A Tangerine in Xcalak

By Alonso I. Rodríguez de la Parra, explorer and documentarian

You must always keep working even when the ending is uncertain, even when we don't know where things will end up or how they will unfold.

Today I find myself walking along the shore, alone; it seems even my thoughts aren't keeping me company. I can't quite say I'm confused, but I don't feel that what I came here to do has any concrete final direction either. Over the past year I've ventured many times to this strip of sand in the Mexican southeast. I'm in Xcalak once more, searching for a story to discover. I know I want to document the manatees and show the world the wonders of this species, but I want to do it in an original way. Of course, I've always loved art, and I've loved expressing my own point of view in different ways. Unlike many, I try to do what truly comes from within me, not just a rehash of what already exists. Although there are few documentaries about Xcalak and the manatees, the ones that exist are very similar and cover the same subjects: the hurricanes, the "forgotten" town of the southeast, the manatees, what they eat, where they move, and so on. I think all of this can be learned just by doing a Google search and asking a few people who know the place. So I refuse to tell this story without truly feeling the place: without knowing those who live there, seeing what happens in my dreams while I'm there, eating at the different local spots (though there are very few).

I look toward the white foam of the waves as they break against this little strip that my eyes can make out of the immense Mesoamerican Reef. The harder I try to focus on finding the answers to decipher this story in my head, the less I can stop contemplating the simple beauty of what's happening around me. Although the smell of sargassum isn't very pleasant, with time it stops being so unsettling. In fact, that smell helped me identify the other smells around me more easily; it's as if it created a baseline that made everything else shine. I keep trying to concentrate and keep getting distracted; a bird sings atop a palm tree full of coconuts — huge, green, and juicy. How delicious! I can't stop thinking that now I'm hungry. I realize I've gotten distracted again and go back to searching in my head. I focus on my mission, but no matter how hard I look, I realize something is missing. I know the history of the place, and the people still living there; of those who have died I've heard many stories — famous fishermen, elders who were children when the hurricane razed this town many years ago. The names of the dive sites and the stories behind them, the drone shots of every corner, street, façade, stone, and shell that wanders through this beautiful and faraway town that, in its remoteness, has found a beauty so unique compared to the other coastal communities I've visited; the natural events that happen cyclically, the snapper's descent to the sea when it leaves the estuary and the whole town gathers to fish from the pier. Without a doubt, coming to this town as an observer has been an adventure full of lessons. I have spectacular shots of the manatees, of the fish, of the most spectacular dive sites I've ever known. Without a doubt, this place is my favorite. So I don't understand why I can't conclude and bring closure to this in my head.

Many of the things I've done in my life — and that we do in life — are done because, in some way, we know or can picture where they'll end up. The truth is that otherwise, we wouldn't do them. Few truly venture into the unknown, into starting something without knowing where it will end. But I have no doubt that they are the happiest. The ones who learn the most, feel the most, suffer the most — but in the end the reward is far greater. Life itself works this way: even when we plan everything, it takes unexpected turns and we must adapt. But it's very easy to write if you already know how it will end; it's easier to take a photo if you already know how you want it to come out. In nature photography, this is impossible. Pity the one who got the photo he imagined in nature and not the one nature allowed him. In life we tend to take few risks and settle for what there is, for everything in this life is a gift — but the best gifts are always in the hardest places to reach. For this occasion, I decided not to think about how I would begin this documentary or how I would end it until I had filmed everything, known everything, but more importantly, lived and felt everything.

As I listened to the whistle of the wind and realized I was once again pondering the immortality of the crab — lost in idle daydreams — I pulled a tangerine from my fanny pack, began to peel it, and realized that time is infinite. My mind wandered off again, and as I peeled this orange, delicious tangerine — tearing off a little piece of peel — it released a citrus aroma that made my mouth water. Do you know how hard it is to get a tangerine in Xcalak? In my experience, I can tell you it's easier to come across a jaguar or a manatee than to come across a tangerine. This little one had traveled in my backpack by mistake all the way from Mexico City. Time flies when you're alone; thousands of thoughts cross my mind and I still haven't finished peeling this tangerine. Ups and downs run through my head, as if everything good and everything bad I think lived simultaneously inside me. As far as I can tell, I'm trying to meditate — while I peel a tangerine, while my head is a beautiful chaos and my emotions are the strangest in that moment. A fish in the distance glints and once again steals my attention out at sea.

The colors of the water in this place are so particular; they don't compare to the colors of other places in the Caribbean. They shift through different shades of blue, greens, browns, and oranges — all on one canvas of perfect harmony. Underwater, even more colors stand out: many shades of purple, red, pink, and others paint the reef hidden beneath the waters, which are almost always warm. Today the day is calm, though you can see there's good swell beyond the protection of the reef. Because of this place's geography, the weather is very hard to predict, and, truth be told, as beautiful as it is, it can swing to the other extreme. There are days of relentless winds, gusts, rain, and thunder that, if you're unlucky, will make you never want to come back. Spending so much time here has given me a very complete perspective of this place — and of my own head: the weather here can't be controlled either, and when the forecast paints a sunny day, the wind and the clouds arrive to show me I was wrong.

I come back to my hands and realize I'm about to finish peeling this tangerine — so juicy that all I crave is to put it in my mouth and take a huge bite that fills it with juice. The heat is harsh, though gusts of wind arrive that make each passing one very welcome. Today the sun looks bigger than usual; it's powerful, and when there's no wind the heat ripples, distorting my vision and creating a very particular effect in the space I observe. What am I going to do with all this material? How am I going to edit it? What am I editing it for? Why am I doing this? Will anyone even care? Am I doing it for my own ego? Am I doing it because I don't really know what to do? Am I running from something? Am I trying to make something meaningful? Will this really help the species? Is it really what this place needs? Will we keep referring to this place as the forgotten town of the Mexican southeast, or is it the place with the most opportunity for the natural world and for people to live in harmony? What on earth am I doing? Possibly all of these are true at the same time. Only time will tell; I know I must be patient.

The vibe of Xcalak — Alonso I. Rodríguez de la Parra

Just then, a huge coconut falls from the palm that had been shielding me from the sun when I decided to take cover in its shade. I came very close to joining the percentage of people who die from a coconut falling on their heads — more likely than dying from a shark attack, even though I've had hundreds of encounters with sharks. The irony! A damn coconut nearly killed me, all for wanting to make a manatee documentary that very few will probably ever see…

In that moment, full of relief to be alive, I'm about to bite into my tangerine, but a couple of children's laughs distract me; they throw a branch and it lands very close to me. If it wasn't the coconut, the children were going to get me. Laughing, I shout at them (in a teasing tone) that they nearly killed me, and I burst out laughing. They laugh too and come over to the shade where I was sheltering. One of them asks what I have in my hand, and I tell him it's a tangerine I've just finished peeling. He tells me he had never seen a tangerine. I decided to give him the very tangerine I had so wanted to eat, and in the blink of an eye, everything made sense. The things I work on are not for me. What does it matter if I'm judged? What does it matter if I get no validation? What does it matter if no one sees it? I have to share this with others so the reward isn't mine alone — so the reward is shared. So that what I do finds its victory in the work of others. Because in the end that's what we are; we are not the sardine swimming in the ocean — we are the whole school.

A few days after I returned from this visit to my favorite place on the planet, I sat at my desk at home and shared images and videos I had promised not to reveal until I finished my own work, and they found their place in the work of others; in books that fill me with joy and that, for me, are an honor to see my work in. These images became the school and stopped being merely a sardine.