The teacher Marcelo May rested comfortably sitting on the old arm chair. He was enjoying the soft cool breeze of the first hours of the afternoon that fanned the wide halls of the old mansion of his ancestors. There he was watching with curiosity the fly about of a humming bird, that dizzyingly flapped its wings between the plants that adorned the garden located between the bedrooms and the halls that were connected with the main entrance, which was closed off by an old vestibule.

He was alone. His wife and unmarried daughters had gone to church, as they did every Saturday, to teach catechism to the children of the neighborhood of Candelaria.

Three metallic knocks on the door echoed on the walls. Who could it be? He got up slowly and walked toward the door as the knocks repeated.

When he opened, the old messenger, who should have retired years ago, greeted courteously with a warm smile.

'Good afternoon, Marcelo, this is for you' - He said as he delivered a telegram and gave Marcelo a notebook to sign that the telegram had been received.

'It is from Carrillo Puerto' -said the messenger with familiarity -

'From Carrillo Puerto? Who could have sent it?'

For a few moments he couldn't imagine. When he opened the envelope he saw the name of Jose Dolores Ek. In an instant he related this name to his old friend Jacinto, from Tok'tuunich,.

The telegram explained everything.

How many years have passed since he picked up his son in Tok'tuunich?... more than 40? Since then the only news he had received was through his son Marcelo, when he was in Tok' tuunich a few years ago, during an epidemic leading the medical brigade after he had graduated as a medical doctor. Other than that it was the occasion when Jacinto came to spend some days at the hacienda, when they enjoyed some time together.

He finished his reflection and carefully put the telegram in his pocket. He made a decision. He took the keys of his pick up truck and drove to the telegraph office to send word to his son that he was to travel immediately to see the situation that Jacinto was in. He asked his son to meet him in Chetumal.

The powerful V-8 engine gradually accelerated after crossing the rail road tracks over the highway that recently joined Valladolid to the South with the old Santa Cruz del Bravo, now called Carrillo Puerto.

In a few seconds the modern pick up truck reached 100 km/hr. Marcelo May, the old, told his driver:

'Slow down, you know I don't like to go fast'

'But you said you wanted to arrive early to Chetumal, to see the "southerner" your "compadre"...it's getting light and at 80 km/hr it will take us at least 4 hours. It is safe to go 100 or 120, the road is new. I think it is one of the best and there is almost no traffic'

'You are rigth, but we better go slower, you know that fast driving makes me nervous' -Said the teacher.

In a few more minutes they arrived in Chichimilá. They went carefully through the town because the people have the habit of walking on both sides of the highway and domestic animals were wandering in the park and around the church.

Marcelo went back in time - to more than 50 years before- when he took his first trip into the jungles of Quintana Roo with no more weapons than his youthful idealism. He remembered the danger and difficulties of that journey, which now deems as an adventure. The old indian town of Chichimila, south of Valladolid where, by accident, the indian conspiracy that set off the revolt of 1847,had been discovered. He recounted mentally the bloody incidents told and retold by the old men and recorded in the history books. Minutes later they crossed Tekom and then Tixcacalcupul, places of anecdotes and heroic deeds of both rival groups...

Marcelo hardly spoke. He answered with monosyllables to the comments of the driver. Sometimes, a wild animal that crossed in front of the car broke the monotony of the road.

When they got to Tepich, his memory was refreshed once more... the most important events of the Caste war. Cecilio Chi, Jacinto Pat, Bomifacio Novelo, Dionisio Ek, Barrera- who started the myth of the "talking cross". After Tepich, the road twisted to the left and in less than 15 minutes they arrived in the lands of Tihosuco.

Until then, Marcelo had kept silent, immersed in his own memories. When they arrived in the town he said to the driver:

'Go to the right, down the street that leads to the church'

The driver did as he was told. In seconds the truck went down the narrow streets where the ruins of some colonial style houses still showed the indelible scars of the bloody fights that had taken place in that town, occupied alternately by either by the máasewáalo'ob or the Yucatecan militia.

