San Miguel

I laid slump in the chair with my eyes closed. It felt nice to have some temperature other than hot blowing on me. I felt the van transfer to something uneven and rocky. Soon followed the voices in unison, “We’re here!” I opened my eyes to peer out of the window but all I could see was dust that swarmed the vehicle and hear the chipping sound of rocks being thrown from the tires.

            When the van stopped and the dust settled, I was able to take my first look at San Miguel. The village is small. I can probably count every thatched roof. The majority of the huts are made from wood but there are the few building that are supported by cement. However, the color of gray has been dressed with purple, pink, and blue. The colors read “God.” I suppose this is a church.

            Preparing, I allow myself one stretch and open door. I am greeted by the dry oven like heat and “modern mayans.” The women are short. They stand probably 5 feet tall, where long floral print dresses, and allow their feet to stand bare on the land. Their smiles are sincere and curious. Their expressions probably mirror my own. The men are not more noticeably taller but are slightly darker and eager to help. After saying “hello” they head for our bags.

            “Dis will be your hut,” one says with his practiced English. My classmates and I look curiously at one another, wondering what the inside is like. I have to duck my head to enter. There are three rooms: bedroom, foyer type space, another bedroom. I go left and claim this area. There are two sets of bunk beds pushed together. The sleeping contraption is masked with mosquito netting. This hut is made with wood that allows me to see outside through its cracks but has a cement floor. My five classmates rush in, which fills the hut.

            “Let may show you whare you will use the bafroom,” the same man says. We walk behind our hut to a skinny tower-like tin thing. Up three steps, undo a simple latch, and there is the hole with a toilet seat. I don’t want to look down. Trying to focus our attention somewhere else, we ask where the village store is located. “Up dey hill.”

            Eager to explore, we start our hike to the market. On the way, I pass horses, chickens, pigs, and dogs roaming freely. I try to pet and catch some of the animals but only one lets me, a dog who I am told is named Sleepy. He is a light yellow similar to a Golden Retriever but has black fur that surrounds his eyes. Seven of us make it to the store, dog included. Again, this building/hut has a cement flooring and wooden walls. The store is one room filled with several food items, paper notebooks, and one big ice chest. In there is the soft drinks which can be purchased with less than a US dollar. We buy something similar to cinnamon bread and sit out on the porch. Across the path is a sign that reads, “internet.” My classmates gasp at the though, however I am not interested and thankful it is closed for the time being.

            We decide to make our way down the gravel hill to the river. We are informed this is the village peoples drinking and bathing source. Around five in the evening, men are forbidden to go near the river because this is the time women bathe. The river is wide but but somewhat shallow right now. To touch the water one must walk down a steep hillside about fifteen to twenty feet. The water is clear with burnt color leaves floating on top. It reminds me of fall. Children are splashing one another and enjoying the cool oasis and several women wash clothing on rocks. We remove our sandals and allow the film of dust to rinse off our feet. I would love to fall into the water but I don’t have a bathing suit.

            As the sun begins to set, our hunger grows. We trudge up the steep slope and back to the village. On our way, we see what looks like a soccer game with all the village males. I can feel their eyes examining my every curve. Surprisingly I do not mind and return a smile.

            Two of my classmates and I are assigned to a hut to enjoy dinner. We enter the home of Christina and her husband, regrettably whose name I cannot remember. The hut is one room. Here there is no imitation flooring, one table surrounded by buckets, several colorful hammocks hang from the ceiling, one giant hot stone, and fresh corn cobs in a corner. Christina is petite and has way hair confined to a bun. Her husband has a shaved head and sits on a bucket in the doorway.

            Christina sits by the hot stone pounding flour tortillas with her hand. She then places the thin flat dough on the stone. The tortilla fills with air and lifts itself off the cooker. She quickly grabs them and places them in a bowl in front of us. We are served a black bean soup that is a little watery, but delicious. I do not even have to pretend to enjoy it.

            To fill the silence, I ask a lot of questions. “What is a typical day like in San Miguel? How often do you leave the village?” Christina has two boys who did not join us for dinner. The males in her family work in the “milpas” growing vegetables. They work from sun rise to about right in the morning before the sun becomes to hot. They are able to do what they wish with the rest of their day. Christina makes jewelry and her family left her coco trees in the next village. From these she is able to make coco powder to sell. While learning about her daily routine, we are interrupted by a familiar loud bell sound. Christina pulls out a cell phone from the pocket of her dress. This caused a moment of questioning silence.

            I tell Christina of our travels prior to arriving in San Miguel. She laughs at our search for jaguars, encounter with leaf cutting ants, and hike to waterfalls. Her laugh has a high pitch and shows she is entertained with our company. It is getting dark and almost time for them to go to bed. I thank them for letting us join for dinner and hug them bye.