Author: Penny Potter

The bloody tourists won’t sleep. Too much to do in Tulum, Mexico, the rather pricey town we are staying in with a focus on health retreats that is a long way from our purpose. The bloke at the dive shop rarely gets a siesta these days, just far too many people trying to fill their days. So we’re not wasting any time sleeping either, although my 5am starts have more to do with time zone mix ups than any desire to be a wake early.

We started on the beach yesterday at sparrow fart, meandering along watching black pelican-looking birds crash into the sea with an enthusiasm that made Australian pelicans look quite lazy. The water is opaque and crystal clear. Glassy. And also full of kelp which washes ashore to the fancy hotel beachfronts. The hotels then employ a small battalion of locals to rake it up and wheelbarrow it off the white sands.
We are staying at one of these lovely hotels with the beach sand at our doorway and an omnipresent breeze that makes hammock time blissful. It’s a real luxury for us as we have just a handful of days here. However, it’s a bit weird. We didn’t book a hotel and our airport cabbie found the place for us. It’s a yoga retreat with plenty of fit young women here to work on their downward dog. When we arrived back with a 24-pack of Coronas yesterday (purchased from a Corona factory), there were some curious stares. But we just marched past the bikini boot camp and found a spot on the sand to sip mojitos.
Our big activity for the day was catching the collectivo, a bus/taxi service that makes things very cheap, to the Xplor, a series of amazing caves that have been turned into a theme park. It was an extraordinary place with a comprehensive set of zip lines that have given me some hefty inner-thigh bruises. The zip flights went through waterfalls and even had a slide that reminded me why I so badly wanted to visit Wet N Wild. There was a all-terrain vehicle activity where you drive through the jungle, over suspension bridges, through large puddles and then down through some of the ancient caves that were formed by a meteorite about 65 million years ago. I imagined us as Indiana Jones adventurers, although that was marred by the incredibly gutless engine on our Polaris. We named her Suzy for her inability to get up hills. At one stage, I thought our mechanic, Perko, might just get out and give the beast a tune up.
We continued through a series of confusing caves with stalactites and stalagmites that got less and less interesting the more we walked. The underground pools in these caves were crystal clear and the whole thing was simply stunning. It was great to see so many people taking in these natural wonders but I couldn’t suppress my concern about how much damage the tourism was doing, and had already done, to the fragile structures.
The most tranquil part was the raft. We were given hand paddles and told to navigate bulky bloody rafts through rather narrow spots. It was tricky with plenty of bumps and I anticipate some chiseled arms soon from the exertion. The atmosphere was tainted only slightly by the continuous flashes of the bloody cameras that left us looking like startled beetles in headlights. The harsh light and direction signs reminded us of our status as lowly tourists, not hardy explorers.
It was a grand day, full of exuberance and contentment at the thought that we were in Mexico and making the most of the sunshine. To top it off we sought more tacos and guacamole. Now, I consider myself a guac connoisseur but the stuff over here is just on another level. The soft tacos on the first night with their delightful soft shell and intriguing spices, left us wondering if we had found our best tacos too early. We are yet to beat those little pockets of joy, but it’s a challenge I will heartily accept.
Today, we’re off fishing. No time for siestas.

P.S. Apologies for the dearth of photos… More soon.

The clouds have been building all afternoon, pushing the blue sky east, to be replaced with ominous, promising patterns of grey. For most in the west, the first rumbly moans from the sky elicit a cheeky hopeful grin. Imaginations slip into eighth gear (imaginations have unlimited gears) and suddenly it seems probably that the dust bowl could be converted into a gushing flash flood. The excitement is akin to the tension the day before a wedding.

But there is one member of this household who thinks that storms are scarier than zombies or centipedes. Scarier, even, than a praying mantis! Poor Boots has no enthusiasm for storms. At the first minor grumble, he quivers, and trots over on his weary legs, eager to be close.

As the crescendo rises, and a roar comes from all sides, he stands up, and occasionally falls over in his quest to be as close as possible. By the time the window is rattling, he has two paws on the bed and I am sincerely wishing we had purchased the thing at the supermarket that promised to make a dog’s breath smell less like a dog’s breath.

This is one of the best things about dogs, they’re brutally honest with their emotions. There is no playing around, pretending they’re not scared when a storm threatens to take a roof off. They show affection without any fear of rejection and suffer rejections with just a large exhale and a bit of alone time.

Best of all, is the excitement they show for those horrid dog biscuits that resemble kangaroo droppings. I’d love for it to be socially acceptable for humans to bounce up and down on springs when presented with a selection of curries or a Mexican feast! Instead, I smile politely and pretend it’s not the highlight of the week.

