Yuni brings corn husks, with prayers written on their faded green sheaves. Ben has the cornmeal. Not the ordinary yellow kind─the blue, which is more expensive. They scatter it around the purple, bell-shaped flowers of the jacaranda. The scene is stunning: Baroque-style church in the background, sunlight bouncing off the leaves, pastel-colored buildings lining the square. Ben resists the urge to upload a vlog to TikTok. Mexico is the 112th country he’s visited in four years. Even influencers get time off.
Yuni performs this ceremony once a month, in front of different trees. She says it helps purify the earth. Her kindness is so effervescent, he didn’t believe it was genuine at first. They met three nights ago at a mole tasting in one of Oaxaca’s many mezcal bars. Their relationship is too new to have a name.
“Repeat after me,” Yuni says. “We honor this tree. The shade it provides. The beauty it delights us with.”
Ben does so, a bit self-consciously. Her grandmother is a shaman, who taught her to revere the corn ceremony. His served him creamed corn with meatloaf.
A procession snakes through the cobblestone square, people holding signs, chanting, handing out flyers. He doesn’t speak Spanish. The only phrase he knows is una botella de agua pura, por favor.
“What are they protesting?” he asks.
Her nut-brown eyes grow serious and she looks away. “You.”
His breath catches in his throat. He’s still adjusting to being 5,000 feet above altitude. Now he can see what’s written on one of the handbills: no more gringos.
“It’s just that it costs so much to live here now,” Yuni explains, twirling her finger through her luxuriant dark hair. “There are too many visitors. Rents have doubled downtown. I was evicted from my apartment because they turned it into an Airbnb.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, wondering who got kicked out of the place where he’s staying.
As a professional tourist, he specializes in veneers. Landscapes, restaurants, beaches, trends. He doesn’t give much thought to what lies beneath the surface. He was initially drawn to Yuni because he wanted to photograph her in front of the marvelous ruins of Monte Alban. Local color. It’s what attracts viewers. He has more than three million followers. Hilton is considering sponsoring his site.
One of the marchers hands him a flyer.
“What can I do about this?” he says, gesturing to the departing protesters. Thinking he could write a blog post or organize a petition.
“You can pray.”
He bows his head, trying to recall the last time he went to church. Back when he was a kid and believed in something. The writing on the corn husks is spidery and faded.
“What do your prayers say?” he asks her.
“May we revere the land. May we protect and share it equally.”
“May we do no harm,” he adds, scattering more cornmeal around the jacaranda.
The blue grains shift with the wind. Tiny. Hopeful. They look like powdered Kool-Aid fertilizing the tree.
Grey Sparrow Journal 