Wanderings of a space cadet

“Yolanda. Yo soy Yo-lan-da.” Yolanda beckons towards the freckled alien marooned in her hammock shop. Six weeks in the Mayan Sun had done little to brown her pasty body, belying her European status. The awkward twenty-something scans the crowded rows of tightly-rolled Yucatecan bundles and her brow furrows, “erm...”

“This one.” Yolanda spreads a splash of blue, white and orange before her. “Or this one.” Another rainbow unfolds. The alien takes a few of the delicate threads between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing them together. She casts the palm of her hand over the coarse knots, which have held sleeping Mexicans for thousands of years. Yolanda’s small, black, imploring eyes reassure the girl of her purchase.

Upon faded plastic chairs, the women of Mérida’s market sit, stately pyramids amid the stenches of fish, maize and urine. The appearance of Yolanda with a freckled gringa in tow rouses them from the dulling afternoon heat.

On the request for help from the alien to post the hammock to “Lun-dun” she couldn’t resist parading her booty through those old reptiles. They join the convoy, and giggle inquisitively at the pinky foreign body. Their friendly, round, ancient faces radiate the age-old jocular hospitality on offer in Yucatán.

The party waddles out into the sun with Yolanda at the helm, brimming. Passers by nod, in respect of her mission in foreign relations. Yolanda acknowledges the love she has for the sun-baked streets of her home: a world of colour, humour and history. She looks back to check on the alien, unwillingly hand-in-hand with María Elena.

Yolanda presents the girl to the Post Office. Its peach edifice is a flamboyant reminder of colonial times. The room is dark as they escape the rays of the sun god. Yolanda exchanges words with Don Mañuel at the counter, whose eyes survey the nervous girl. Like thunder, a smile cracks across his face as he takes the hammock. An unused box is found in a corner, as well as some twine and a label. Yolanda intently watches the girl pen “Essex, U.K.” onto the cardboard, curious as to the exotic destination of her hammock.

Pesos clumsily fumbled with and parcel stamped, Yolanda’s alien turns to her. “Thank you, gracias” she smiles, conveying with her eyes everything her Spanish cannot express.