And then there’s the sex. Just see a specimen you like, run up from behind, and, boom, you’re doing it. Everyone is watching, and you feel like the star player at the Australian Open.

Now, I’m not advocating that humans adopt some of these less-than-civilised activities that our four-legged pals take for granted. But let’s have a think about it. Perhaps we could be a bit more open about our fears and joys – you might just find yourself a thunder buddy to share these things with.

Some things in relationships are inevitable. It is certain that any long-term relationship will include an occasional fart. Another certainty is that you’re not going to always enjoy the other’s hobbies, such as football, for instance. There should always be an element of happiness that is inevitable, and a genuine enjoyment of the other’s company. But just as inescapable as this enjoyment is, there is also the expectation that a certain level of romance that exists in the flickering excitement of the first few months of any courtship will change shape as a relationship evolves.

I have been happily enjoying a life of sin, with the best looking live-in lover one could imagine, for more than a year. It’s been more fun than a slip-and-slide party mixed with a talent quest. And I have never been happier.

Of course, along the way our relationship has taken a meandering path that I will optimistically call a natural evolution. The essence of beans that floated around the car on the way home from a trip to visit my folks a few weeks ago is stinking proof that we are comfortable with each other. It is also proof that my father is evil for feeding beans at every chance before a 13-hour car trip!

We banter over washing up – the most hated chore, and the romantic evenings sitting by the river watching the birds are less frequent. I tolerate his love of cats and occasionally he lets me use the remote. We even shower separately!! And we go fishing.

At times this has led me to undertake the sort of contemplative thought that leaves my partner with a worried look on his face. Too much thinking is frowned upon.

But I have come to recognise that there are much less subtle ways the romance peeks its shy little head up into our existence. My favourite is the towel. It makes my heart sing to step out of the shower and find a fresh towel waiting where the battered, grungy towel had been hanging when I entered the bathroom. There is the bottle of wine at the end of a rough day.

And then there is the day when I come home and the garden has been weeded and the freshly picked vegies are sitting on the bench. Of course, most often I barely see the things that are done for me and continue to hint about much more superficial deeds, such as flowers. Or the bloody washing up.

It’s so easy to pick holes in someone’s behavior when you live such closely entwined lives, but I am learning that the happier option is to search for and wholeheartedly appreciate the simple selfless deeds, the clean towel. Who would have thought a clean linen delivery could bring such happiness?

Last Wednesday night the crowd were all standing around the fire having a few sneaky weeknight beverages while watching a football game that I have no interest in. Just a small bunch of mates chewing the fat, covering topics of international significance, such as what spices were in the rissoles and were ugg boots better than slippers.
Suddenly, the conversation took a more serious tone.
One of my mates, who is most famous for debauchery, unveiled a hidden talent. “Our broccoli is booming,” he suggested, before launching into a detailed explanation of his tomato plant’s prowess since he staked it. His flatmate chimed in to spruik their success with corn. More productive than a caste of worker ants. He was more excited about that corn than he was about the football, but that’s not surprising because he’s a Queenslander and it has not been a fruitful year.
I took his excited tone as my cue to wax lyrical about my oversized zucchini plant and the snow peas that are sweeter than a honey pot.
Without warning our host came from behind to lament the difficulty he was having with his eggplants. No worries at all with any of the herbs. The basil, in particular, was growing faster than the Channel Country pasture after the rains. But the eggplants were a serious bone of contention. He just wanted a few to fill a few layers of lasagna with the fleshy vegie, but he was having no luck at all with the purple fruit. Without any tact, I began describing the ease I was having with my eggplant bush, fruit was busting from the vine as it thrived on neglect.
So there we all were, standing around the fire comparing stories about our vegie patches.
“Remember when we just used to get drunk,” I asked. “Now we’re just talking about our vegie gardens.”
We all chuckled and sheepishly looked at the fire. Were we finally growing up? Were we boring?
Na, no way. There is something incredibly soul enriching to grow your own vegies. Something peaceful, natural about growing something that nourishes you. And it’s bloody convenient to have a few supplies to fall back on when you miss the supermarket’s small-town opening hours.
It was almost a comforting thought, but rather weird to think a sense of maturity may be developing in the crowd. But then I remembered, I’ve been gardening since I first left home, and there was little maturity at that stage of my life. Why should a love of gardening, growing things to eat and look pretty, why should that be a pleasure limited to older people, as stereotypes often suggest?
I reckon we should get amongst it. Let’s have a few drinks, embrace the debauchery and talk about vegies.