Yellow Town

Far outside of Cancun, lies a tiny town that tourists have never heard of. It is a sleepy place with dusty streets, where the friendly locals nod as you walk by. There are no nightclubs, no cocktails with umbrellas, no beautiful people. But you can get a cool drink and plenty of hospitality.

I was 16 and wide-eyed. This was the first time I had been to a different country without my family in tow. I was in Mexico with my Spanish class, two chaperones, 7 other giggling girls, and Max: my best friend and the only boy on the trip.

We had spent the day exploring Chichen Itza and were on our way back to the hotel in Cancun. Our little group stopped for lunch, and a break from being trapped in a VW bus with no AC. We tumbled out of the bus into the hot, dusty streets. The sun shone on a village with buildings painted in an equally sunny hue. They all had white trim on their stuccoed facades, lined up like old friends.

Our first stop was a small, open air church with large shady trees bowing over its wide open doors. There was an immediate hush as we walked into its cool interior. There were a few heads bowed in prayer, a few faces upturned below the altar.

The thing that struck me the most about the church were its statues. I have never seen anything like them, before or since. They all had human hair and glass eyes that shone in the dim light. Everywhere I looked, there were life-sized statues in alcoves, hair sweeping across their faces in the breeze. Hands outstretched, eyes pleading to an unknown recipient. I felt goosebumps rise on my skin as I gazed into the face of Jesus. Hair softly blew across His face, while sorrowful eyes peered out from behind. I remember sunlight filtering through the open windows, flowers clustered around the feet of the beloved statues. There were candles flickering and dogs barking off in the distance.

The spell was broken when my Spanish teacher called to us. I reluctantly broke away, spilling back out into the sunny streets. Our next stop was a tiny cafe across the alley. The screen door banged behind us, fans whirring crookedly above our heads. The man behind the bar smiled as he set cold Fanta on the countertop. We sat in groups of 2 and 3, chatting and laughing. A small group of men watched bullfighting, the handsome matador teasing his old foe on the screen.

I recall my contentment as I surveyed my surroundings. I felt lucky to be there, in that tiny town with its yellow buildings.