Between Coba and our next stop was another hour of driving. This drive was peculiar because it was straight, flat and there was nothing on either side for the entire trip. The jungle rose above us for at least 30 feet; there were no intersections, no driveways, and no other vehicles.
We finally arrived at a clearing and the driver turned in. No signs, no entry gate, no other tours. The guide explained that he didn’t speak Mayan and that the Mayan people assisting us today didn’t speak Spanish, and definitely no English. He shared that we would be seeing a shaman to help us gain spiritual entrance to the jungle, and from there we would be hiking, rappelling, swimming, zip lining and canoeing so we should only bring with us what we were comfortable getting wet. Back in 2013, that meant leaving our phones in the van, no photos, no emergency calls, no identification if we disappeared.
We changed into our swimsuits, tossed on a layer of shorts and a tank top and our trusty Tom’s. Meanwhile the other couple decided they had enough and would not be partaking. The guide explained that he could not return them to the resort at this time and their only options were to join us or sit in the van in the Mexican heat until we returned. They chose the van.
Our guide then took my partner and I on a short walk to a pavilion where we met a petite bearded man, assumably the shaman. He boiled a brew of water, herbs and literal sticks before pouring it into a tin can and passing it to each of us to take a sip. The guide explained that they do this as part of the formal ceremony but the concoction is a sweet drink children often enjoy as a treat. After taking a sip we were directed to close our eyes while the shaman chanted, sang and slapped our faces with a handful of leaved branches. Jarring considering we had our eyes closed. He then blew into an eight-foot horn for what felt like a hour before the guide asked us to repeat after him: We come to enjoy your gifts; we mean no harm. In hopes of the jungle accepting us into its belly for the afternoon.
Before we left for our hike, we were handed a harness and helmet, presumably for zip lining. And then a thick stick about the thickness of a patio umbrella pole. At one end it had another branch, making the whole thing look like a giant check mark. “What’s this for?” I asked naively. “For these,” our guide said after hitting a crude poster full of cougars, monkeys, rodents, spiders, birds and more. “If you see any of these, hit it.”
I thought he was joking until we started our hike and he looked like he was hiding from assassins, shoulders hunched, eyes darting left and right every second, knuckles white from gripping his stick and other supplies.
By this point in the day I had already experienced a rollercoaster of emotions ranging from fear to exhilaration, but all at extreme intensities.
“Don’t touch trees that look like this. It’s poisonous but the antidote takes about three hours to make and you’ll be dead before then.”
“Wait, which tree shouldn’t I touch?!”