Unexpected Laughter in the Jungle

by Jenna Van Valen (United States of America)

Making a local connection Mexico

Many years ago my husband and I fell deeply in love with Mexico. On our first trip we we met a pet squirrel monkey named Titi, which we thought was cute, until we learned it was Mayan for “butthole,” (this explained the giggles when we said his name). It was just the first of many memorable encounters we’ve had with locals in Mexico. We’ve spent several trips visiting Maya cities, and last summer we made our way into the beautiful state of Chiapas. We made our way deep into the jungle and the small village of Frontera Corazol to the riverbanks of the Usumacinta River, the wide, murky, swiftly moving border between Mexico and Guatemala. There we hired a long, shallow boat for our journey. It had a canopy to protect us from the sun, the captain made sure we had life jackets, gave us bottles of water, and we set upstream. Crocodiles sunned themselves on the banks, tropical birds sang. About an hour later, rising out of the trees, incongruous with the surroundings, was a stone building. The boat docked at the bottom of concrete stairs, and we ascended, the roars of howler monkeys echoing through the jungle. We turned on our flashlights, entered a moss covered building, and picked our way through the darkness, under sleeping bats and past tailless whip scorpions. We saw daylight at the top of a short flight of stairs, and when we came out of the low, dark building, we were finally standing in the ruins of the Maya city of Yaxchilan. We made our way towards the tallest building, the temple on top of a hill. There were countless stairs to the top, and on our ascent, the sound of the monkeys grew louder. At the top you could enter the building, and there was another small group of tourists there. As I took monkey photos with my long lens, the tour guide approached me and said something in a language I didn’t understand. I stared blankly at him, and he tried again in Spanish, asking me where I was from. I replied, “Soy de los estados unidos.” He said in English this time, “How did you get HERE?!” And I laughed, told him I had always wanted to visit. He was indigenous Lacandon - Mayan was the first language he spoke to me. English was his third language. He proceeded to explain to me in that region there were 80 some-odd dialects of Mayan, and he had assumed that an American at that site would be an archaeologist, and had thought I would speak Mayan. He was stunned to learn we were simply adventurous travelers. He taught me the Mayan words for spider monkey and howler. He asked me if I knew any Mayan, and I said, “Solamente una palabra…” just one word…he gestured for me to continue, and I said excitedly, “Titi.” There was a pause, his eyes grew wide, and threw his head back and started roaring with laughter. He slapped me on the back, tears running down his face, he had to bend over to catch his breath. I don’t think he was expecting the tiny unassuming American to turn to him and say “butthole.” I had to explain, in broken Spanish and some English, about the pet monkey. He thanked me for the laugh, he thanked me for visiting his home, and for loving Mexico. We shook hands and he took his tour group back down the pyramid. The experience of sharing time and laughs with a local, speaking literally in three different languages, there in the jungle, will always stay with me as a highlight of my travels. I like to imagine him that night going home to his family and telling them about the American he met, and how she knew one word in Mayan. And I like to think he and his friends and family have gotten as many laughs out of the story as I have.