Mudbaths of Tintamarre

Friend of IT Elizabeth Seward had high hopes for the magical mud of Tintamarre.

I'm on a boat that's bouncing fiercely, and in an effort to ignore my rare and yet steadily approaching queasiness, I'm passing comforting glances at my friend, Heather, who is sitting across from me with her eyes tightly squeezed shut, looking like she's about to faint. I'm trying to remind her telepathically that this will all be worth it for the mud bathing we're about to engage in. The ride to the island of Tintamarre, just off the northeast coast of the Dutch/French island of St. Maarten/St. Martin, is not usually this rough, I'm told. But we were all grateful to wade through the warm teal waters to Tintamarre's shores once we were close enough to slide down the boat's ladder.

A few of us made it to the beach to retrieve a beer (it may have been before 11 a.m. in the Caribbean, but it was 5 p.m. somewhere, right?) and bring it back into the water. While our guides went off into the island's shrubbery, instructing us to "chill by the beach," I floated in the ocean on my back, mesmerized by the clouds for what seemed like much longer than the fifteen minutes it probably was. Rolling onto my belly and then sluggishly onto my feet, I noticed a cave in the distance and before I could finish formulating my plans on how and when to explore it, our guides returned with the magical mud. And now it was time to bathe in it.

I was crossing my fingers that this mud, its magic cited as a result of a mixture of volcanic ash and minerals, would add some youth to my skin. And maybe give me wings. I'm an all-or-nothing kind of believer. We walked over to a clearing and started slathering the light brown paste all over our bodies. It suddenly felt fated that I'd thrown my brown bikini into my luggage for this trip. Within minutes the mud began to harden. My fairytale-leaning tendencies aside, what I logically expected was that the mud would harden, just like ordinary mud, and that it would feel good to wash it off, as it would with any ordinary mud. Surprisingly, the end result was much different than the "thank goodness I can get this mud off of me" feeling I'd anticipated. This mud was indeed different. My skin felt like pure silk. Melted butter. Melted butter on mashed potatoes, perhaps.

It felt so good that I wanted to embarrassingly invite the others to touch me, but I knew they were experiencing the same sensations I was--because they too were raving unstoppably about it. It didn't last all day, but it did last for a few hours, and to me, that's about as good as wings.

Before the boat sailed off, I ran over to my newly adopted cave, eager to claim it as mine. I marked it with a picture and climbed up the boat's ladder, equipped with Dramamine this time around as to not be defeated by choppy waves. Heather took some, too.

We set sail for Pinel Island where I baked under the sun, beer in hand, exactly the way it happens in commercials. The final leg of our water journey left us snorkeling after having eaten authentic barbecue at Lolo's BBQ in Grand Case on the island's French side where I had my first (and second) johnnycake--a buttery and flaky bread. While I was snorkeling, a turquoise, silver, and purple fish swam in front of me, not at all moved by my presence. Shortly later, I learned that it was a pirate fish swimming there in the Caribbean and a certain movie came to mind.

Back in my room at Sonesta Great Bay Resort that evening, something was different about my reflection. Did I get some sun? Or had the mud bath actually taken off some years from my mug? Giving into my wildly imaginative side, I deemed the mud responsible for the reflected youthfulness, which is all but gone now that I've been back in New York City for a couple of weeks, but hey, it was there. Rumor on the island has it that the mud baths might not stay open forever, so schedule in your time to experience this natural healing treatment before it's too late.

Photos: Elizabeth Seward

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