Imagine it’s 1995 in Miami. The sun is setting, casting that beautiful, hazy orange glow over everything, the kind that makes the city look like it’s on fire. I’m driving west down NW 36th Street, heading into the heart of Miami’s neighborhoods, the streets a patchwork of sounds, smells, and people congregating at the ventanitas that serve Cuban coffee shots. As I turn south on Northwest 27th Avenue, I merge onto the bridge, and that’s when I see him.
At first, it’s hard to make sense of what I’m looking at. A man stands on the right side of the road, entirely covered in mud, clutching something massive in his arms. I slow down, as does everyone else, and through my passenger window, I get a good look. The man—mud dripping from his face, caked to his boxers—is holding a giant iguana in an embrace. It’s a wild, surreal sight, and I murmur to myself, “Oh, shit… That looks like my fucking uncle.”
Yep, you heard right—my uncle. Untamed, raw, a force of nature in his own right. Growing up, I’d always thought I was different from him, like I didn’t carry that same streak of wildness. But maybe, and perhaps, deep, deep… deep down, a part of that untamed spirit lived in me too.
I kept on driving, that image stuck in my mind. Later that day, he told me the whole story over a pack of Camel cigarettes.
It all started when he was crossing the Miami River with his buddy, Beto. They were cruising along, not a care in the world, when my uncle spotted it—an enormous and delicious iguana sunbathing on the top of a tree branch that hung over the water, a prize if there ever was one. Without a second thought, he yelled for Beto to pull over, and they quietly parked by a park. My uncle, always one to follow his instincts, walked nonchalantly around under the bridge, stripped off his boxers and waded into the mud-slicked river, determined to catch that iguana. What he hadn’t counted on was how much of the “water” was actually thick, sticky mud.
When he was in position, he signaled to Beto, motioning for him to scare the iguana out of the tree. Beto did as told, and in a flash, the creature leapt from the branch with jaws wide, sharp white teeth flashing, diving straight at my uncle’s head. My uncle caught it mid-air, but the iguana was so big and powerful that it pulled him under, sinking him deeper into the muck as they wrestled, man and beast locked in a muddy struggle.
The commotion must have looked insane to anyone nearby. Sure enough, a neighbor from a retirement home had seen the whole scene and called the cops. By the time my uncle stumbled out of the muck, victorious, the police were waiting for him.
He stood there, mud-caked, leeches clinging to his skin, and the officers, unsure how to react, finally asked what he planned to do with the iguana.
“I’m going to eat it,” my uncle replied, dead serious.
The officers exchanged glances. One of them commented that he’d heard iguana meat was a delicacy in some parts, but they urged my uncle to let the creature go, explaining that the locals had a certain fondness for the iguanas. Reluctantly, he released it, watching as it slipped back into the water, like a small, scaly alligator.
“Thank you sir, you can go home now.” One of the officers said.
The officers, still standing by the bridge, watch my uncle as he begins to move away, but their attention is drawn to something that wasn’t there before. A subtle glint of red. It’s small at first, just a trickle, but it’s enough for them to notice.
“Sir, there’s blood on your body,” one of the officers calls out, his tone more urgent now. “There’s a little bit of blood coming out of you. What’s going on?”
Before my uncle can even respond, his friend Beto, who has been standing off to the side watching the scene unfold, suddenly points at my uncle’s back. “Hey, Salvador! You have leeches on your body!”
Leeches? My uncle freezes mid-step, his brow furrowing as the realization hits him. He looks down at his arms, at his legs, at his back—and that’s when he sees them. These enormous, thick leeches, clinging to his body like silent, insidious parasites. They’re long—three to four inches at least—and their bodies are bloated, swollen with the blood they’ve been sucking out of him. They’re everywhere. His arms, his sides, his legs.
The officers step back a bit, their faces twisting in both shock and discomfort. “You’ve got to get those off,” one of them says, his voice now full of concern. “You’re going to get sick from that. You need to wash yourself immediately before you get an infection.”
But my uncle doesn’t seem phased. He just shrugs, his usual nonchalance creeping back into his demeanor. “Ah, don’t worry about it,” he says, brushing it off like it’s no big deal. “This is nothing.”
He reaches down and starts rubbing his hands over the leeches, slowly but steadily pulling them off one by one, squeezing them between his fingers and throwing them to the side. The mud and blood mix together, creating a grotesque smear on his hands. He walks over to a nearby coconut tree, and with a smooth motion, begins to rub his back against the bark, trying to scrape the remaining leeches off.
The sight is unreal. The blood and mud smear against the rough tree, dripping down onto the ground in streaks. The officers, standing nearby, can only watch in stunned silence as my uncle goes about his business as if he’s done this a hundred times before. His back is raw against the tree as he scrubs the last of the leeches off, and when he straightens up, there’s blood dripping from the raw areas on his skin where the leeches had been.
The smell of mud, blood, and sweat hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, the scene feels surreal. It’s one of those strange, uncomfortable moments in life that doesn’t quite fit into reality. There’s something primal about it, something that feels like it belongs in another world.
Finally, my uncle stands up, wiping his hands on his pants, looking at the officers. “See? No big deal,” he says, with a grin that’s almost too casual for someone who just had leeches feeding on him in a muddy river. The officers exchange a glance, unsure of how to respond to the bizarre turn of events.
“Alright, sir,” the officer says slowly, still processing what he’s just witnessed. “Just… be careful. Go wash up. That could’ve been dangerous.”
My uncle just nods, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I’ll be fine,” he mutters, turning away. He starts walking back toward his car, the mud still drying on his body, and Beto follows behind him, shaking his head in disbelief.
For the officers, it’s just another bizarre day in Miami, but for my uncle, it’s just another story to add to the collection. A man, a giant iguana, some leeches, and a whole lot of mud—just another thing he lived and experienced.
See, it’s that wild energy, that instinct to survive on his own terms, was woven into the fabric of who he was.
These days, each time I drive down 27th Avenue and over that bridge, I can’t help but wonder—how much of him is in me? Am I as untamed as my uncle Salvador? Is that same Crocodile Dundee spirit hidden somewhere in me, waiting for the right moment or iguana to surface? I don’t know yet. I don’t know. To me, my uncle Salvador is the living difference, between boys and men. I don’t care what anybody says.
