Yucatan: Honeymoon at the Garbage Dump

Chapter 3

Hello! This is The Accidental Birder, an illustrated memoir where travel, birds, and love converge into illustrated essays. If you missed previous chapters, you can start from the beginning here.

Driving around a garbage dump in Celestun, Mexico wasn’t how I imagined my honeymoon. My new husband inched along a narrow gravel road, tires crunching as we navigated between mounds of debris. I sat in the back while a local bird guide, hired by Steve, scanned the terrain, looking for what he called an “uncommon” bird.

“It’s rare?” I asked.

“No, that’s different. Uncommon means it’s not frequently seen. It’s harder to find,” Steve explained.

We were looking for the Lesser Yellow-headed Vulture, which, unlike the scavengers circling highways and cities, thrives in swamps and savannahs. And, as it turns out, garbage dumps.

I sat upright, faking attentiveness, nodding as if I were engaged. But my mind was elsewhere, tangled in the impossible task of figuring out how I’d explain to my girlfriends back home that this—this—was my honeymoon.

There were clues, perhaps, leading up to this moment. On our first Christmas together, while we were dating, Steve proudly pounded two shepherd’s hooks into the frozen ground of my backyard and hung bird feeders, brimming with seed.

“Merry Christmas, sweetie!” he called, grinning through the kitchen window. The next morning, I unwrapped Part 2 of his gift: Golden Field Guide: A Guide to Field Identification Birds of North America.

“I noticed you didn’t have a bird field guide. Now you do!”

I smiled, thanked him, and hugged him, hoping he didn’t see the disappointment I felt inside. Back in the ’90s, I had read The Rules, a wildly popular (and possibly misguided) book that insisted a man who wasn’t showering you with romantic gifts simply wasn’t that into you. I had picked it up in my twenties, expecting to scoff at its premise. Surely, by then, women had outgrown the need for calculated dating tactics. Yet, as I flipped through the pages, I found myself questioning whether its advice held some truth. Somehow, its message wired itself into me, lingering for the next twenty years. So, standing there with the field guide in hand, looking out at the new setup in my yard, I couldn't shake the feeling I’d hit a dead end.

I expected nothing from the seed feeders and field guide. But within days, birds filled my backyard. When spring arrived, Steve’s gift opened my eyes to the quiet spectacle unfolding right outside my door. Goldfinches, with their flashes of gold. Scrub Jays, streaked in sapphire. Western Tanagers, shimmering like tiny jewels. My own backyard gems. I surprised myself, flipping through the pages of the field guide so I could understand what I was seeing. It seems I had tossed out The Rules and replaced it with this bird field guide instead.

Before Steve, my travels were mostly for work. They took me to polished hotels and resorts where everything was planned, crisp, and tidy. A guidebook was always in my bag, steering me to the “best places to eat” and “must-see attractions.” When Steve entered my life, he pulled me into a world where discovery unfolded on its own terms.

Our regular trips to Antelope Island in Utah taught me to see, not just birds, but this new man in my life. In Toronto, while meeting his family, a flash of red caught my eye: my first Northern Cardinal. By the time Steve moved to Calgary for work, I had learned to watch more closely. There, the Stellar’s Jay captivated me. Dapper, brilliant, impossible to ignore.

We rendezvoused in Costa Rica where we stood for four hours on a crowded bus to the Pacific Coast, unaware that tickets had to be purchased in advance. I was used to reservations, confirmations, smooth rides where the only surprise was the choice of radio station. Not like this. The man who I thought was a great planner, writing our Scotland itinerary on a table napkin when we first met, didn’t plan the way I did. His version leaned toward impulse, chance, and a belief that things would work out.

None of that mattered when he took my hand and led me into the dense Costa Rican forest, where fan-like palms, twisted ficus, and glossy zapote surrounded us. As welcome breezes rustled the leaves like whispering wind chimes, we searched for birds I had never seen before.

That day in Costa Rica was just the beginning. Over two years, my ability to identify more birds grew and I discovered a new way to travel. I was also falling deeper in love.

At 42, after years of believing I would never find the right man, I was finally getting married. Steve and I exchanged vows in April, two years after I had flown to Scotland to meet him in person. It was the peak of spring migration, which might have been his plan all along. A quiet strategy to shape our anniversaries around the season, ensuring each year we’d travel to places where birds were on the move.

“Let me focus on the wedding and you can organize the honeymoon,” I had told Steve. It seemed like a reasonable division of responsibilities. Caught up in wedding details, I barely noticed when he first mentioned “two packed weeks of birding” as part of the honeymoon. I should have paid closer attention.

Following the festivities—the laughter, the embraces, and the amazing coconut cake—I could, at last, relax. From the airplane window, I gazed down at Cancun’s shoreline, where turquoise waters melted seamlessly into the deeper blues of the Caribbean. In mere moments, we would be walking that beach, watching fiery sunsets, and savoring ceviche, guacamole, and tacos, all while losing ourselves in each other’s eyes.

