Story from a little Mayan village

A lesson from soft maíz tortillas and scrambled eggs that I’ll never forget.

Happy Thanksgiving 🦃

Today, I want to share a story from a few years ago when I spent some time in Tulum, Mexico.

It was a memorable lesson that continues to echo to this day, and forevermore.

I hope you have a lovely time with family, or in my case, alone.

And stay thankful for those that feed us.

Coco

---

Grupo Cobá. November 7, 2020

I cried a little in the car as I drove away from the tiny Mayan village.

Earlier that day, I visited Zona Arqueológica de Cobá—an ancient Mayan city tucked into the dense, emerald jungle of the Yucatán Peninsula.¹

My wanderlust seeks out corners of the world like this, remote and full of history lessons. I arrived on a hot Saturday morning to explore, wander amongst the ruins, and indulge in the fragments of life some 2,000 years ago.

A tour guide at the entrance greeted me warmly and offered a paid tour. It’s more worthwhile to pay for a tour than wander mindlessly on my own, I thought to myself and proceeded to negotiate the tour from 1000 pesos down to 600 and followed him into the ruins.

I peppered the tour guide with a million questions and tried to squeeze out as much information as possible to make the 600 pesos worthwhile.

“This is a ball game court where the Mayans played the ritualistic sport of Pok-ta-Polk. At the end of the game, the losing team’s captain would behead the winning team’s captain, and it is with great honor that the best player would be sacrificed.” I listened with awe.

Forty-five minutes later, we ended the tour next to a prehispanic gravel path. To explore the remaining sites, one had the option to walk, rent a bike, or hire a pedal tricycle to cross the 3-mile white stone roads in the heat of Quintana Roo.

By the roadside, a cluster of tricycles—the "Mayan taxis”—waited, their drivers calling out to tourists.

"Señorita, would you like a ride?" one of them asked, his voice earnest and unassuming.

I got a little defensive. Here’s yet another man trying to sell me a service. I quickly calculated in my head whether I absolutely needed the service and decided on the frugal alternative.

I politely shook my head.

Without bothering to speak to him or to inquire further, I picked up a bike and continued my intellectual quest.

Toward the end of my visit, I spotted the tour guide again at the entrance. On a whim, I asked, "What are some Mayan traditions people still practice today?"

"There’s a Mayan village nearby. If you're curious, you can see the Mayan way of life there."

Intrigued, I embarked on my journey to the Mayan village.

—

"¡Bienvenido a la aldea! Welcome to the village.​"

A middle-aged Mayan man welcomed me in, his face weathered yet radiant, his form stout and sturdy, his smile stretched wide, like a subject from one of Diego Rivera’s murals.² Covid had left this place still and empty. I was the only visitor.

He was excited to share his world. “This is canché—can means tall, ché means wood,” gesturing to a small plantation rising from the soil supported by vertical logs. “And this is the medicinal plant of jaya,³ is very important to us.” His voice brimmed with pride as he recounted how his grandparents used to live among these trees, how the jungle had always been their protector and friend.

We stepped into a wooden hut—a small, humble dwelling that carried a scent of earth. It’s the little space he and his family live in.

”Whoa, you built this on your own?”

“¡Si, con mucho trabajo! Yes, a lot of work! It takes about a month to collect the wood and to build the house.”

Inside the room is a cozy corner with a hammock he weaved using a traditional material. He described the meticulous weaving techniques in detail, each knot imbued with knowledge passed down through generations. I started admiring the details and the craftsmanship, finding respect for this way of life, and enjoying the conversation with this knowledgeable Mayan man.

As we left the room, he murmured something to his wife, who sat by the fire pit made of three large stones in a triangular formation.

The visit continued. He led me to the apiary where bees hovered around a horizontal log. "Relax and let them wander in your hair. These bees don't sting." Really? That sounds like death. Yet this man looked genuine, perhaps I could trust him.

I clenched my fist, closed my eyes, and allowed thousands of bees into my hair… A million tiny wings scratched my scalp. I stayed still, slowly let my guard down, and relaxed into the experience, surrendering to nature and this village.

Back in the cocina,⁴ he introduced me to his family: his wife and two-year-old son.⁵ The wife showed me the traditional way of making tortillas: using only maíz, no flour. She covered the tortillas with a hand-embroidered cloth handkerchief and proceeded to stir-fry eggs into the elevated pot on the triangular stone formation. The family prepared the meal with joy; it was just another lovely day in the cocina.

On the beautiful long wooden dining table lay a spread of bowls with scrambled eggs and chives, marinated meat, salsa, and three tortillas.

"This is all for you, disfruta! Enjoy!" The man offered the spread to me.

"You're not eating?"

"No, we already ate," he assured me.

I sat on the edge of the stone stool and kept my eyes down on the plate as I stuffed my face, wondering how I missed purchasing the entrance ticket. I tried my best to make conversation as the family watched me.

"Are there a lot of visitors?"

"Not too much because of the pandemia."

As I finished eating, he asked, "Do you have any other questions? You're free to go." His wide, radiant smile remained unchanged. "Ya terminamos. The visit is over."

Why do you do this? I didn't know how to ask him. Was I supposed to pay? Should I offer to pay for food?

Finally as I walked out, "What kind of work do you do?" I blurted out.

"I work at Zona Arqueológica de Cobá four days a week. Today is my day off."

"As a tour guide?"

"No, I work the tricycles."

—

As I drove out of the village, tears began to blur the dusty road ahead.

Scenes from the day flashed in my mind—the tricycles parked along the jungle path, the drivers I barely glanced at. Could one of them have been him? This kind man who welcomed me to his home, offered me food and kindness, and trusted me with his bees?

The tour guide that I had haggled with, could he have been him?

When I haggled viciously with the millions of faceless street vendors during my travels, could they have been him?

I always calculate. I spend as little as possible to make the most out of a transaction. I pay what I should pay for, no more, no less.

But this time, I couldn’t pay him. I pondered on my judgments, wishing that time could rewind, not just to earlier in the day but to the million other moments when I acted righteously unkind.

The only way to pay him back is to be more generous.

To calculate less. It's not always transactional. To give first without expecting something in return.

To pay for a service that I normally wouldn’t pay for. To buy from a street vendor and not haggle to the last cent, or not negotiate at all.

To think not in terms of how much money I could lose, but how much they could gain.

Thank you, kind Mayan man.

—

Union Square, NYC. August 4, 2022

The other day, I bought a floppy hat on the streets of New York.

“How much is it?”

”25.”

”Okay.”

He looked a bit surprised. ”Wait, 23 is good.”

—

Special thanks from friends from Write of Passage for the wonderful edits. Couldn’t have done this without you all: Kuriakin Zeng (the first to read my essay when I felt the most stuck and the assurance that perhaps this lesson made sense), CansaFis Foote (for the push to add more sensory descriptions), Genesis Dayrit (for confirming that I should add in my reflections), Eddy Oceja (for the special help on the Spanish), and Amit Bhatia (for the final comments to polish on logic and thought processes).

1. Cobá is located 30 miles northwest of Tulum, not as famous as Chichén Itzá, but a fascinating historic site nonetheless.

2. Diego Rivera is a prominent Mexican artist whose paintings and murals depicted workers and their toil rather than the wealthy industrialists.

3. I'm guessing the spelling here. In their language, it sounded like chuh but I couldn't find it on Google.

4. Kitchen in Spanish.

5. The boy turned two a month before my visit!