La Anciana Maya

Photo of Older Woman in San Cristóbal, Chiapas, Mexico by J. Sharland

I saw her less than a minute after lamenting, “Why didn’t I buy a shawl when we were at the market last night? I’m freezing!” 

My husband and friends just looked at me, since they knew it was a rhetorical question, because, why didn’t I buy one after each of them had wisely purchased something warm for the cooler mountainous climate? It was cold at this location in the winter, especially early in the morning.

We were in San Cristóbal, Chiapas, Mexico, on a bit of a holiday from the dreary choppy ocean at PaaMul, Quintana Roo, where we lived in the winter. We were sitting down to order breakfast in a tiny restaurant near our hotel that had the traditional open window--no glass--concept of the area, and I was shivering.

I swear, I had barely gotten the words out of my mouth about being cold, when a woman walked by that open window carrying an armload of shawls. My mouth dropped open at the coincidence. But it wasn’t just the fact that a vendor came by almost at the very moment I mentioned needing what she was selling, the woman looked right at me as if she had read my mind. I was certain she couldn’t have heard my words.

She disappeared before I could call out to her, but then she walked through the doorway to the restaurant seconds later. There must have been a back door, as she hadn’t turned around to come in the only door I could see.

I watched in awe as she came toward me, seeing her tiny stature and wondering how someone so frail-looking could carry such a load of woven goods on her arm as well as a huge bag on her shoulder stuffed full of more fabric. I wondered how long she could carry such loads without collapsing, and then began wondering how she found me.

This woman looked to be a hundred, with her dark, weathered, wrinkled skin and grey hair barely seen beneath the woolen scarf she wore around her head. But when she smiled at me, her dark eyes lit up making her look youthful and beautiful, especially since she had just become my new savior.

Her dress was a typical white Mayan sheath with colorful embroidery around the squared neckline and along the hem of the skirt, which I could barely see through the spaces in the many drapes of heavy shawls she wore for warmth.

She held up a shawl for me as she approached my chair and rattled off some Mayan words that I could not understand. I got the gist of her message when she threw a shawl around my shoulders. She knew that I was cold, and knew that I needed a shawl. But the color was wrong. I did not wear grey, or the browns of which she seemed to prefer, and took it off, pointing to a pink one. I don’t wear much pink, either, but I thought the bright color was more pleasing than the dull earth-tones.

I asked in Spanish, “¿Cuanto cuesta?” and she replied in Spanish, “Trescientos pesos.”

That was less than fifteen dollars U.S., I figured in my head, astounded.

I don’t like to barter with these vendors, as they don’t make much money as it is, so I pulled out three one hundred peso bills and held them toward her. But instead of taking the money, she looked at me intently with her warm brown eyes. I wondered if she was reading my soul or my heart, or merely trying to analyze my coloring, because she began rummaging around in her bag and pulling out several different colors of the same type of shawl. She put these aside and kept digging.

I started to tell her, “No mas, Señora,” when she pulled out an orange shawl with red threads through it and held it toward me. 

I nearly shouted with excitement. However, I suppressed my enthusiasm as there were other people around us, yet she saw my face light up and smiled knowingly.

I cried out, “Yes! That’s the one I want!”

It looked like a flame, and orange was one of my favorite colors. It was perfect! I handed her the pink shawl, and she draped the orange one around my shoulders and nodded her head in approval.

I paid her and thanked her, and watched her face once again as she kept looking at me. I felt a connection to her in some curious way that I didn’t understand, almost as if I had known her before.

I watched her mouth as she smiled at me again, seeing the wide curve of her thin lips part, showing her slightly brown teeth. I wanted to photograph that face and asked her if she would allow me to do so.

She shook her head and said, “No!” But not emphatically, so I asked if I could photograph her shawls. 

She shook her head, and I said, “Ok! Muchisimas gracias por mi calidez,” wanting to thank her for the warmth she gave me. She hesitated and put her hand on my arm before she turned to leave.

I smiled back at her and said, “Gracias.”

She walked away.

I took my camera out so that she wouldn’t see, and took a photo as she was ready to walk out the door. She couldn’t have known I disobeyed her wishes, but I felt guilty, and happy all at once. I felt bad for dishonoring her, but I wanted to keep the memory of her so that I could study her profile and catch a glimpse of what she was about.

The Mayan people in this area, we knew from a tour we had taken a few years ago, will not allow their photos to be taken because they are fearful that their spirit will be stolen in the process of capturing their image on film. Once they know they have been photographed, they run to their Shaman, who has to go in search of their spirit, which means he has to shoot off noisy rockets to open the heavens to find these spirits when seeking out these stolen souls. The noisemakers sound like the ‘duds’ at Fourth of July celebrations during the evening’s fireworks displays. I remember how very startling they were. Were these also effective? 

Thinking about this, I truly felt guilty having put her spirit in peril, even though I knew that taking her photo really wouldn’t have done any damage whatsoever, to her, or to her soul, since she didn’t know I had taken her picture. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to go check on her.

I was at the door in a matter of seconds after she had departed, but when I got to the street, she was nowhere to be seen. The side street was on my left, and she hadn’t crossed over, so I ran right, where there were shops. I wasn’t exactly sure why I needed to see her but felt compelled to try anyway.

I looked in the doorway of the shop next door, but it was empty of people except for a kid listening to music waiting for customers to help with whatever electronic equipment was sold there.

I ran to the next store, but it had not opened yet, and the next few were still closed as well. It was early, after all.

The woman couldn’t have gotten so far ahead of me that I wouldn’t have seen her walking up the slightly inclined sidewalk, but there was no sign of a little old lady carrying a bundle of shawls.

As I walked back to finish my breakfast, I wondered about the woman who had come to my rescue when I needed her but then disappeared. Who was she? Where did she live? I also wanted to know how she lived. What kind of life did she have? Of course, I would never know. I was just glad I had the image of her by taking her photograph.

At that thought, I took out the camera and turned it on. After clicking to my recent pictures, my knees buckled, and I had to lean against the building to catch my breath.

The last photo I had taken, which was of her walking out the door of the restaurant, only showed the tables and people at them, and the doorway of the room. The image of the woman was not there. I was stunned. I just stared at this phenomenon. I know she had been in the shot when I snapped it, but where was she now?

I was suddenly not hungry. What if I had taken away her spirit by taking her photograph? What if I was responsible for her disappearance? I knew that was ludicrous, of course, but was it? What did I know about these people’s beliefs and consequences? Nada.

I started to shiver and pulled the shawl tighter around me from the sudden chill I felt and walked into the cafe.

As I sat down, my husband, upon seeing the drained look on my face, asked what was wrong and where had I been, reminding me that my breakfast was getting cold.

I muttered, “I ran after the old woman that was here.”

Then he said to me, “What old woman?”

Photo of Door in San Cristóbal, Chiapas, Mexico by J. Sharland