If you ever go to the Yucatan peninsula, don’t make the same mistake I did. The cab driver tried to warn me about the aluxes, the little Mayan elves that protect the jungle and underground caves. They aren’t necessarily evil, but they take their role as guardians seriously. I thought it was a bunch of hogwash stories you tell kids to keep them away from the cenotes. I’ll tell you this: stay away from the aluxes.
Yo me llamo Chan, soy el que cuida aquí el tsʼonot, o cenote como le dicen. Ha habido poca lluvia este año y está bajo el nivel del agua. Anda preocupado el patrón, ¡pero carajo! Dejó encargado a su hijo y ahora vienen de todos lados a ver el cenote, se quedan a dormir acá, hacen su mugrero y se van. Ya me enfadé. Al próximo tarado que se le ocurra venir por acá le va a ir mal.
The place where I was staying was in the middle of nowhere. Yucatán’s jungle as far as the eye could see. The land owner's son turned it into an Airbnb experience with hammocks, kitschy decorations, and the piece de resistance: a private cenote. It had stairs that went into the water and lights inside it so you could swim in it at night if you wished to do so. According to the binder in the living room, this cenote is part of the Sac Actun1 system, a 235-mile-long underwater cave. A turquoise pool of natural limestone keeps water at 77 degrees even when it’s hotter than Satan’s armpit outside. The house only had ceiling fans, and the sticky, moist heat of the jungle made the idea of a dip in a naturally cooled pool all the more enticing.
Ahorita acaba de llegar un güerito a la casa y ya le ví las malas intenciones. De seguro va a querer meter su pirix2 en el agua. Anda rojo como tomate ya. Tanto turista me complica la existencia, cansa. Me veré como un chamaco3, pero tengo más de 300 años. Todos sirviendo en cenotes a lo largo del sistema Sac Actun. Si a la noche se mete al cenote, voy a tener que hacer algo al respecto.
I came back to the Airbnb after my Tulum excursion, ready to take a dip in the cenote. It was about dusk, and the open jungle sky was getting dark fast. I changed into my bathing suit, grabbed my towel, and made my way through the brick path. Suddenly, I saw what looked like a wrinkled three-year-old standing at the entrance to the cenote.
“Hello? Habla inglés?” My Spanish was non-existent. “Está cerrado el cenote, güerito,” the wrinkled child said with a grin, “cenote closed. No service.” I turned on the flashlight on my phone to see him better. “Yo pagando Airbnb, se-señor? niño?” I tried to explain to the best of my abilities. “Pelaná4 no entiendes!? Cenote closed!”
I tried to contact the host, but my phone had zero bars. As customers, you and I are probably used to always being right. For the most part, this would be true if you weren't dealing with aluxes. Aluxes don't give a shit about customer service.
“Yo ir cenote, señor. Gracias.” I said firmly, as someone who knew their rights and pressed forward towards the stairs. Before I knew what was happening, this wrinkled child started hitting me with a branch and cursing at me–those words I know. He exhaled, and a gust of cold wind hit me right on the face. I immediately felt feverish, and everything started spinning. I felt sick and wanted to throw up. I stumbled back to the house and sent dozens of messages to the host asking for help.
He was extremely apologetic. He even took me to the doctor, sort of. The village H’men, a shaman, looked at me and said: “You have ‘malaire,’ my friend. Did you piss off an alux?” “If an alux looks like a wrinkled child, then yes. He didn't want me to get in the cenote.” The host and the shaman shared a concerned look. “You’ll be fine, amigo. Just drink plenty of fluids, get a good night's sleep, and maybe visit the cenote in broad daylight. Aluxes only come out when it’s dark.”
Yo creo que sí se me pasó la mano con el güerito, verdad? Pero bueno, palo dado ni Dios lo quita. Menos mal que pude proteger el cenote, para que le dure más al patrón. Le voy a pedir unas vacaciones. Me cansé de pegarle como piñata al gringo. Ahí si me ocupan voy a estar en la hamaca eh. Con permiso.
I packed my things and left as soon as I could. I went back to Cancún and got on the next flight to the US. Now you know the mistake I made, so consider yourself warned. Aluxes are real and not to be trifled with. But if you feel inclined to visit Yucatán, only visit cenotes during the day or suffer the consequences.
(840 words)
Maya for white cave.
Maya for buttocks.
Chamaco is derived from the Mayan “chan máak,” which means small person, and it is used to refer to kids.
Maya for stupid.
Some great info! I’ll blame it on the aluxes if I am pressured into swimming in a cenote.
The real reason is if you can’t see the bottom I am not getting in. #1 fear is lost in the open ocean. I am even not having a good time if I get more than 20 feet from shore.
This is brilliant on so many levels. But as a gringa that has been a tourist, I can say that this piece captures the obliviousness (read: arrogance) and selfishness (read: ethnocentrism) of being a white/European-descent traveler. This piece is like a diamond that reflects light differently depending on the angle. When I read the Spanish on my second time through (my Spanish is poor) I am suddenly shocked as I am confronted with an empathetic view of Chan, which changes my experience of the entire episode. But even reading the Spanish, I am an outsider as I encounter Mayan words. The cenote might be a nice selfie background for a tourist, but it is someone else's cherished home.