Story: New Life for a Maya Village

No sign pointed to the side road that veered off the highway. Our guide nearly missed the turn, cranked the wheel sharply to the left, and followed a narrow road that snaked up into the hills. Soon a thousand shades of green crowded in. Smoke-hued clouds allowed a patchwork of sun to seep through, lending a dappled mosaic to the jungle. After a gradual climb, the road straightened out and a few pastel houses of plank and thatch huddled in the distance. We dodged a sow and her piglets and slowed down just in time to rumble over a mountainous speed bump that marked the entrance to the village. More pigs and a few strutting turkeys roamed the dusty street, but no people. We rolled to a stop in front of a modest turquoise house topped with palm thatch, and out stepped a smiling but nervous-looking young man dressed for company in a spotless white guayabera. He approached us, notes in hand, as I and the others on our small tour climbed out of the van.

"My name is Ezequiel," he said in English. "I welcome you to my pueblo."

The tiny, isolated village of Veinte de Noviembre lies in the southern reaches of the Mexican state of Campeche, a region dotted with seldom-visited Maya ruins that were at their peak when Europe was suffering through the Dark Ages.

Ezequiel beckoned us inside and we took our seats at a table set with plates of fresh papaya, mounds of pan dulce, and pitchers of warm, aromatic chocolate. The walls were a single thickness of whitewashed planks, the sunlight streaming through the cracks between them. A child's crayon drawing of Tweety Bird decorated one wall, and on another, a framed picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe appeared to have been in the family for generations.

Attrition is a problem in places like Veinte de Noviembre, especially among the young who abandon their villages for opportunities elsewhere. Ezequiel and his fellow townspeople are working to create a better life right at home. They have organized themselves to capture a share of the relatively few tourists who pass through this historic and lush corner of Mexico, a six-hour journey south of Cancun. They are opening their arms and their homes to outsiders in a seemingly well-rehearsed effort to share their culture, a concept known as geotourism. According to the National Geographic Center for Sustainable Destinations, geotourism "sustains or enhances the geographical character of a place – its environment, culture, aesthetics, heritage, and the well-being of its residents." And that's exacty what the people of Veinte de Noviembre are attempting to do.

In a soft-spoken, slightly jittery voice, and only two months of English under his belt, Ezequiel peeked at his notes and launched into an introduction to the ejido of Veinte de Noviembre.

"We moved here from a town in the northern Yucatan to make a better life," he told us, explaining that the government granted them the land – 40 hectares per person – in hopes each family could work the land and make a living. The men arrived first to build the houses and clear the land, and two years later, in 1971, their families followed. "In this ejido," Ezequiel said, "we use only organic farming methods. We sell what we produce – mostly corn, chiles, and honey – at the closest market in Xpuhil."

As we listened to Ezequiel describe ejido life, a thin woman, wearing a huipil, the traditional white, embroidered dress of Yucatec Maya women, stepped out of the back room carrying plates weighed down with enormous tamales, sliced and arranged on banana leaves and garnished with hibiscus blossoms. I was impressed – the presentation rivaled breakfast at the Four Seasons.

"This is Brazo de Reina," Ezequiel told us, "the arm of the queen" (tamale stuffed with spinach-like greens called chaya and hard-boiled eggs, bundled in banana leaves and roasted). "It is usually served on festivals and holidays," he said, making us feel like honored guests.

I topped the queen's arm with blood-colored tomato salsa and toasted pumpkin seeds and dug in. In spite of the dish's macabre name – it did resemble a filleted forearm – the texture was creamy and the flavors subtle with a hint of wood smoke. The chile-laced salsa lent a spicy kick and the toasted seeds a nutty finish.

The cook poured chocolate into plastic cereal bowls and distributed them. The thin chocolate went down warm and extremely sweet, like dessert. After the meal, she asked us in Spanish if we would like to see her fojon. Not knowing what that was, but willing to take a chance, we agreed and followed her out the back door to her kitchen – a three-sided shack open to the breeze. The fojon turned out to be the open-pit, wood-fired oven where she roasted our breakfast.

Ezequiel led us to two more homes where the owners were waiting to welcome us. One was Margarita, a seamstress with a quick laugh and a quicker needle, who demonstrated her skill at embroidering the flowery borders on huipiles. The other was Augustin, the hammock-maker, a jovial man who introduced us to his family and showed off his loom and his skill at weaving top-quality hammocks, the bed of choice among the region's Maya people. On our way back to the turquoise house, we passed a stone marker, plastered and painted with the name of the village in Spanish and Mayan, as well as in the ancient glyphs of their ancestors. Pride in their Maya heritage is very much alive in Veinte de Noviembre, and it shows.

Back at the turquoise house, we got a rigorous workout – and a good laugh at ourselves – at the batidora, the wooden contraption shaped like a small butter churn that whips up frothy chocolate by hand. The town is in its infancy when it comes to tourism. We were only their second tour, but the edges were smooth and the experience, the place, and the people were authentic, not staged. It felt good – satisfying, actually – to spend my tourist dollars with the good people of Veinte de Noviembre, to get a close-up view of a culture few outsiders get to see, to be a small part of their endeavor to "make a better life," as Ezequiel put it.

Would I let voyeurs tromp through my home to gawk at the trappings of my daily life? Not a chance. That's why I left Veinte de Noviembre feeling humbled by their hospitality, as though I'd been given a gift, one that I carried home in my heart.