Maya intervention

Our journey had gone off plan — sort of like our lives — and we were both happier. A yellow-checkered golf cart idled near the dock on Holbox on the south side of the island. We waved and the driver jumped out, barefoot, and hauled our luggage into his cart – our things seemed excessive for the first time in a while. Three locals piled in, and they stared at our luggage.

“Xaloc,” I said. And off we went, heading to the north coast, driving down sand roads, passing by small buildings made of tree trunks and thatched roofs, dropping off the other passengers at their destinations. Mud, earth, dampness lingered in the air, a swampy odor. Dark-haired isleños zipped down Calle Tiburón Ballena (Whale Shark Street) on scooters, bicycles and golf carts. On the corner of Whale Shark Street and Calle Porfirio we passed a café, La Isla del Colibrí. Four tables with floral tablecloths were outside on the sand underneath a palapa overhang.

I tapped Prisca’s arm: “I predict that in an hour, we’re going to be sitting there with margaritas in front of us.” She smiled. A real smile. A smile that said: “Here we are. This is all there is. The world is ending.”

Our driver unloaded our belongings and puttered away, leaving us in the still darkness in front of Xaloc, with a sprinkling of stars overhead.

As I predicted, in less than an hour, we were at Colibrí with its folkloric sheep and birds doodled on the exterior of the rickety wooden structure. We sat at an outdoor table, eating ceviche with giant chunks of lobster in it, a black Labrador plopped at our feet. People walked by barefoot. A 7-year-old drove by in a golf cart, his foot barely reaching the pedal.

After our lobster snack, we walked back to Xaloc along the beach, not entirely sure if we were going the right way.

“Look at the sky. The moon is a perfect crescent.” I pointed.

“I can see why the Maya were so into the stars,” Prisca said. “Without TV — or even books — what else is left but the sky?”

We stayed as long as we could, looking for some sign, some pattern in the stars that signified the end of the world. We couldn’t find a thing.

Prisca and I rented a golf cart the next day and splashed through giant puddles to the beaches — shore upon shore on this 25-mile-long, largely undeveloped part of the Yum Balam Biosphere (or, translated from Mayan, “Father Jaguar” Biosphere). We drove on the beach until we dead-ended at a tidal river (there was no bridge) that drained into the Gulf of Mexico.

A colony of pelicans had congregated on three or four sandbars in the gulf. I climbed out of the cart, took off my flip-flops and stepped into the mucky, ankle-deep waters, suddenly wanting to connect with this state bird of Louisiana. Needlenose fish and dogfish darted out of the muddy bottom. We walked out toward the pelicans, but they slowly moved to the next sandbar as we made landfall on the first.

Pelican wings flapped. We moved closer; they moved farther out. “Shall we call this water-hiking or sandbar-hopping?” I asked Prisca as I looked 300 yards or so back to shore. But she was busy sorting through shells that had been swept onto the sandbar. Then we each found a feather: pink feathers. We twirled them in our hands, fascinated by the unbelievable coloring, suddenly feeling very lucky.

Flamingos, we were told by the receptionist at Xaloc, are definitely on Holbox. She recommended heading to the northwest side of the island at sunset to see them. “They are almost always there,” she told us. We stared at an empty sky for about half an hour and then we went back to the room.

We liked roaming around on the golf cart, which is how we found the “lost city” near the tidal river. Concrete houses were freshly painted with their palapa roofs mostly intact, but large chunks of concrete had crumbled from the homes. Most of them had just three walls. It’s amazing that they hadn’t collapsed. I got out and walked around this modern-day Chichén Itzá, albeit smaller. A hot tub was strewn on the beach, a stove outside. On the roofs sat blackbirds.

“Wilma?” Prisca asked.

“I guess.”

We were silent, not exactly sad, but thoughtful. We somehow felt less alone.

Then a shadow flickered over us.

“Look up,” Prisca said.

And there they were, like needles with wings attached. Flamingos.

We both laughed, happy to see that — for some bizarre reason — those things you seek always seem to come to you when you’re not really looking.

Not so with the whale shark. That was a premeditated search that started at daybreak. We motored past mile upon mile of empty white-sand beaches with a few scattered palm trees. We cruised across the waves hard, cracking our spines. After a two-hour boat ride to who knows where, our Spanish-speaking-only captain slowed down and began scoping the waters for a whale shark. We were looking for a giant needle in a giant haystack. Then, after another hour, our captain spotted manta rays. He became excited and mimed for us to put on snorkel gear. Apparently, mantas — plankton feeders like whale sharks — converge near the mammoths of the sea. Prisca and I waited for the signal from the captain and together plunged into the water. Less than 10 feet below us was the local celebrity. It was awe-inspiring to see the real thing after strolling down Whale Shark Street where hand-painted signs and photographs of the fish decorate many storefronts. I saw its depiction so often that, when I closed my eyes at night, I saw spots.

Prisca and I laughed so hard as we dived in again and again to see the shark that we nearly drowned. “This is extreme snorkeling,” I choked out. “I can’t keep up with the pace.”

We didn’t drown, though. We lived, and we were less depressed about it, too. As Prisca muttered one evening as we meditated on the stars, feeling quite expansive, “We are part of a great tribe.” And I knew exactly what she meant. We are in it together, each and every one of us, even if the world will end in 2012. Which it won’t. Willy got his story mixed up. I did the research when I got home and this date marks the end of a cycle on a Maya calendar. But as an old cycle ends, a new one begins. So 2012, you see, isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.

When the stars shift on that warm December day six years from now, New Orleans, I predict, will be back. Prisca and I will be together, eating the best cheeseburgers in the world at Martin Wine Cellar, Uptown on Baronne Street (that’ll come back, too), and as we chew, we’ll remember the whale shark, the xtabentun, Kukulcan and all the gifts that the Maya gave to us that one summer long ago when we thought our lives were over, when we thought New Orleans was done.

Each issue of ISLANDS Magazine explores the most beautiful island destinations in the world, from tropical island outposts to the sophisticated gems of the Mediterranean. Our top-rate photographers and writers discover the quiet beaches, boutique hotels, and unique cultural experiences that make island travel unique.

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