Fire, Candle, Drum, and Stones: A Sensory Experience

by Fyllis Hockman

The first thing I heard were sounds. Were they cymbals? Was it thunder? What did they mean? Were they supposed to mean something? But I didn’t have time to ponder before the next sensory assault -- this time different textures caressing my bare feet -- gravel to burlap, wooden slats to smooth slate to soft rug. Were the others experiencing the same thing?

And here’s the rub. We were all blindfolded, one hand on the shoulder of the person in front of us, as we moved about our mini-jungle. At first, I felt disoriented, out of control, with the added annoying question lurking in the back of my head: I am a travel writer, how am I supposed to take notes? But our Mayan guide propelled me back into the moment by explaining that when our sight -– our main sense in relating to the world around us –- is cut off, the others senses are expanded. And I had better start paying attention.

And so began our Sense Adventure Tour, part of a larger eco-oriented nature park and sustainable tourism program at the Hacienda Tres Rios Resort in Riviera Maya, Mexico.

Nothing can hurt you, we were reassured. Just trust in yourself and follow your senses. Do not talk, please – communicate only with yourself. And become one with the universe. How does one do that?

Then a baby laughed – or was it crying – followed by a clash of thunder and then the sounds stopped being a focus and just began to wash over me, as did the bucket of pebbles dumped on my head. I felt like I was being buried. Was that it? Were the baby’s cries rebirth? I had no idea. 

The only time the blindfold was removed was within a tent with constellations of stars twinkling overhead -- the universe we’re supposed to feel a part of. Blindfold back in place, the avalanche of sensory overload continued – smells, textures, taste, sounds. All the senses were challenged, often in conjunction with one another, sometimes competing, sometimes complimentary – should I pay attention to the Native American chants or focus on the pebbles pored over my body or the cinnamon under my nose or just give in to the swaying of my body being encouraged by the guides.

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Searching for the Love Motel

by Maraya Loza Koxahn   

I had been driving around in the dark for over an hour, lost in a town east of Mexico City, searching for the ‘love motel’. This might sound like a tantalizing adventure if I were with my lover but I wasn’t. I was with Bill.

At eighty-four, Bill is more than thirty years my senior. He has a shock of white hair and clear blue eyes. He is a little hard of hearing, a little ‘hard of walking’ due to fallen arches and chronic vertigo, but he’s very comfortable behind the wheel. Bill has driven south to the Lake Chapala region of Mexico for the past fifteen years, to escape Calgary winters. This spring we’d agreed to share a road trip through the Mayan ruins of Southern Mexico and Guatemala. Frugal and seasoned travelers, we felt we knew each other well enough as friends to be able to take on the challenge of sharing costs and close quarters for several weeks. 

At the beginning of our journey across Mexican highways and byways I noticed what looked like storage locker facilities, some with entryways covered with heavy hanging plastic strips like a car wash. Bill told me they’re ‘love motels’. They have protected entrances so people can go about their personal business without worrying that their license number is being recorded. Although Bill said he’d once enjoyed a much-needed sleep in that kind of motel by himself, he vowed (as if he were protecting my ‘innocence’) that the two of us would never stay at one of those seedy places together.

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What If We Didn't Go Home?

by Ellen Barone

“So, when exactly are you coming home?” my father asked.

“I don’t know, Dad. Our visas allow us to stay in Peru for at least three months, then we’re thinking of heading on to Argentina and Chile...”

The broken and sputtering magicJack connection at the South American Explorers Club in Cusco broadcasted about every third word of our conversation, but the message that traveled down the steep stone streets of the ancient Inca capital and across the continents to the lush green lawns of Newark, Delaware, the college town I’d grown up in and where my parents still live, was crystal clear: We weren’t coming “home”. 

Plaza de Armas at night, Cusco, Peru. 

The truth was, my husband, Hank, and I had no idea when, or if, we were going home. We didn’t even know what “home” meant anymore. We’d been winging it, temporarily inhabiting Mexico, Nicaragua, Ecuador and Peru: itinerant and loose in the world in a manner that both worried and intrigued family and friends back home.

We were four thousand miles from our homeland, eleven thousand feet above sea level, south of the Equator where summer is winter, and living in a fourth-floor walkup without heat. Yet, life felt sweet and rich and fortunate. 

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I Didn’t Order this Hooker

by Travis Oltmann

Eddie was a tough guy to read. Approachable with a warm smile, yet almost a calculated density when it came to helping tourists at the resort. Problems were chalked up to his poor English comprehension. He would smile at the guests, take their tips, and mess up whatever they asked him to do.

Initially, I thought he only understood certain words and phrases. But when Kevin and I hung out with him later, he told us a long story in perfect English about a school he attended in Cancun. 

“Do you know a place to get jet skis?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, no problem,” he said.

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Have you had your fill of winter? Are you yearning for a tropical getaway? Here's a contest to help. 

In partnership with, Paradise Hunter, a TV show, vacation rentals and real estate company, this contest offers you the chance to win a vacation for four in Akumal, Mexico, on the Yucatán Peninsula 100 km south of Cancún. Paradise Hunter recently filmed in Akumal and is giving away a free week of living the good life.

What's included?

One week in a luxurious oceanfront villa for four people. 

A journey under the jungle into the magical world of cenotes.

Guided fly fishing in the Sian Ka’an Biosphere.

Some of the best culinary offerings on the Riviera Maya.

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The Primeval Waters of Bahia de Ascension

by Susanna Starr

On the first trip I made with my family to the Yucatan in 1973, tourism was virtually unknown. It was prior to the building of the Cancun airport and the only people who ventured down to this part of the world used cars or trucks on the little traveled roads. Those existing roads were rarely paved once you got off the main two-lane highway. 

From where we were staying, about a half an hour south of Puerto Juarez which later developed into the international resort of Cancun, Tulum was another two hours further south. Except for the phenomenal archeological site, there was little else there. The long sand road south to the end of the peninsula, called Punta Allen (pronounced Punta A-yeem by the locals), was deeply rutted. About half way down was the fishing resort of Boca Paila. In order to get there, you had to drive over a rickety bridge and hope for the best.

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