps, fetch dive toys, reload sunscreen, and enjoy beverages. There’s always a lag between arriving at a beach vacation and the moment the vacation vibes set in. This is when we start to relax and envision the next few days of sun-soaked splendor.
We find a spider in the pool. We can’t confirm if it was the same one from last night, but it’s big.
“Cool!” exclaim the kids.
“Not cool,” says Papa Bear.
After the morning swim, we call for transport to that day’s activity - a family-friendly beach club. Our chariot for the week is a 12-person van. Its driver, Gadiel, would become our trusted guide and confidant in the coming days. We meander through the winding roads of town, passing storefronts, auto shops, restaurants, pedestrians, town cats and dogs. Motorbikes with one, two, three people pass us. It’s a 15-minute drive to the main drag - the strip of hotels, clubs, cenotes, and spas most synonymous with the vision of the locale.
The beach club and restaurant lift our moods to establish pure vacation mode. We settle into two long tables, shaded by a portico, at the edge of the dining area with a clear path to the glacier blue ocean and white sand beach. The welcoming staff offers beach towels alongside spicy margaritas, fish tacos, and chicken.
When envisioning a destination, it’s easy to set expectations too high. The images we see and descriptions we hear are curated for ideal perception. While it’s impossible to generalize the group's expectations, they were certainly exceeded in reality. Warmly welcomed, fully at ease, we were here. Just here. Through the laughter, conversation, silence, cries, and toils, we were here.
Waves crash. Sandcastles built and destroyed. We walk the shoreline. We eat and drink and thank our hosts, reminding them we will see them again. The drive home is full of song and cheer.
The lights at the house are flashing. There’s a loud CLICK-CLICK-CLICK in sync with the flashes. No room is steady. The air conditioners, a welcome luxury, turn on and off sporadically. Savored leftovers in the fridge are warming. Adult moods begin to sour with concern and annoyance. The children frolic.
——
It doesn’t stop. In the restroom off the kitchen, I stand in comic disbelief at the scene. Overhead and behind the mirror, the lights flash out of sync. It feels like a scene from an apocalyptic film where the protagonist is stuck in a precarious, confined building, like a hospital or a lab where the whole thing started, with only one escape route. All the other exits are blocked by piles of furniture or rubble. The bad guys, or perhaps zombies, lurk behind expected corners and down hallways, their silhouettes more ominous with each flash. The lights flash like in that scene.
There’s a constant beeping from some appliance struggling to track the surges. We identify the source of the CLICK-CLICK-CLICK as a fuse box out back. It’s situated in an open-air alcove housing all the electrical panels for the house. I don’t touch anything. It’s clear how a monsoon may have an adverse impact on the functionality of those components.
We turn off the lights and air conditioners to calm things down, despite the sun beginning to set. A child yelps. Seeking some ice from the freezer, L instead gets hit with an electric current from the door handle. In my infinite wisdom, I grab it to confirm. I’m zapped with a shock near the mid-levels of the classic Addams Family Electric Shock Machine found in arcades in the 90s and early 2000s. The one where you hold a metal bar and the intensity of the shock increases every round. Instead of holding a metal bar, laughing at a carnival, with Uncle Lester staring me in the face with mocking malevolence as each vibration hits higher frequencies (not actual shocks), I’m holding a metal freezer handle, real electricity running through my body, and staring at friends and family with increasing levels of concern and disbelief. The only laughter borne of incredulity.
Thus began the tale of two Tulums. We contacted our host, who dispatched maintenance. They spent two entire days trying to remedy whatever was going on with the wiring. We surmised that the culprit was the tall barricade, topped by an electric fence, surrounding the house. Interestingly, other homes in the area boasted similar walls topped with carefully placed and well-secured mosaic of broken glass. Whether to deter monkeys, iguanas, or humans, we do not know.
The lack of modern conveniences is one thing at home in a familiar place. It’s another in a shared home with six adults and six children in a new town. The youngest children are recovering from flu-like symptoms and an ear infection. The one with the ear infection is still taking bottles. Their mother is also ill, having naturally contracted the flu-like bug. Intermittent lighting, unreliable air conditioning in the jungle, and no refrigeration do not lend themselves to an enjoyable parenting experience. We are quite blessed with such reliable luxuries at home. In full acknowledgment of variance in infrastructure around the world, we expected some consistency. Power was available, and then it wasn’t.
The maintenance team, not for lack of effort or creativity, could not remedy the power issue during our stay. As the sun set the first night, our host stopped by with eight veladoras, big votive prayer candles, to light the home. Each had a image of Jesus on the casing. In a profound gesture, she offered an apartment in town for the children - possibly her own or a family member’s. We politely declined and thanked her for her hospitality and graciousness. She showed true concern. We assured her we could persevere.
From then on, our excursions served more as oases than activities. The food tasted better, the sun warmer, the laughter louder and more plentiful. The plans never changed. We went to the beach. We went out on a boat. After the boat excursion, L pleaded with the lead stew to visit her home in Denver, providing her exact address to ensure she knew where to find her. We found Aroma Cafe on the other side of a thick patch of jungle where we ate every morning. It was a haven. Everything outside of the house was idyllic.
As we promised our host, we persevered at home. We moved the coffee pot to a working outlet upstairs. We frequented the market for ice and other necessities. Jesus lit our way. We distributed the candles for personal care and collected them all for visiting and dining.
The chef from night one came by again on our last night. From across the room, I watched him cook by candlelight as the two five-year-olds sat on barstools across the counter, engaged and watching intently. Despite the language barrier, they conversed and laughed. He handed samples of salmon and guacamole over the votives to the kids. To this day, our son says it’s the best salmon he’s ever eaten.
Heading to the airport to depart, adults exhausted and a bit relieved, the children once again rejoice. Not in anticipation of home, but in fond remembrance of the last few days.
“I want to live here.”
“Can we come back next time?”
“I want to do it again!”
“That was the best trip ever.”
