The Cleansing
The pure waters of Río Cubuy cascade over boulders as it falls off the steep mountain through channels carved in rock since before the Spaniards had arrived in the late 1400s. It has been flowing for eons, even since before Locuo, son of Yucajú, created the first people, the Taino, at the beginning of creation. It is a holy place, as it should be. Yucajú still lives here in these mountains. He created the sun and the moon and all the birds and animals on earth.
The headwaters of this river start in the clouds which almost always envelops the mountains of El Yunque National Park located on the northeastern side of Puerto Rico. In this tropical rainforest, precipitation often exceeds 200 inches annually, filling the rivers and providing life and rejuvenation to the lush vegetation and all creatures within.
The trail, a few hundred yards long from the road to the river, leads down the mountainside through crowded banana trees, palm trees, and huge ferns. Tiny brown lizards, no longer than a pencil, jump into the brush as I made my way down the slippery path. Bananaquits, small, sparrow-like birds with a yellow breast and a black-crowned head, flit through the canopy, occasionally stopping long enough to call out in a soft, yet high-pitched electric-sounding buzz followed by a few peeps.
The trail ended near a calm pool in the river. This “charco” was about four feet deep at most in the middle and was maybe ten yards in diameter, boulders irregularly bordering the pool with a small waterfall at the upper end. No one was around. Except at the nearby ecolodge in the rainforest, I hadn’t seen anyone on the trails for days. I had the whole forest to myself, it seemed. I stripped off my sweaty clothes and plunged into the charco.
I had gone to Puerto Rico in 2021 just after the height of the COVID pandemic. I was burnt out: burnt out from work; burnt out from helping my dementia-suffering mother; and burnt out from me being not me and doing everything others thought I should be doing. I needed to get out of Dodge, as they say, so I went on a self-imposed psycho-social moratorium. I got a room for five nights at an ecolodge on the “other” side of El Yunque National Park far, far away from the tourist side where I could hike, explore, and write. While I spoke pleasantries to others at the ecolodge and enjoyed morning conversation over the breakfast table, I basically didn’t talk to anyone throughout my days there.
The balcony jutting out from my room provided views of nearby mountain ridges and the upper parts of the forested valley where small sections of the Río Cubuy and several waterfalls along the Río Sabana glistened in the spotty sunlight. Inside I had a bed, a writing table, and two chairs. Every night I kept the doors to the balcony fully open so I could listen to the sounds of the rainforest – especially that of the Coquí, a tiny treefrog no larger than the end of my thumb, which loudly and endlessly calls out “coquí! coquí!” - and I’d sit at the desk with a cup of tea and write my thoughts and the events of the day in my journal.
Daily, I explored a trail or two in the rainforest, finding even more lizards, land snails with shells the size of my palms, an occasional mongoose crossing the trail, and lush green vegetation that shaded my skin from the sun if it wasn’t already blocked out by rain clouds.
In one of the versions of the Taino creation story – the version I prefer, Mother-Creator Atabei had two sons, Yucajú and Guacar. Yucajú created the beautiful earth and heavens. His brother, Guacar, who changed his name to Juracán (where we get the word “hurricane”), was envious of Yucajú and what he had created, so Juracán tried to destroy his brother’s creation by sending earthquakes and destructive storms. Today, the mountain El Yunque (some believe this Spanish-derived name to be a corruption of Yucajú), is where Yucajú lives. He is still protecting the island and its people from Juracán.
At first the water in the charco felt cold compared to the stifling heat and humidity of the afternoon air. Then Yucajú’s water just felt good. I plunged myself a second time into the charco and swam underwater a few yards before sitting on the bottom of the pool leaving only my neck and head above the water. I didn’t think of anything that I remember of that moment except that I was present – present in the healing and protection of Yucajú. A couple brilliant white clouds held up the cerulean sky. Jungle-like trees with thick, waxy, verdant leaves and the brushy understory of the rainforest surround the charco. The ever-present chatter of Bananaquits filled the air.
As I left the charco to dry on a riverside boulder, the water fell off me taking with it every burden and every expectation of others from me, leaving me as solely me. I was cleansed in the waters of El Yunque. Yucajú is alive and well.
As I am now.