When they arrived at the northwest corner and turned to the south of the square, where the old Franciscan church and convent stood, Marcelo signaled the driver to stop. He recognized the old store where had met the young máasewáal who had meant so much to him during his time in Tok'tuunich. Far beyond on the corner, in front of the church's large yard, he contemplated the old two-story mansion, which defying the lapse of time, still showed its colonial beauty. Marcelo directed a last look at the roofless church and told his driver to follow the old street where he had started his first journey to the village, where his unforgettable Leonor remained buried.

Seconds later, the pick up returned to the highway and roared south toward Carrillo Puerto. Marcelo closed his eyes and let he go. He rested his head on the window and daydreamed about things past.

The driver's voice woke him up.

'Patron, we are arriving in Carrillo Puerto'

'Slow down, turn at the park and detour two blocks to the west on the same street on the right'

'The street of the church that goes past the municipal palace?'

'Yes, the same, and go very slowly'

When they arrived at the street that led to the highway to Chetumal the driver turned to the right. Marcelo observed the old walls of the native church. The Báalam-Naj, which the Cupulo'ob had built 100 years before. Few more meters and they passed the main square and the new municipal building on their left.

'Speed up a little and go two blocks, then turn toward the South.'

'Stop at that house' -said Marcelo- pointing at a stone made house painted pink.

'He got out of the truck and knocked on the door. An old woman -a "mestiza"- opened the door and looked at them inquisitively.

Marcelo asked the woman:

'¿U'uts k'iin, Kula'an j-Naat? - - Good morning, Is Navidad home?

The old woman answered in Maya language:

' Ma', ts'o'ok u bin ich kool' - No, he went to his milpa.

'¿Ba'ax oora u taal? - What time will he be back?

'Sáamal u suut.' - tomorrow

' Dios bo'otick tech'- Thank you -said before leaving.

The driver asked: ' Who lives here, Patron'

'An old friend from Zaci, who I haven't seen in years. Let's go.

The truck took off and on the way back to the highway they passed near the "Ts'ono'ot", in the yard where the cult of the "talking cross" had started.

Minutes after leaving Carrillo Puerto, among the memories of his past fortunes, the old teacher fell asleep. With his head resting on the back of the seat in the spacious cabin.

At about one hour later, the sound of the rhythmic notes of Caribbean music woke him up, the radio station from nearby Chetumal was clearly heard.

'We are coming to Bacalar' - Indicated the driver to his boss.

'When we got to the hill that is just before the city, slow down so we can see the lagoon - Said Marcelo.

Soon the pick up stopped at the place, where the splendor of the different shades of green of the lagoon could be seen through the foliage of the tall trees. From light green to almost blue. From the edges of the Savannah, they could guess the course of a small stream that run to the coastal bay, near the old settlement of Chetumal.

For a few seconds the old teacher enjoyed the extraordinary beauty. The blue sky and the low white clouds that came from the Caribbean coast framed the beautiful scene.

'Let's go, we have almost one hour to go and I want you to go around the square to have a look at the old fort' -said Marcelo.

After going to the center of the town, Marcelo's truck went down the street toward the eastside of the park. He got out of the car, and sat on a bench under an almond tree. He ordered his driver:

'Bring two soft drinks. We'll rest for a few minutes before we continue our trip'

While the driver carried out his orders, Marcelo walked round the walls of the old fort. Stronghold that witnessed two centuries of history of pirates, and bloody deeds of the Caste war. He remembered the massacre that the inhabitants of that place had suffered the century before.

He closed his eyes and his imagination went back toward the past. February or March 1857? He wasn't sure of the exact date, however historic facts stimulated his memory. Venancio Puc at the head of hundreds of indians took the small company of the fort and its 200 or 300 white people by surprise...

He remembered the stories of how the English men of the neighboring town of Corozal attempted to ransom them with English gold. But it had been in vain. The talking cross had sentenced them all to death. The events of the massacre ran through his mind. He imagined men and women fall, civilians as well as military. Those who were spared, the children and the young women had been taken captives into the cruel fate of concubines or servants to the "talking cross"

His good servant interrupted his abstraction.

'Here are the soft drinks'- he said

The teacher drank avidly enjoying the ice cold drink that cooled off the heat of the morning.

