Cresencio was so proud of his last name that he didn’t think twice when they asked him what he would call the new business everyone in Motul was talking about. “It will be called Novelo’s Convenience Store” he said without blinking. Although he didn’t know much about his own bloodline, Cresencio knew the history of the Novelo family very well, and he had been raised as one of them.

He arrived in Motul looking for fortune. The first step on his career path was the store he loved. It opened when the first rays of morning light appeared, a few minutes before five o’clock. At around three in the afternoon Cresencio started filling the kerosene lamps of the Luz Diamante de Longman and Martinez company, imported from New York. He was there until ten at night, when he went home to rest. He worked long hours and closed only on Sundays. But he knew that this was the only path to reaching his dreams.

There was a wide variety of products on his counters and shelves. From sewing needles to heavy farming equipment. But the most popular items were Mexican and international foodstuffs. Rice from Campeche, cocoa from Tabasco, coffee and beans from Veracruz, cod from Norway, cheese from Holland, beer from Germany, table wine from Burgandy, dried fruit and ham from Spain. He passed his days looking at these products, and creating business ties with their distributors.

He liked his store, but he had bigger dreams, and when the first opportunity arose in May of 1882, he crossed the Atlantic, touching European soil for the first time. His destination was Hamburg, Germany. He arrived full of hopes and dreams, and he was ready to take the next step on his path. He took many trips and thanks to his concentrated efforts, there were few missteps. And that was how, as someone had predicted, he carried the name he had been given far and wide: Novelo.

Any time Marta didn’t get what she wanted, she threatened to throw herself into the Ts’ono’ot, or the Sambulá cenote. Perhaps she got the idea from what were understood to be the Mayan rituals at cenotes, ones that involved human sacrifice. In Yucatán, there are thousands of cenotes, or sinkholes, that are like Sambulá.

The waters that flow underground througout Yucatán come to the surface as cenotes. Lacking rivers or lakes, large Mayan settlements tended to form around these cenotes, such that cities and towns grew up around them, too. That’s why the majority of today’s towns have a cenote, which, over time, has become a distinct characteristic of each region. The Sambulá cenote is the cenote of Motul.

Which makes it also the cenote of my story. The cenote of Marta, Rita, Amparo, and Beatriz. The first ones entered it, lighting their way with kerosene lamps, since this particular cenote is a closed one and it has hardly any openings that let the sunlight filter in.

And although Marta never followed through on her threat to throw herself into the Samulá cenote, she did experience, like the other women in my story, the great tranquility that comes from admiring the beautiful waters of the cenote: turquoise, crystal clear, lukewarm. They all went down to this underground cave and found a peaceful refuge there. Mainly during those moments when the rhythm of their lives changed for one reason or another. The Sambulá cenote was always there, ready to welcome them.