Caribbean Wandering

Yucatan Peninsula, 2018

Ⅰ. “Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming – 'WOW – What a Ride!'" –Anonymous

“How much will I spend on bus fares?” I asked.

"Nothing. Aren’t you planning on hitchhiking?”

The seasoned traveler promised I'd make it. She swore that the Yucatán's great highway was rich with friendly truckers.

"There's only one rule in hitchhiking; Always listen to your gut," she told me. "Never accept a ride if you have a bad feeling."

The next day, I hit the streets alone.

My thumb shook by the side of the highway.

It wasn't before the first truck picked me up with a sincere smile in his eyes.

I made my way, ride by ride, down the coast. Eventually my thumb would carry me all the way back too. People would let me out just as far as they were going, wishing me luck on catching the next ride. Sometimes they even drove far out of their way, ensuring a safe journey.

Hitchhiking means living like you're floating on the wind. I fell asleep in the back of huge semis. English and Spanish lessons transpired over messy dashboards. I was offered fresh fruit and cold water. No danger befell me.

A traveler's highest calling is to trust their fellow strangers. This is surrender.

Ⅱ. “A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.”—Tim Cahill

Coconut lore is rich.

Stories of the tropical fruit came from World War II soldiers roughing it in the tropics. Rumor has it they would use coconut water to treat blood loss by filling IVs with the fruit's contents instead of performing blood transfusions. Some say that they even stocked up on coconuts before battle to prepare for bloodshed.

Coconuts seem to serve unlimited functions. In Malaysia people call the palm the tree of a thousand uses. Some even call it the tree of life. Without the mighty coconut, many islands in the South Pacific would be completely uninhabited by humans. Husks can be used for long-lasting fires, the water as a natural antiseptic, and countless good-hair-days throughout the centuries can be attributed to its oil.

On a sunny day, barefoot on a Caribbean beach, wandering through sapphire summertime, I thought of the coconut's power. That's when my gaze met a palm tree. It carried a plethora of the infamous, almighty fruit. I licked my lips with castaway-like desperation. I took it to be my mission, seeking total life blood restoration in the form of sweet, tropical nectar.

Strapped to my belt loop was my knife- Rambo style. But it wasn't any ordinary knife. This was a coconut killer. The blade was nine inches of shining steel and it weighed over a pound. It was never far from my side during my journey hitchhiking through Mexico's Yucatan peninsula, though it only ever met the husk of coconuts.

I shimmied my way up the tree, twisted a coconut free, and splashed back into the powdery sand. It was heavy and lime green. Rock hard, too. It seemed impossible to open.

I was a mere coconut virgin with no idea what to do. I had no idea how to unlock the coconut's power. I walked further on the beach, searching for a teacher.

Along the beach I approached a group of three men lounging in hammocks. Two of the men were around my age, tracing their feet through sand as the wind eased them back and forth. The other man was old as dirt, rotund like a coconut, and seemed eternally happy to read his newspaper while swaying in the breeze. They were all tipsy. It was midday. As soon as I said hello they passed me beer and asked what I was up to.

"I'm just wondering how to open this coconut," I answered. Curiosity glittered in their stoned eyes. One man grabbed the coconut and spun it between his hands.

“Yeah, you see, this coconut's a little young, but we can still open it,” he said. We shook hands. He introduced himself as Francis. "But we're going to need something to open it with."

Sliding the beast from her sheath, I offered my knife.

"Damn chica!" Francis said. He was taken aback. The men took turns holding my knife, commenting on the weight and the blade.

When it was the old man's turn to hold the knife he certainly had something passionate to say, not that I understood a single word. He spoke rapid Spanish, flailing his wrinkled hands wildly, and staring at me with happy, crinkled eyes. His words moved with a vibrant Latin rhythm, not pausing to take a breath.

"No habla español!" I said several times. He ignored me. The floodgates holding his thoughts back had opened and I was left in the stream, either to sink or swim. When he noticed I was drowning, he grabbed my shoulders and shook me gently. It was as if he was trying to pull me upwards, towards the air of comprehension. To no avail, of course. I stood there, bewildered by his enthusiasm, staring into this happy eyes.

The younger men were too busy laughing to translate.

But the old man’s toothless smile told me all I need to know. I spoke beyond language: You are my friend. His ancient smile must have conveyed this message to many people, and the wrinkles beside his eyes grew deeper with every friend he made.

“So, what're you doing with a knife like this?” Francis asked. It seemed we were the only English speakers.

I explained how I was hitchhiking around and preferred traveling with some protection. "Plus, I thought it may come in handy against a coconut" I added.

"It'll do," Francis said and motioned for me to join him in the sand. "So you wanna keep all of your fingers?"

I nodded

"Okay, then hold it like this. You gotta be careful how you use this knife."

He motioned so the blade cut in the opposite direction of his hand. The coconut was at a forty five degree angle against the ground, so gravity could join our fight against the husk.

"Always cut a coconut from the top, where it grew from the tree," Francis said. Then he started hacking away, twisting the blade to accentuate each jab, ripping husk from nut. "Now you try."

I took my turn, chopping with force. Francis critiqued my form, telling me to be more loose in the wrist. He encouraged stronger, mindful whacks instead of numerous, rapid cuts.

Finally water erupted from the coconut, spurting like a whale's blowhole. He showed me how to cut open a drinking hole with the tip of my knife, quickly, before too much water splashed into the sand.

We drank it to the last drop and scooped out the nutty meat for good measure. Hanging loose and enjoying my time with fellow sun bums, I felt my worries slip away, lost somewhere on the lapping tide. Eventually though, I was off for a swim in the glittering Caribbean sea.

"Be safe chica! Remember you can't trust everyone around here. Use your antennae like a lobster. Sense what is good or bad!" Francis said.

"Thank you, I'll be careful!" I said.

"But you're always welcome with us! And we're always here!'