One of my favorite adventures took place in Mexico, just after I had found out that I was pregnant with Will. I was about six weeks along, and nervous about everything. We had planned the trip long before I knew I would be pregnant, and I wasn't that thrilled about being there. We had been all over Mexico during previous vacations, but this was the first time that I would be there, you know, growing a fetus. For the first time, dangers abounded! I couldn't drink icy cold cervesas on the beach, I worried about all of the unpasteurized cheeses I was probably consuming, diesel fumes were omnipresent (unlike seat belts), the gardener outside of one of our hotels sprayed large amounts of pesticides on the grounds outside of our window every night, and did I mention the possibility of malaria? Don't even get me started on the ice in my soda.
So, I was clearly a bit of a pill. To make matters worse, this was the trip that I had finally given in and promised N. that we would swim in a cenote. The Yucatan Peninsula is limestone, which is soft and porous, resulting in a huge series of underground rivers, caves or lacunae, tunnels and sinkholes, connecting throughout the peninsula and leading to the ocean. There are thousands of cenotes on the peninsula and N. had wanted to swim in one for years. I am claustrophobic and also not that thrilled about swimming in the ocean, so you can imagine how I resisted combining the two by snorkeling in an underground cave, in the dark. Call me crazy, but it didn't really sound like my idea of a good time.
I had promised to try it though, so early one morning we drove to meet our guide. After getting outfitted with wetsuits and snorkeling gear, we drove in an old, open-topped jeep through the jungle for about 20 minutes. 20 minutes of bone jarring, up and down bumps on an overgrown dirt track in a car with no suspension or remaining shocks. Did I mention I had morning sickness?
We finally arrived, and saw a hole in the ground with a makeshift ladder poking up through the top. I knew this trip was going to be a challenge for me, but I didn't realize that it was going to start with mustering up the courage to descend a rickety rope ladder into a black underground pit. I had envisioned entering the cenote through a cave, possibly because I didn't realize that cenote actually means sinkhole. There are times when having your husband translate for you is a disadvantage. However, I swallowed my fear and followed N. and the rest of the group underground.
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized that we were in an enormous cavern. A few lights had been strung up near the ladder so were weren't in total darkness. It had the unsettling effect of amplifying the inky blackness beyond the reach of the feeble lights, exponentially increasing the unlikeliness of me actually going in the water. Our guide could probably smell my fear, or maybe he just heard the tiny, involuntary whimpers I was making, but either way, he knew he had a problem on his hands. The rest of our small group waded into the water and started to snorkel, while N., the guide and I remained on the rocks.
Normally I am highly susceptible to peer pressure. If everybody else is doing it I would assume that it was safe for me to do too. This was not one of those situations. I was shivering with fear; teeth chattering, voice quavery, on the edge of tears and hysteria. The guide tried to pique my interest by describing how fascinating the fish and other sea creatures are, because they are pale white and blind, due to the fact that they live in almost total darkness. This did not make me feel better. In fact, I had not even thought of the possibility that any sort of fish would be in these waters. I thought we would be snorkeling to see the amazing cave formations under the water. Now (potentially giant) creepily white, blind creatures, most likely with enormous and sharp teeth would be swimming in the water with me. And I wouldn't be able to see them until they got really, really close, due to the impenetrable darkness.
I decided a quick exit would be best for everyone, and started back up the ladder. N. followed me up to the open air, and tried to convince me that this was going to be the experience of a lifetime. I can't remember what he said, but somehow he got me to climb back down into that pit, and the guide got me into the water. I swam right next to him, in fact, he allowed me to hold onto the belt of his wetsuit when I felt like I was going to hyperventilate with fear, which was at least three quarters of the time.
The result WAS the experience of a lifetime for me, but not for the reasons N. thought it would be. The cenote was pretty cool, and the creepy, pale fish were kind of amazing, but to be honest, four years later I hardly remember what it looked like. The jeep ride to the cenote is more clear in my mind than the 45 minutes we spent snorkeling. What made it a life changing experience was the fact that I was able to conquer an absolutely paralyzing fear. I just decided that I had to do it. All of those other people were down there, swimming away, and there was no rational reason why I couldn't do it too. I was scared out of my mind the entire time I was in the water, but I still did it. I can't tell you how much confidence that silly little act has given me since.
