Across cultures worldwide, whispers and tales speak of “Little People”—beings known by many names such as fairies, gnomes, goblins, and sprites. Often imbued with spiritual or supernatural powers, these entities are sometimes seen as nature’s helpers and human benefactors, while others are perceived as malevolent tricksters. Mexico, a land rich in ancient traditions, boasts its own unique cast of these fascinating creatures, collectively known as duendes.
Unveiling the Mystical World of Duendes
In Mexico, the concept of duendes is deeply rooted in pre-Hispanic culture. Each region across this diverse country has its own distinct version of these beings, each with unique names and characteristics. Interestingly, in Spanish, the word “duende” itself carries a connotation of charisma and charm, suggesting a certain enchanting quality associated with these figures.
Descriptions of duendes often depict them as small, child-like figures, yet bearing the aged faces of old men. Some are said to possess the ability to vanish at will, while others can cleverly disguise themselves as diminutive elderly men. A common belief is that encountering an old man asking for food or small change might be a duende in disguise. Refusing their request is said to invite misfortune – perhaps a failed harvest or a sudden car breakdown. While often mischievous, duendes can also be harbingers of more serious trouble. These beings are believed to be tied to specific natural locations and can be persuaded to leave through respectful offerings and gestures.
Regional Variations: Aluxes, Chaneques, and Huichaa
Within Mexico, several types of duendes are recognized. Among the most famous are the aluxob (singular alux) of the Yucatán Peninsula. The ancient Aztecs had similar beliefs, describing younger creatures known as chanekeh (or chaneque) or ohuican chaneque, which translates to “those who inhabit dangerous places” or “owners of the house.” Further south in Oaxaca, the Zapotec people speak of huíchaa. These are nocturnal beings with shapeshifting abilities, capable of taking the forms of jaguars, bats, snakes, and other animals.
The striking similarities between these Mexican creatures and “little people” figures from global folklore are remarkable, almost compelling one to consider their possible reality. In fact, even while researching this very article, a sense of playful interference arose, as if the duendes themselves were subtly engaging.
Personal Encounters: Tales from the Locals
The exploration of duendes began with a conversation over brunch, shared with individuals from diverse cultural backgrounds. Each person offered childhood stories and indigenous names for these beings from their own cultures. However, it was a friend from the Yucatán, whom we’ll call José, who spoke with particular conviction. Now a man of grandparent age, José doesn’t simply believe in aluxob; he knows they exist from personal experience.
José’s upbringing was within a traditional Mayan family, deeply connected to nature and the rhythms of rural life, far from urban centers. As a boy, he frequently joined hunting expeditions. During nighttime hunts, he was often instructed to remain in the truck, as the jungle was considered perilous after dark. The men would never be gone for extended periods. He grew up immersed in stories of the aluxob, depicted as curious, playful, and fond of startling people. It was understood that humans needed to respect alux territory and offer gifts to appease them.
One particular night, José diligently locked the truck doors, as always. He waited for the hunting party to return. Typically, their absence was an hour or less, but this night, hours stretched on. Then, he heard a sound. He peered out of each window, expecting to see the men returning, but saw nothing. No movement in the undergrowth, no voices or human sounds. The only thing he could discern was a muffled whispering, in an unfamiliar language.
He continued scanning each window when he heard scratching on the truck’s bumper, and the vehicle began to rock. The whispering intensified into an inhuman cackle, and fearfully, José hid under a blanket until the sounds subsided. Eventually, the rocking and cackling reverted to whispers, then silence. The jungle remained still, but José felt a palpable sense of isolation.
He remained hidden for another hour before the men finally returned, weary and empty-handed – an uncommon occurrence. José’s family firmly believed that the aluxob were displeased with their hunting expedition that night. They had failed to offer any token of respect and had encroached on alux domain. They never repeated the hunt.
Intrigued by José’s account, a local guide in Huatulco, whom we shall call Marco, was asked about similar legends. He responded that he didn’t have legends, only firsthand experiences.
