My name is Jovita, and I’m a fifteen-year-old Maya girl. Almost everyone in our neighborhood is Maya, Maya and mestizo. At home, we speak only Maya, and at school, we mostly speak Spanish. It’s here at school that we learn about the Mayan world and its rich history, and about the Spanish conquest. It turns out the Spanish weren’t always good.

Sometimes I think I should act like an older woman because my breasts are already quite developed. That’s why the boys stare at me so intently and make fun of me, calling me “big-breasted” and “boobed” and other things, even swearing at me. Some of the bold ones try to touch or grope my breasts, but I don’t let them. I know very well how to defend myself, and if they bother me, I scratch their faces and they run away whining.

Every Friday afternoon we fill our truck with groceries and head to our little ranch on the bay where we spend the weekends. We call it Rancho Paraíso, and it’s quite far from the outskirts of Chetumal where we live. You have to go to Calderitas, pass all the restaurants along the coast, then the Mayan ruins of Ichpaatún and Oxtankah, the three military outposts, and keep going until the road disappears into the rainforest. Our ranch is the last one; there are no people beyond, only the jungle animals. Well, it’s not a big ranch with real livestock, no, we only have our dog Xtul-chen, our three cats Xcal-ten, Uxtomil, and Jazmín, eight hens and a red rooster, and of course, the fish that swim up to us in the shallow, calm waters along the shore. The ranch is beautiful, with its long meadow, swings, and hammocks, its many palm trees, and its lovely beach overlooking the large, uninhabited, and wild island of Tamalcab. The most beautiful thing is the water, which constantly changes color with the breeze, the clouds, and the sun. That’s why our bay is called “The Bay of a Thousand Colors.”     

When my brothers and cousins ​​come with us, it’s so much fun. We spend the whole day running, jumping, skipping, and shouting. We swing on the swings, play tag, hide-and-seek, or ball games, or we splash in the gentle waves of the sea. There’s so much commotion, and I feel really comfortable. But when my friends are participating in school sports events or can’t come because of family reasons, and I’m left alone with my parents, I feel a little bored, and lately, quite discouraged. My parents are always very busy and don’t pay much attention to me. My dad unloads the soda bottles from the truck, cuts the coconuts from the palm trees, peels them, and splits them with a machete, while my mom prepares ham, chicken, and cheese sandwiches. We also offer refreshments and food to the few people who dare to venture into this remote part of the jungle. When people eat, my parents entertain themselves with them and spend all their time talking about adult topics, which don’t interest me at all.

If I don’t help my parents, I go my own way. I look for my favorite spot, hidden under the palm trees among some rocks on the shore where tropical fish live in the clear, crystalline waters. There are all kinds of fish, of every size and color. When the sun shines on the sea, I’m fascinated to see their intense colors twinkling through the transparent water, like a kaleidoscope of countless rainbows, like thousands of shimmering snakes hissing toward the sun’s rays. There are big, proud fish, decorated with vertical black lines that we call black-eyed shieldfish ; medium-sized ones, almost round, plump, and mischievous, dressed in green and yellow colors that we call green drums; and tiny, cheerful ones, painted on top with red and blue spots that we call spotted spikefish ; and many other fish. I don’t know all their names, but I know they are all very curious and funny, and they all seem extremely busy in their own way. Some chase each other constantly among the rocks, reminding me of how I run with my friends. Meanwhile, other little fish sway contentedly behind the stones or hidden inside tiny caves, observing the life around them with wide, open eyes, just as I follow them with my gaze. 

Here, in this secluded haven of calm waves, I like to sit for hours, my bare feet in the warm water, watching the fish. Feeling so peaceful, sweet, unfamiliar longings envelop me, and I wonder if a good man will appear in my life and where he will lead me. Sometimes, as I drift off to sleep, I have a dream in which a tall, blond, noble, and loving man appears, sailing the waves in a sailboat from distant shores, searching for me. In those moments, when my eyes open, between blinks, my dreams dance on the sparks of the water, ignited by the sun’s rays that suck in their wet tongues, and I can recognize the reflections of my soul leaping on the gentle waves amidst these dazzling rays. It’s when I try to discover the features of my soul in the face of the sea, and there are moments when I see them as clearly as I can see the lines of my own hands before my eyes, and I begin to search for my future in these features, just as I’ve seen fortune tellers do reading lovers’ palms in soap operas. What will the future bring me?

Well, today I’m sad. I’m in my favorite spot under the palm trees, and I’m remembering a Saturday last month when a man I can’t forget visited us. He immediately caught my attention. He arrived in a huge car, covered in dust and mud on the sides, windows, and even the roof. The blond, slender man jumped out, smiling, and greeted us kindly. He was older, but he seemed very young at the same time, very lively. He asked if he could walk to the beach, and when my mother invited him in, he went down to the water. He sat down in one of the chairs and asked for a coconut. “Just a coconut,” he said modestly, as if apologizing for not wanting to eat something more extravagant. “Don’t worry,” my mother assured him and gladly served him. It seemed to me that he came from a very distant country, perhaps Spain or even farther away, because his skin was so smooth and white, he spoke Spanish with a very different accent, and he didn’t know a single Mayan word. I was sitting in my usual spot on the side of the table, very close to his, and I watched him with all my senses alert. I found it very funny. I got the impression that he had never eaten a coconut in his life, because he asked my mother if she had a spoon. When she showed him how to scrape the coconut with its natural shell, he began to eat with gusto. I didn’t know whether to laugh at him or admire him, and I ended up doing both.

