In 1974, I went to Mexico to visit my brother who was working as an anthropologi st with Tsutsil Indians, the last surviving Mayan tribe. And the Tsutsil speak a lovely birdlike language and are quite tiny physically; I towered over them. Mo stly, I spent my days following the women around since my brother wasn't really allowed to do this. We got up at 3am and began to separate the corn into three c olors. And we boiled it, ran to the mill and back, and finally started to make t he tortillas. Now all the other women's tortillas were 360°, perfectly toasted, perfectly round; and after a lot of practice mine were still lobe-sided and cha rred. And when they thought I wasn't looking they threw them to the dogs.
After breakfast we spent the rest of the day down at the river watching the goat s and braiding and unbraiding each other's hair. So usually there wasn't that mu ch to report. One day the women decided to braid my hair Tsutsil-style. After th ey did this I saw my reflection in a puddle. I looked ridiculous but they said, âBefore we did this you were ugly, but now maybe you will find a husband.â
I lived within in a yurt, a thatched structure shaped like a cob cake. And there 's a central fireplace ringed by sleeping shelves sort of like a dry beaver down . Now my Tsutsil name was Lausha, which loosely translated means âthe ugly one with the jewelsâ. Now ugly, OK, I was awfully tall by local standards. But wh at did they mean by the jewels? I didn't find out what this meant until one nigh t, when I was taking my contact lenses out, and since I'd lost the case I was ca refully placing them on the sleeping shelf; suddenly I noticed that everyone was staring at me and I realized that none of the Tsutsil had ever seen glasses, mu ch less contacts, and that these were the jewels, the transparent, perfectly rou nd, jewels that I carefully hid on the shelf at night and then put for safekeepi ng into my eyes every morning.
So I may have been ugly but so what? I had the jewels.
Full fathom thy father lies
Of his bones are coral made
Those are pearls that were his eyes
Nothing of him that doth fade
But that suffers a sea change
Into something rich and strange
And I alone am left to tell the tale
Call me Ishmael
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