Old Stones and Rusty Languages

There are twenty of them, total, taking up the better portion of the back of the bus. It’s a luxury bus, with train style seating, rows of two seats facing each other across a table with cup holders. They’re chattering away in Spanish, of course. The guide parks me next to the only other gringo at the back and she’s relieved — she speaks no Spanish and now, she’s got someone to talk to.

First, the patriarch introduces himself, insists on shaking my hand, and then, points to his cheek for a kiss. I’m too sleepy to object, but too sleepy for kissing strangers. I point back at my own cheek and the entire family laughs. He’s Jose, he’s sitting next to his wife and across from two of the aunties. Across from me are the grand and great grand children, two little ones in the laps of their parents, Santiago and Karola. It is all a big game. Jose speaks Spanish to me as though I understand everything, I speak English to the kids, who think this is hilarious, and the middle of the family moves haltingly between English and Spanish.

We crawl out of the hotel zone and then, cruise the highway that’s cut through the brush. Every now and then there is a tiny roadside chapel, a tiny house with a grass roof, a guy in a field swinging a machete. But mostly it’s scrubby green almost exactly as tall as the bus, a tunnel of wiry trees and above, a patchy gray sky. I talk travel with my seatmate — she was a travel agent — and the family talks with me as though I understand everything they say. They’re cheerful, fun, probably making jokes at my expense, but I don’t care. They share their snacks, they ask me simple questions, the little ones say individual English words — cat, dog, pig, one — and it’s all great fun.

Josue (far right), the Cancun Line tour guide,
with an American family from the front of the bus.

At Chichen Itza, I veer off to join the English tour, the family goes with the Spanish speaking guide, of course. Our guide is Josue, an archaeologist with excellent English and a sense of humor. He grew up 20 minutes from the sacred city, so he’s seen it change a lot over his lifetime. He’s seen the pyramid inside the pyramid, the paintings, the sculptures, that we can’t see because the monuments are now protected and roped off — you can’t climb to the top anymore. Josue is full of stories, and he’s a walking guidebook. He unpacks the patterns in the stones, shows how to read the pyramid, points out the feathered serpents and the eagles and the warriors.

I ask about the vendors, selling the same repeated crafts all over the complex — where do they come from? He tells me that they used to only allow a handful of Mayan locals to do business inside the complex, but now there’s some kind of racket going on and the place is full of guys from elsewhere. It’s okay, though, they’re not aggressive, they don’t pursue you, they take no for an answer. (Later, when I mention this to a staffer at the hotel, she says that it’s true regionally, that other places in Mexico they won’t leave you alone.) So in spite of the numbers of people trying to sell you pottery, embroidered shirts, blanket bags, jewelry, and Mayan knockoffs, there’s still a mellow vibe.

It’s not as crowded there as I expected, and we have a blanket of clouds protecting us from the brutal Yucatan sun, so I feel lucky. After the tour, I wander around with the other two American women traveling solo, but I take off when they’re distracted by the shopping.  I wander the grounds, watching the vendors, watching the tourists, the guides, the stones.  I hear mostly English, I see my neighbors, the big Mexican family, and then, I head back to the bus.

Karola y Mama on the bus after lunch.

Santiago’s dad has given him a little ocarina in the shape of a pig, and we play it, he hands it to me and I make some noise with it, then I give it back to him and he does the same. We practice our basic English words again, “How do you say HORSE in English?!” One of the guys, I’m guessing he’s the uncle with the fancy job, the one who organized the trip, gets up and makes a bunch of planning announcements. Breakfast at 730, leave at 830 for the airport, okay? “Okay!” I say, and he makes the universal gesture that means, “Hey, come on along.” My seatmate drinks her third or fourth Corona and starts making vaguely racist remarks (WHY do I keep meeting these people?). I search for the right response, then turn away to dust off more of my lost Spanish. We roll across the countryside in the darkness, the family laughing and talking the whole way.

My seatmate’s drop off is first; next, we arrive at the family’s hotel. As they get off the bus, they all wish me a Happy New Year and Safe Travels, they wave or give me a firm handshake. It’s quiet with them gone, and honestly, I feel a little sad. They’re so fun and friendly and welcoming and without them, I feel the weirdness of being in a place like Cancun all alone. As we pull away, I turn back and wave and all of them, it seems like all twenty of this big Mexican family, wave back until I can’t see them anymore.

FYI: My day trip to Chichen Itza was covered by the same folks that organized my trip to Cancun. Everything was comped, the tour, my stay, my transportation expenses.