He also had a camera with him. That frightened me, because we Maya know very well that a photograph can steal a layer of our soul. My grandmother, who is very wise, always reminds me that it is important to defend our knowledge and our Mayan wisdom, with pride and conviction. Luckily, the foreigner was only interested in taking pictures of the ranch, the shore, the bay, and the island across the way. When he finished photographing what interested him, he came over to where I was sitting and asked me, “Are there fish?” “Of course there are!” I exclaimed enthusiastically, “look closer and you’ll see them.” I felt a little shy inside, but he seemed to be a very nice person, Spanish or not, with a very pleasant voice. Proudly, I showed him the fish moving around the plants, circling among the sharp rocks, hiding among the stones and inside the little caves. “What marvelous colors!” he exclaimed, “it’s a true tropical paradise!” “You can snorkel better here than at Xel-ha,” she added. I didn’t know what snorkeling was , but she seemed to enjoy everything quite a bit and was very impressed; and that made me happy. She asked the names of several fish, and I gave them to her, but she obviously didn’t recognize the words, some of which were Mayan, and she had difficulty pronouncing them.   

To impress him even more, I got up and ran to the counter to get some tortillas and started throwing little pieces to feed the fish. But they didn’t seem to like the tortillas; they just kissed them listlessly. I felt quite clumsy because I already knew fish didn’t like tortillas. I spontaneously hoped they would make an exception for our foreign guest today, since I so wanted to impress him, but those fish wouldn’t grant me the favor. He noticed and said, “Perhaps we should add some hot sauce,” and we both laughed. He was very funny. I imagined the poor fish burning their mouths with the spicy green chili and couldn’t stop laughing.

“And that island,” he asked, pointing toward Tamalcab Island, “have you visited it?” “Of course!” I exclaimed. “I went with my parents several times, in the boat. It’s virgin jungle; nobody lives there.” “Wow!” he said, his voice rising in surprise. “Are there animals?” “Yes,” I replied. “There are macaws, iguanas, crocodiles, peccaries, agoutis, pacas, even monkeys!” “Monkeys?” he said incredulously. “Have you seen them?” “Well,” I said, hesitating between telling him the truth or impressing him even more, and continuing in a more modest tone, I said, “At the zoo.” We both burst out laughing again. “Yes, of course, at the zoo,” he said, with a good sense of humor. I was very happy that I hadn’t lied to him.

Then he said goodbye. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said in a serious and sincere tone, walking to his car and taking the wheel. I stood watching him, leaning against the door of our ranch. “See you tomorrow,” I called out, and waved goodbye. He drove off in a cloud of dust.   

But he never returned.

I waited for him the next day and for many days after. He never came back. I always remember how I waved goodbye. And how he vanished in a cloud of dust.

I would have loved to share so many secrets with her, to show her so many other wonders of our ranch, and even more of our bay. I realize I never got to show her Pelican Point, where you can watch these majestic birds with their large beaks, plummeting sharply into the sea to catch a mouthful of fish. I never showed her Shell Bank, which lies further along the shore of the estuary, with thousands of shells, like horseshells, tulip shells, crown shells, eggshells, lightning shells, Florida cones, angel wings, and many others. And I never got to show her my close friends, the turtles, who live beside the warm, freshwater spring where they reproduce—the tiny baby turtles just a few days old, and the giant turtles that may have been living inside their shells for over a hundred years.   

I still imagine how impressed he would have been by these wonders. Sometimes I revisit the place where we met and talked, searching for memories, imagining his gestures. I let the past scenes replay in my mind and see him sitting at the table with the coconut, or standing by the bay. I can almost hear his relaxed, masculine voice, with its Castilian accent, drawing out his words in a tone of surprise.

Other times I wonder where he’s traveling right now, what he’s doing at this moment, and I see him so far away, wandering the world in his dusty car. Then I wish my eyes had the power to pierce mountains and rocks, seas and rivers, until I find him and bring him back. In those moments, I hear myself talking to him, in a low, affectionate voice, and I ask him to come to our ranch one more time, just once, so that at least I can show him the turtles. “You don’t know how I’m waiting for you, how I long to see you again,” I whisper in his ear. And in my sweet, intimate dreams at nightfall, I imagine letting him touch and feel my breasts without resisting.

Often, when I sit by the shore, I return to the water’s reflections, seeking answers to my longings and desires. But something has changed; the water is no longer the same. Its clear, crystalline hue has turned dark, murky, and even threatening. And it remains silent, no matter how much I beg and plead; it no longer wants to answer. What’s more, even the fish seem useless. When I search for the traces of my soul in the glimmers reflected on the water, they appear distorted. And when I try to divine the future, it fills me with mortal dread. I can only see my soul trembling through the water, sinking below and disappearing into the immense depths of the sea. The thought haunts me that the Spanish foreigner, even though he didn’t take my picture, stole my Mayan soul, precisely in the same way his ancestors did to our people in those distant times. 

© Maniwolf – Original in Spanish by Maniwolf