Finally—two weeks in Mexico, I thought, picturing slow mornings and long afternoons checking off the sights outlined in my Fodor’s book. Flipping through its pages, I felt the pull of possibility—this book promised so much. I wanted to do it all.

As we stepped into the swirling confusion of the airport, excitement tangled with disorientation. A mariachi band played vibrantly, its music filling the air as travelers abandoned the weight of home for days or weeks of indulgence, sun, and a world where time loosens its grip. People pushed carts of stacked suitcases, dodging their way through the crowd. From every direction, men asked if we needed a taxi, their eager pitches echoing what my travel guidebook had warned: “Would you like to come to our time-share presentation?"

Already, I felt unmoored. I squeezed Steve’s hand tighter, afraid we might lose each other in the steady flow of travelers pushing ahead.

The first day of our honeymoon unfolded exactly as I had imagined—basking on Cancun’s white sand and the sun wrapping us in warmth. The rhythm of the waves pulled me into relaxation. Later, we soared over the ocean while parasailing, the coastline stretching endlessly below, before drifting lazily in the hotel pool.

By evening, we collapsed on the bed, exhausted. My skin was sunburnt, but if that was the worst thing to come of this honeymoon, I could live with it. Still, as the excitement of the day settled, I was aware that our time together was fleeting. After two years of long-distance dating and engagement, these precious weeks were all we had before stepping into the unsettling reality of a long-distance marriage. My chest began to tighten, and I turned toward my new husband.

Steve had his nose buried in Birds of Mexico and Central America, reading it like a novel. To me, field guides felt like encyclopedias—no plot, just color illustrations, species classifications, and a paragraph detailing each bird’s unique traits, accompanied by a small range map. To Steve, though, the book was filled with possibility—an invitation to adventure, discovery, and the kind of earnest fascination that made him who he was.

I scooted closer, resting my head on his chest.

“Tomorrow, we have to get up at 5:30,” he said. “We’re meeting our guide and then driving a bit to the birding spot. You okay with that?”

“Why so early?”

“We need to get an early start. By noon it’s too hot and birds disappear to take their siesta.”

Steve shaped our honeymoon more around his bird field guide than any travel book, which is why, on our second morning, the alarm jolted us awake while the sky was still steeped in night.

We quickly showered, dressed in drab khaki long pants and long-sleeved shirts in preparation for mosquitoes and walking through the tropical jungle. Still sluggish, I fumbled for our water bottles and granola bars. Outside, Cancun’s streets stretched quiet and empty in the morning hush.

After a 30-minute drive to the outskirts of Cancun, we met our bird guide at the jungle’s edge, where the early morning air hung thick and damp. Stepping into the dense greenery, we were enveloped by towering kapok trees and a tangle of palms, their fronds filtering the slivers of morning light. Steve was already scanning the canopy, eager for movement, while I adjusted my backpack, still shaking off my grogginess.

Within minutes, we spotted birds I had never seen before. Steve lit up at the sight of a Squirrel Cuckoo, its long tail flicking as it darted between branches. A Ruddy Ground Dove and a White-tipped Dove looked identical to me until he pointed out their differences in his field guide. The Cinnamon Hummingbird shimmered in the morning light, its feathers exactly the color of the spice. Brilliant warblers flitted through the canopy, while fiery orioles lingered just long enough for us to marvel before vanishing into the jungle cover.

For three days, we settled into a familiar routine. Early mornings of birding, then returning to the hotel, clothes drenched in sweat, hiking boots caked in dirt. Each afternoon, as we walked to our room, bronzed guests in swimsuits strolled past, drinks in one hand, novels in the other, headed for the pool or a massage. The scent of cocoa butter trailed behind them, while we carried the lingering smell of exhaustion and DEET.

A few days later, we arrived at Chichen Itza, one of the largest Mayan cities, its famed four-sided pyramid rising above the ruins. Steve had booked us two nights at Hacienda Chichen, and as we drove up the long driveway lined with royal palms, I felt glamorous—like I had stepped straight into the cover of a guidebook. This was the kind of travel I had spent years perfecting—the curated version, where destinations aligned with glossy recommendations and every moment felt like a postcard. The hacienda, with its sunlit courtyards and bougainvillea spilling over terra-cotta pots, fit seamlessly into that world. I relaxed into its familiarity.

We explored the ruins early the next morning, wandering through the vast grounds before the buses arrived. But as the day trippers caught up to us, I kept to the quieter corners—the places untouched by the steady flow of tourists. Something about the hush of the jungle lingered in my mind, though I couldn't quite place why.

“We need to get up at 3:30 tomorrow and be on the road by 4:00,” Steve said as we left.

“Seriously?” I asked. But secretly, I was relieved to escape crowds, even if it meant sacrificing sleep.