He looked at his watch; it was almost eleven. He finished his drink and gave the bottle to his driver:

'Take the bottles back and let's go, it is getting late'

Soon the truck was leaving to Chetumal.

A few more kilometers ahead they went past the town of Xel-ha, on the south of lagoon Báak 'halal, north of the river Chak, which connected it with the Hondo river. The truck slowed down to pass the curve that leads to Waay-pix. They arrived in Chetumal half an hour after they had left Báak 'halal.

The peculiar noise of a monoplane that was landing, on the runway located just north of the highway distracted their attention. Marcelo enjoyed watching the plane land, the spectacle he has seen only a few times. Later on they were on the wide avenues that led to the center of town. When they got to Avenida "Héroes" he gave instructions to go to the high part of the city where it was told the hospital was. In a matter of minutes the truck was in front of the hospital where Marcelo's friend was supposed to be found.

The nurse at the reception desk answered his query.

'Jacinto Ek?...let me see' - she went through a list of patients.

'He is in the especial ward for severe cases, I don't know if you can see him. The visitor hours are from 3:00 to 6:00 p.m. You will have to ask the doctor on call for permission'

'Is there any family member here?'

' No' -the nurse answered.

'Can I talk to the doctor?'

'Just one minute, please' - she said as she went inside the modest hospital.

Marcelo waited restlessly at the thought of a negative answer. He wanted to know the condition of his old friend, who was considered among the serious cases, as soon as possible.

The nurse came back to tell them:

'You may go in, to the left, the doctor's office is open'

'I beg your pardon, doctor, -he said as soon as he entered- I do not pretend to break the rules but I have come from very far. They told me that my brother in law is in critical condition.

'Is Jacinto Ek your brother in law?' - the doctor asked a little confused, since the teacher didn't look indian.

'His little sister was my wife'

The doctor made a gesture of scepticism that Marcelo hardly noticed.

'What is his situation?'

'Multiple trauma, in cranium, limbs, thorax and probably the spinal cord, at the neck. He is semi-conscious for the most time. I think in one or two days we will have for information.

'Is it critical?

'I would say so, his condition is delicate, prognosis reserved.'

'Could I see him?'

'Yes, only for a few minutes' - the doctor answered- even if he recognizes you, he won't be able to talk to you. You may go in, be brief, please and don't try to talk with him, if he recognizes you it will be a good sign and it will make everyone feel better.

The doctor guided Marcelo into the spacious room where Jacinto was with other three patients. It was hard to recognize him because of the bandages, the cuts and swollen cheeks and lips. The doctor left the ward when the nurse came in to change the I.V. solution. Marcelo spoke to Jacinto while he touched his arm softly.

'Can you hear me Jacinto?' It's me, Marcelo....

Jacinto tried to open his eyes with great effort and tried to focus on his friend's face but he didn't say a word. Marcelo understood instantly that Jacinto had recognized him. The patient closed his eyes again and with a slight movement of his right index finger tried to make a gesture of gratitude.

'Try to rest. Don't worry, we will be here. You nephew, Leonor's son, is on his way and he will probably arrive sometime today

Again Jacinto tried to open his eyes, as he had understood. A few minutes later the teacher left the ward. He was deeply troubled.

Main Page                           Next Page      Epilogue...

---

Get Flash !

---

 

El Cuyo Yucatán, a new meeting with the nature. . Travelers Guide

 

Concept & Design by

Raúl Mendoza and N'aloy Vargas Cetina.
For further information,  reservations and advertising call (984) 8762234 and (985) 8563178  or fax (985) 8563178 or send an e-mail to: icai@chichen.com.mx

 

This site, Travelers Guide Series and Mayan World see better in Microsoft Explorer.  We highly recommend you install Flash 5.0  ( to see animations ) and  Real Player Basic 8.0 ( to see streaming  videos ).  You can free download them in their respective sites

 

 

 

comments you may have or if you want to buy the book, please call or fax us to (985) 85 6 31 78 or send an e-mail to: icai@chichen.com.mx con copy to:  raul_mendoza_alcocer@hotmail.com On line secure Credit Card payment available.