an excerpt from a letter

Dear [Reader],

I'm currently sitting in an old hacienda, by the Mayan name of Yaxcopoil, located down the hot, dry, rural roads of the Mexican Yucatan. It is, by far, one of the hottest places I have ever been. We've been here for a number of days, though it has seemed much longer than that. The place we are in is quite strange. An hacienda, by definition, is a "nice farm," or rather, as we would think of it, best described as a plantation. And that is exactly what this place is. Or was, I should say. It spans a great number of acres, its ancient stone barricades and ominous fortress emerging from the ground something unnatural. In its hayday, this place was a palace. They cultivated a plant called hennequen, which was then produced onsite for use in fabrics and textiles. Thousands of livestock were also tendered here, nearly all of which are now gone.

All of this work, of course, was tended to by local Yucatecan workers who were paid in nothing but food and the light clothing that blocked them from the sun's inescapable brutality. Considering the looks I get from those who live in this minute village, some resentment surely remains. How could it not? By residing here, being the only two (white) people to stay upon the hacienda premises both day and night, for a number of days, it seems as if we are but filling the shoes of those who lived here before. We are, by way of relation, taking the role of they who once owned and ran this place. Though we surely are not driving the locals to work long hours, the sun arched high above their bending backs, we do sit here and play our music, explore the premises, and eat our food as they go on working. They begin work before we rise and end long after we have retreated to our quarters for shade. They transplant and cultivate what crops the plantation still grows, tend to the few remaining cattle and horses, and generally keep the dying hacienda alive for foreign eyes. Although they are no longer what one might refer to as a "slave," they still have nothing. The town is barely a speck on a map, the houses even less. There is, quite honestly, nothing here. The sun's devastating gaze fills what gaps are left by the lack of the many pleasures we so commonly and easily enjoy.

They are, however, far from unhappy. Every soul who is bound to this land carries, without fail, an aging corpse (no doubt from long years in the field, and longer days beneath the sun) and a smile of redemption. Unlike the occupants of the village, the men who work here never hide a flickering smile. They are, genuinely, happy to see us, share what little time they can spare, and part with a handshake and a mouth spread ear-to-ear, as if to show off their metal fillings and dwindling set of teeth. Having known them for less than three full days, sun up to sun down, I would gladly entrust any of these men with my life, if not that of my youngest child. They are true men. They work hard, smile often, and show no shame, remorse, or envy for who they are and who they are not. I, on the other hand, cannot claim the same dignity. For who are we to tread so heavily on the ground that they've always called home, farther back in years than my family has called home the United States? Who are we to come here, and anywhere for that matter, as if living a vacation, while they never have the option to leave? The world they know is an oyster. It is but a 50-mile radius, as if the jealous arms of the sun have them on a leash. They can never leave.

As we've sat here, hiding from the sun, being in this place, making our fire and cooking our food, I have thought of you often. Perhaps it was first the fire that did it. For breakfast and dinner of every day we have made a fire to cook for ourselves. We are staying here for free (by way of a friend) and cannot afford the pricey meals that are normally offer to such high-paying guests. The owner is but family, at least to my aunt that is. Anyway, when building the fire, in the morning's heat and the evening's bliss, I can't help but remember doing the same alongside you -- in Vermont, the mountains of New York, and even a backyard in Ithaca. Building these fires brings back fond memories. I have, of course, also been thinking of you while just being in this place: knowing how you would enjoy the exploration, the attempts to catch up with quick-legged iguanas, and the contemplation of our being here. It is truly such an awkward presence, if I can call it that.





Although the original letter ends shortly after the previous paragraph, I can't help but write more about our time there. Miguel, the owner of Yaxcopoil and a good friend of my aunt, was incredibly gracious and gave us the unimaginable opportunity of staying at the hacienda for absolutely nothing. The property and the surrounding landscape is something marvelous. The Yucatan, though inexplicably hot and dry, is an amazing world. The hacienda property, so carefully and passionately tended too by the men who have worked there for their entire lives, is riddled with large bamboo plants, lazy iguanas, and more beautiful sounds than I could possibly hope to describe. But above all, despite the old foundation's marvelous beauty, we will by far miss its humble people the most. Within a few short days we were welcomed into the land that they have always called home, with arms spread wide open and a brilliant smile. The men who work twelve hours underneath the brutal sun are never seen without a smile, and surely never hesitated to strike up conversation and make us feel anything but comfortable; as if this was, and always had been, our home. The women, equally as kind, though slightly more tender, were gracious enough to supply us with one of the most magnificent feasts we'd had in weeks on our last night in the village. And then again in the morning. I still long for the delicious Yucatecan tamales and the mouth-watering gorditas that they made for us that morning.

During our short time there, it felt as if nearly a week or two passed. Because we were the only people residing on the plantation both day and night, we had to cultivate a fertile state of mind in which we could endlessly entertain ourselves. Luckily, in the heart of the Yucatan, it proved incredibly easy. We were aided by the presence of the many caves and underground swimming holes native to the area. We also played our instruments, wrote, explored the area on the manager's loaned tricycle, and made a short video of sorts. We currently have no way to edit the footage, but we'll figure it out in time.

[that dark shadow down there on the right is Gab, mid-dive]


[Gabby, a tricycle, the Yucatan]

In short, it was a strange week, a step backward a hundred years, an introduction and conclusion to the Yucatan, a reminder of how lucky we are, and far more than we could have asked for. Miguel, Pedro, and friends, we thank you.