Marco’s childhood was spent in the hills surrounding Huatulco before it became a tourist hotspot. He and his friends roamed barefoot, exploring every corner of what is now known as the Magic Waterfalls area. His family instilled in him a deep understanding of the jungle’s dangers and wonders: how to identify venomous snakes, which plants held medicinal properties, and the telltale signs of the duende.
Sometimes, piercing screams would emanate from the ravines at night. Sounding like a distressed or lost child, these cries were most often heard when young men walked alone in the dark. They knew these screams were a deceptive lure employed by the huíchaa, and they would hasten home. On occasion, Marco would notice an unfamiliar old man following him on a path. Turning around moments later, the figure would have transformed into a dog, disappearing into the bush. Marco’s friends shared similar stories. These encounters were simply accepted as part of growing up in rural Mexico.
While some might dismiss these accounts as products of unsophisticated minds, Marco pursued higher education in the United States before returning to serve his community. He remains convinced that something exists in the jungle that is neither human nor animal.
Even in Oaxaca City
In Oaxaca City, an encounter with a knowledgeable elderly guide brought further intrigue. Fluent in Zapotec languages, Spanish, and English, this guide possessed profound insights into pre-Hispanic culture. Initially, he seemed to evade questions about local myths. At first, a language barrier was suspected, but even with a translator ensuring clarity, he remained hesitant. Finally, looking directly, he advised focusing instead on alebrije.
Alebrije are not ancient legendary creatures but rather a 20th-century artistic tradition originating in the 1930s. Pedro Linares, an artisan, dreamt of fantastical creatures during an illness. Upon recovery, he began crafting these hybrid animals from cardboard and papier-mâché, painting them in vibrant, dreamlike colors. His work gained recognition, attracting the attention of a gallery owner in southern Mexico. Prominent artists like Frida Kahlo championed his art, and soon, wood carvers in Oaxaca began producing alebrije from soft copal wood. This beautiful art form thrives today, with talented artists even in Huatulco. However, alebrije are not duendes. Why would the guide steer the conversation towards them and away from huíchaa?
Upon returning to Huatulco, extensive online research was undertaken. However, Zapotec languages are linguistically distinct from Spanish and other familiar languages. Information about huíchaa is predominantly transmitted through oral tradition. Available videos and written materials are largely in Zapotec, posing translation challenges for modern tools. Spanish-language resources were translated and cross-referenced. Yet, the elder guide’s piercing gaze and his advice to “back off” lingered in mind. Despite this, commitment to this article remained steadfast.
That’s when unusual occurrences began.
A morning swim at the beach turned strange. The dry bag, packed and secured before leaving the car, remained unopened and in sight throughout the swim. Afterward, upon reaching the car, the keys were inexplicably missing. The bag was emptied, revealing only four items. How could keys vanish from a locked bag? The car wouldn’t lock with keys inside, ruling out that possibility. The bag was intact, securely folded, and locked.
Retracing steps to the beach, bewilderment grew as to how the keys could be anywhere but inside the locked bag. Reaching the spot where belongings had been left, there, in the sand, were the keys, partially buried, with a small footprint imprinted above them. Regretfully, no picture was taken in that moment of shock.
Examining the bag, its watertight integrity was confirmed. The keys couldn’t have fallen out. The beach was deserted early that morning, no children present, and even a child would have struggled to close the bag as securely as it had been. The bag showed no signs of tampering, and emergency cash inside remained untouched.
Subsequently, various household items have gone missing, only to reappear later in unexpected places. With no children, guests, or pets to misplace things, it’s difficult not to wonder if the duende world has been disturbed.
While not claiming firm belief in huíchaa, a practice of leaving a small token of appreciation whenever visiting the beach is now adopted. Fruit is said to be favored by them. If not consumed by huíchaa, the local iguanas will surely enjoy it.
*Ed. Note: For those interested in further research, the Córdoba branch of the Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM) offers an online Zapotec/English/Zapotec dictionary, useful for individual word lookups: https://www.iifilologicas.unam.mx/cordova/zapEsp.php.