I have thought about it countless times. Whenever I am afraid to do something, I think, "You swam in an UNDERGROUND CAVE with blind but possibly man-eating fish, in the DARK! You can do this!" I am not joking when I say that thinking of this has helped me deal with a serious fear of public speaking (which I have to do for my job fairly often), not to mention given me the courage to approach other moms at the park.
This is all a very long set-up for my review of The Lacuna, by Barbara Kingsolver. There was so much about this book that I loved. The first two thirds of the book were amazing. It fell apart for me a bit in the end, but the ride was worth it. In brief, The Lacuna is the story of the life of William Harrison Shepherd, the son of a divorced American father and Mexican mother, who grows up in Mexico during the 1930s, and then spends his adulthood in American during and directly after World War II. His mother moves him around Mexico until they settle in Mexico City. He falls into the household of Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo and works for them as a servant for years. In their home he becomes the secretary to Leon Trotsky. He moves back to America and becomes a beloved and famous author of novels. The book is structured entirely through letters, journal entries, news clippings and the like, which was less annoying and jarring than I expected.
Kingsolver does a terrific job writing about Mexico, and a surprisingly believable job writing about the Kahlo/Rivera household. Frida Kahlo in particular comes alive in this novel, as does Trotsky. You feel like you understand not only the small details of their lives and households, but also their ideas and dreams. This part of the book could come off like a tedious history lesson, but it doesn't. Kingsolver manages to both teach and inform while at the same time paint a fascinating and realistic picture of some incredibly iconic and misunderstood individuals.
The middle third of the book focuses on life in the Kahlo/Rivera household, particularly life with Trotsky. It is here that Kingsolver begins to lay the groundwork for her major theme of the novel; how public opinion can shape and destroy a life. She does this brilliantly using Trotsky, less compellingly using Rivera and Kahlo, and in my opinion, poorly using Shepard.
Even though Shepherd is the narrator and protagonist of the novel, I felt like he turned into an afterthought as the book progressed. He became just a vehicle for Kingsolver to move forward the central themes, not a believable person. Shepard had a definite personality as a teenager and young adult; a little shy, but yet daring, he flouted authority, and he recorded everything around him with a dry, droll wit. He made things happen in his life. Much of what he recorded was about other people and the things they did, but he was still interesting and active himself. But in the last third of the book, after he leaves Mexico, he is portrayed almost as a different person. He becomes beyond passive, a recluse. Even though big things are happening all around him, and eventually to him, the story is told in such an impassive tone that the reader starts to lose interest.
Which is really too bad. I found the theme of how public opinion can shape a life a fascinating one, and I thought Kingsolver illustrated it perfectly in her writing about Trotsky. That section of the book was compelling, thought provoking and just a good read. But the same theme as applied to Shepherd, turned into a didactic and boring story. I felt like I was reading Ayn Rand in some passages. Clearly Kingsolver feels very strongly about the issue of privacy, and separating the art from the artist, and the intrusion of public opinion into private life. All great issues for a novel, but less interesting when they become the sole focus of the work, and the humanity of the characters is lost.
Shepard becomes completely paralyzed by the attention he receives as an author, both the good and the bad. He can't leave the house, he has no friends, and communicates in person only with his secretary and his attorney. There is almost nothing left of the brave boy and intrepid young man at this point. When his life is nearly destroyed (in part through his passivity), he returns to Mexico. The story begins and ends with Shepard facing his fears at a lacuna, which while a fairly predictable metaphor, felt believable and right for him. Despite the flaws of the novel, I recommend it. Much of it is the kind of book that you just sink into and become totally immersed in the time period. I felt like I had to claw my way back to 2010 whenever I stopped reading. I definitely made me long for a trip to Mexico, although I will probably forgo the cenote next time.
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Posted by: オテモヤン | March 27, 2010 at 05:55 PM