Their Poverty Is Relative

The first week of June, EK and I celebrated her upcoming graduation from vet school with a brief trip to Mexico. Despite living just north of the border for 30 years, I'd never really explored the country, never even been more than a few miles south of Tijuana, and what I'd seen there hadn't exactly piqued my interest in further trips.

But this time we discovered the real Mexico, from ancient Mayan ruins to perfect, unpeopled Caribbean beaches, from underground rivers to open ocean snorkeling among squid, sea turtles and silver schools of fish, from lines of leaf-cutter ants to jungle canopy families of spider and howler monkeys. Not to mention world-class margaritas, guacamole and street tacos. Or the dogs, everywhere dogs, flea-bitten but free and just as eager for affection as our pampered suburban pooches. What a magical shore for both of us to wash up upon after a stormy few months of exams and funerals.

But it was the people we met in the village of Tulum, 80 miles south of Cancun, who made our four days with them such a treat. Janet and Jack, childhood sweethearts reunited after 30 years, now owners and managers of the petite and charming Posada Luna del Sur, These two have mastered the fine art of hospitality. We left feeling we'd gained genuine new friends. And another one, Manuel Galinda, our winsome and fearless guide through watery caves and leafy trails. We found him so delightful we invited him to meet us again at dinner our last night before flying home.

Of all these Mexican memories, it was something Manuel said that most sticks with me. We were deep in the Yucatan jungle, having driven for miles through clouds of butterflies to arrive at the Punta Laguna reserve, home of the wild monkeys. Look, Manuel said and pointed toward a white-washed, thatch-roofed community store near the entrance. In the doorway, a beautiful Mayan baby lay face-down in the grit and germs of the concrete floor, fast asleep. She was a toddler, probably about 18 months old. There were no adults in sight; I could only guess she belonged to the storekeepers.

By the time we'd finished our tour of the reserve, seen the monkey families and canoed across the lagoon and back, the little Mayan girl had finished her nap. She was sitting now just beside the doorway, quietly watching a gaggle of other children wandering to and from the store. They were all a little ragged looking, barefoot and dusty, the older girls carrying the babies on slim young hips. Probably they lived in the humble palapa houses just across the road.

They grew up speaking Mayan, Manuel told us, learning Spanish as a second language when they went to school. "They have schools here then?" I asked. We were so far into the jungle, the few houses we'd seen so scattered, and the little store the only perceptible village center.

"Oh yes," Manuel said. "They go to school."

"But what then?" I asked. "Such extreme poverty. Do these children have any hope of further education, of bettering their situation?"

And Manuel, so kind, so patient, so familiar with gringo thinking, looked at me and smiled. "Their poverty is relative," he said.

I was stupid still. "What do you mean?"

"That little girl we saw," he said. "She was dirty, but her cheeks were full, yes? She was well-fed, healthy."

Suddenly, I got it. "So how arrogant of me, how condescending, to come here, to their home, and assume that because their lifestyle is so different from mine they would even want to change it."

Manuel smiled again, his eyes actually twinkling.

These days, back in the swirl of my oh-so-American life, I think often of our magical visit to Tulum, of my wise new friend Manuel, and of the beautiful Mayan baby, growing up in the midst of a great, green jungle, wild monkeys leaping through the trees above her as she sleeps.

Snake Update

O.K. This is getting just a little bit old. We're up to three rattlesnakes discovered uncomfortably close to the house so far this summer. The first, another rusty speckled specimen, had layered himself into one of the trenches dug by the landscape contractors putting in our new irrigation system. I fished him out with the snake stick and locked him into my trusty covered bucket, much to the amazement of the landscaping crew. When Bob got home, we moved him farther down the mountain.

The next one, a handsome little Pacific rattler, the fiestier, more potent kind, we found smack dab in the middle of the driveway when we pulled in Friday night from a Fourth of July dinner with friends. Bob almost stepped on it getting out of the car. So it was his turn to wrangle the thing into the bucket. The next morning we relocated him farther down the mountain, too, but he wasn't happy about it. Instead of immediately gliding off into the bushes as all the others have done, he coiled up and rattled at us. I suppose he wanted to make the point that he did not appreciate being held prisoner overnight in a bucket and then dumped out unceremoniously in a strange place.

Then yesterday afternoon, Lilo and I were checking the new plants on the east side of the house when I happened to spy a big gray speckled rattler piled up in a corner of the deck, right next to the house! I hurried Lilo in, garbed up in my snake boots and headed back out with the stick and bucket. It was a little nerve-wracking, being all alone. So for extra security, I called Bob at work and kept him on speaker phone while I went in for the capture.

This particular snake seemed just to be chillin'. He'd casually draped himself into place, his middle looping off the edge of the deck. As soon as he sensed the stick coming his way, he started moving, heading toward the ground by way of the big air conditioner compressor next to the deck. As a result, I could only grab him near the tail, which gave him the advantage of leverage. And either he was a lot heavier than he looked or a lot stronger than I'd imagined or, probably, both, because I could not pull this snake back up. I let go and was able to grab him more in the middle, but still I could not even budge him. I hated to give up, but I had no choice. This boy was anchored into place between the wall and the air conditioner. So I released my grip on the snake stick, and he slithered on down to the ground, taking shelter under the corner of the deck. Unlike me, he seemed totally unperturbed by the whole episode.

"Now what," I asked Bob.

"Well, you could just forget it," he suggested. "He'll leave eventually."

"But he's right here," I said. "I hate to think of him this close with the dogs running around."

"You could kill him," Bob said.

I looked at the snake, calmly waiting for me to leave so he could continue on about his snakey business. He wasn't out to hurt anyone, well, except for a few tasty mice who'd left their calling cards all around the air conditioner, no doubt luring this guy in to begin with.

"I don't think that's gonna be happening either," I decided.

About five minutes later the snake squeezed himself slowly under the air conditioner, showing a lot more intelligence than anyone at this point might have concluded I possessed, and when I went out to look for him an hour or so later he was gone. Let's hope he stays that way. In the meantime, Terra Nova remains on red alert for rattlers.