What do you do when you are sitting in a three-walled, tin-roofed restaurant in a fishing village on the Yucatan peninsula crying because the egg yolk running down your mountain of tortilla chips, salsa roja, refried beans, fresh cheese, sour cream, and guacamole tastes like warm butter, and you didn't know it could taste so good-you'd been afraid to try runny yolks-and your waiter plops down at your table and says (I'm paraphrasing here), "Hi! My name is George of the Jungle. I'm a jungle tour-guide. Would you like to follow me miles down a barely passable road to a lonely spot where you can swim in a cave that leads to an uncharted secret river?"
Naturally, you wipe your tears and say, "I'd love to!"
I know, it sounds irresponsible and possibly downright dangerous but, we were in Mexico. Not swine flu, drug cartel, kidnapping Mexico, we were in Quintana Roo where life is slow and people are friendly and jungle tour-guides serve you breakfast.
Later that morning found Hubby and me lurching around corners and scaling boulders in our rental car while trying to keep up with George on his bright yellow mo-ped. We arrived, mostly intact, at a destitute rancho called LaNoria where peacocks picked though limestone rubble and ill-fed piglets wandered over the cracked earth.
A hundred yards from the palapa farmhouse yawned a sinkhole surrounded by a dilapidated fence. I peeked over the edge into the water two-stories below. Trepidation began to buzz around my mind like a mosquito. An extension ladder, secured to a wobbly post with a leftover bit of chicken wire, plummeted into the well where it perched on a swim-platform.
"This is how you get out," said George. He pointed to a smaller, carefully excavated shaft. "You get in over there."
Relieved, I discovered a rough-hewn staircase. Hubby and I descended in the dark to the last step, which was still a good five feet above the water. Hubby jumped in.
The Yucatan peninsula is bejeweled with crystalline, fresh-water wells called cenotes. While most appear as small, round pools, they are actually portals to hundreds of miles of subterranean rivers. I admit I am not comfortable with wondering what might lurk in the watery shadows, especially if it's ancient and possibly watching me. I held my ground while Hubby explored the cavern, checking out all the cracks and crevices. He seemed to be having fun, so I tried to scooch down the sloped rock far enough to get my feet wet. Hubby dove under. I heard a gentle liquid slap against the far wall. When he surfaced he said, "You're not going to like this."
From my precarious position, I could see the submerged, light-sucking black hole in the cave wall. I scooched a little further and, on closer inspection of the horizontal abyss, decided I'd rather not go for a dip. Imagine my dismay when I realized I'd passed the point of no return. There was no scooching back up. With no recourse, I took the plunge.
I sank into the deep with my eyes closed. When I surfaced, Hubby was at my side. Together we swam-me carefully not looking at the panic inducing gaping maw-to the safety of the swim-platform. With the firm comfort of the wooden structure at my back, I allowed myself to take in the scenery. Bats darted about in an up-side-down forest of stalactites dripping from the ceiling like sparkling petrified icicles. The limpid water felt silky and cool.
Before long, George's voice floated down from above. We were done? Lunch was ready. We climbed back into the sun where we were greeted with fresh tortillas, chorizo sausage, cheesy rice and pigeon peas. But while George, our waiter, served a fabulous lunch, the fare that really nourished my soul was provided by George, our jungle tour-guide.