At 3:30 a.m., the alarm shattered the stillness, dragging us from sleep. Groggy, we dressed in the dark, threw our bags together, and stepped into the humid night. By 4:00, we were on the road, driving two and a half hours north to Rio Lagartos, a fishing village at the tip of the Yucatán Peninsula where American Flamingos nest.

Steve had arranged for another guide who led us on hikes through marshes, deciduous scrub, and mangroves. The air was dense with humidity and I soon slowed down to a measured, deliberate pace. I stopped short at the edge of a fractured footbridge, the gap yawning before me. A single 4x4 plank stretched across the gap, its surface worn from years of use. The dilapidated plank barely spanned the width of my shoe. I could stand on it, but I didn’t feel steady. If I wanted to reach the other side, I had no choice but to trust it.

Seeing my hesitation, our guide reassured me. “It’s okay, just be careful. I promise it will be worth it when we get there.”

I gripped the handrail, a bare tree branch, and stepped forward, balancing carefully. My guidebook, left back at the hacienda, had promised mapped-out adventures and well-planned itineraries. Yet here I was, balancing on a worn plank, suspended between uncertainty and trust—no guarantees, only movement. I grasped the slick rail, the humid air thick in my throat, and the sharp scent of earth rising as I stepped forward, unsure but moving anyway.

We arrived at an opening and our guide pointed up to a leafless tree with its buttressed trunk and straggly branches. In their nest of twigs, two juvenile Jabiru Storks stood—gangly, prehistoric-looking. They flapped their wings, testing the air.

“They’re learning how to fly,” our guide told us.

I held my breath. The sheer scale of them was mesmerizing. Tall as a child, their spindly legs looked precarious yet powerful. For a long time, we just watched, caught in the fragile magic of that moment. I had only been married for days now, still learning how to step forward into something unknown. I watched the storks flap—tentative, unsure—like me on that bridge. Learning, adjusting, trusting that the next step, however uncertain, would hold.

Celestún, our final stop, lay along the Gulf of Mexico, surrounded by wetlands rich with birdlife. Steve had arranged another local bird guide for a day. When a Zone-tailed Hawk—a new lifer for Steve—cut across the sky, his excitement was palpable. We walked along the beach spotting shorebirds, wintering terns and gulls. Then, just as the day was winding down, the guide had one last stop for us: the garbage dump in search of the Lesser Yellow-headed Vulture.

Rubbish was piled high everywhere, making the search challenging. Steve occasionally stopped to scan with the guide, both lifting their binoculars.

Gulls swooped in and out foraging on the assortment of rotting food, diapers and waste. Several White Ibis tiptoed atop piles of discarded crab shells, poking their long, curved bills into the trash.

We kept the windows up to shut out the rancid fumes, but it didn’t help. Amid heaps of plastic bags, shattered glass, and splintered plywood lay the decomposing remains of a small dog, its body crumpled and lifeless. I held a bandana over my nose and put my other hand to the side of my face, trying to block the view, as if not seeing it would make it go away.

This was a honeymoon story no travel guide would ever mention.

We finished driving through the dump but the vulture was nowhere to be found. I exhaled, relieved. Steve asked, “Should we go around again?”

“Yes,” our guide said. “I know we will find it.”

I leaned back, drained, the sheer absurdity of the situation settling over me. Steve drove even slower, stopping to give our guide more time to survey the area. Heat pressed against the car windows, heavy and suffocating, amplifying the weight of the scene outside. Piles of refuse, scattered limbs of broken furniture, and the occasional flutter of wings over decay. I tightened my grip on the bandana, its fabric damp against my fingers. I shut my eyes, as if closing them could erase the moment entirely.

“There!” our guide shouted. He pointed and Steve lifted his binoculars, took a moment, and confirmed, “Yes!”

“Can you see it?” they both asked me in unison.

Steve pressed a button, lowering my window for a clearer view. The stench rushed in, acrid and overwhelming. He pointed and I traced his outstretched hand to the heap beyond.

The vulture sat on a pile of garbage, scanning the wreckage for its next meal or lingering in the slow labor of digestion. I fumbled with the binoculars, still learning the trick of steady hands and quick focus. Then, suddenly, it appeared. Its face looked like a canvas streaked with bold strokes of yellow and red. Deliberate. Artful. Perched above the wreckage, the bird exuded a quiet majesty—unbothered, as if the ruins themselves paid tribute.

“Can you see it?” Steve repeated.

“Yes!” I said and smiled.

I had forgotten about the trash surrounding us. The glossy itineraries and postcard-perfect escapes felt worlds away. I again looked through my binoculars at the vulture. I saw it clearly. Our uncommon honeymoon, our uncommon marriage, our uncommon life—it wouldn’t be neatly packaged in a guidebook. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be extraordinary.

A version of this essay, Honeymoon at the Garbage Dump, won a 2023 Solas Award Best Travel Writing Silver in the Love Story category.