San Pedro La Laguna, Week 2 (7/16-7/22)

My second week in Guatemala has found my stomach significantly better accustomed to the food and water here and thus my spirits are high. Nietzsche would appreciate such a testimonial of the gut’s relationship to the spirit. After two weeks in Tz’utujil country I can’t say my knowledge of the language has progressed to any useful degree. I am now able to mimic most of the odd sounds that seemed imperceptibly similar to me the first few days and I am fairly confident that if this anthropology gig doesn’t pan out I’ll have a post waiting for me at Star Fleet as a Klingon translator. Seriously though, the challenge of Tz’utujil is fun and I am confident that a few more weeks of diligent work, and plenty of rote memorization, will afford me a low level of conversational ability with the locals. I can tell already that my few phrases and words delight them, it’s rare to get a gringo parroting their language, I’m sure. Meanwhile, even if my confidence in Tz’utujil isn’t high, I have been rapidly recovering my lost Spanish skills which I had presumed sunk beneath the dark cold waves with some galleon long ago. Just listening to my teacher, Juan, explain Tz’utujil grammar to me for five hours a morning in his clear Spanish provides me the exposure I need to regain my lost accent and vocabulary.

I was feeling pretty exhausted after 8 days of intense Tz’utujil (that’s 40 hours!) and was happy when Juan planned a couple of excursions on Thursday and Friday. On Thursday, we spent two hours working on grammar and then at 10am headed up to the market and walked around listening in to the exchanges and conversations. I recognized a few words and expressions, but not many. We then stopped in a stall, sat on some hard wooden benches, and waited while a wiry, old grandma ladled us out a couple of corn meal beverages (called maatz) from a large vat of the stuff into hand sized gourds which she had assiduously wiped out before refilling them and handing them our way. The colloid had the consistency of runny oatmeal and conveyed a slightly corny taste mixed with unusual herbs like anise and chili pepper. Large corn ball boogers were to be found in the bottom of the drink like prizes in the bottom of Cap N’ Crunch and Juan taught me to savor these morsels when I came upon them. One gourdful of maatz was plenty for me and I felt like I could have skipped lunch after ingesting this hearty drink. It was really something to sample a traditional beverage that has been a popular—but previously ceremonial—mainstay for countless centuries in Mesoamerica. I offered to pay but Juan insisted. I was relieved when he handed over 2 Quetzals ($.27) to the woman for both of our drinks!

From the market we walked a couple of blocks to the house of a stone sculptor named Don F. Don F is a spry seventy eight year old who still wears the traditional clothing (traje) and has lived in the same house in the middle of San Pedro his whole life. The house has a foundation of barrel-sized stones that have been in place at least 250 years according to Don F’s estimates. Don F chatted with us and walked us through his two small galleries of pieces. He uses a fairly soft stone that’s found along the lakeshore and upon inspecting his raw canvas, decides—like Michelangelo—what’s hidden within. Sometimes it’s a jaguar, other times a crucifix with a hanging Jesus, and yet other times it’s Saddam Hussein (whom he despises as the son of the devil) or Fidel Castro (whom he lionizes as savior of the poor)! Don F was brimming over with energy and wit and talked on and on about his work, about his political opinions, and about his experiences in San Pedro. He uses his own name with such consistency and gusto that at first I wondered: “Who is this masterful F I keep hearing so much about?” But his sense of humor, winning smile, and occasional wink convinced me that Don F looked upon life, politics, and himself with an equal measure of respect and comedy. I purchased two fine pieces from him, a nifty Jaguar head with grinning teeth, and a black dappled, yellow leopard kneeling penitently and holding open a book while baring his fangs. Feliciano explained to me that this was representative of all the protestant preachers hereabouts.

After this wonderful visit to the market and to the home of a colorful local artist, Juan took me down to the lakeshore near his brother’s kayak rental business which I had asked about. I look forward to renting one of these kayaks soon and heading out on the lake for some adventures.

The next day we followed a similar schedule: after two hours of grammar we headed up to the center of town where we met some of Juan’s political party chums. We jumped in the back of a truck and proceeded to pick up two more people before heading over to the next town over, San Juan. I am definitely living in the right place, since three of the six of us (myself included) were named John, all heading—of course—to San Juan. A common refrain that I both give and receive here is “That’s my name too!” Between Juan and Maria fully a third—or more—of San Pedro is covered, it’s always a safe bet if you can’t remember someone’s name. As we were waiting for the last person, chatting while parked in front of his workplace, I was shocked to see a dog emerge from an alleyway dripping massive amounts of blood from a gash on her head, just above her right eye. I pointed this out to Juan and a couple of other people and while all were saddened none was concerned enough to warrant any action. Such is the life of a dog in San Pedro. As Juan had explained to me earlier, there is no security for people in San Pedro La Laguna, even less for dogs. I’ll resist from sharing more such stories about roaming animals here but suffice it to say that American dogs (and American people) have it much better than they could possibly imagine.

We finally departed San Pedro for San Juan, a beautiful, tidy community—just about half the size of San Pedro—nestled beneath some majestically emerald peaks called Las Cristalines. Juan and his political friends were visiting San Juan in order to consult a Mayan priest, Don S, and to have him perform a ritual to promote and bless their cause. Juan kindly invited me to accompany them and the experience was the highlight of my stay in San Pedro thus far.

We parked the truck in the center of town and walked from the street down an alleyway until we approached a run down sort of place, a house that looked like an enlarged shack with some outlying chicken coops; numerous chickens, chicks, and a rooster bobbed around the seed strewn terrain. Don S welcomed us into his home. He was a sturdily built Tz’utujil who appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. We uttered our hellos as Don S walked us inside. Everyone sat except for Juan and I who stood near the door. Juan the tailor spoke for a little while and then Don S began a long, long answer. Occasionally he looked down into a pile of red beans and small quartz crystals he had on the small table he leaned against. After a while he invited Juan and I to sit so we got comfortable on the floor and leaned up against the wall.

The house was made of cinderblock with a corrugated tin roof. A wall ran down the center of it separating it into two nearly equally sized rooms, one of which we all sat in. Against the far wall was a large table with a large effigy of Rilaj Mam in the center. The figure resembled the Maximon I had seen in Santiago Atitlan: it wore a black hat, a dark coat, and a mess of silk scarves hung around its neck. A large cigar hung from its wooden lips and an attractive odor of various colognes and aftershaves hung about it. On each side of it were smaller effigies, one was clearly a Christian saint. Various bottles and tinctures were arranged behind Rilaj Mam. On the floor in front of the table were a few stone pieces that looked like ancient Mayan torch holders and an oblong, egg-like piece that reminded me of the Stones of Shankara from Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom. To the left of the table, resting on a board just a few inches off the ground were three Mayan sculptures of what appeared to be deities. Various other stone pieces were assembled around them as well as a collection of unusual objects, including a small bird’s nest with blue robins’ eggs visible within. On the table that Don S rested against, a few feet in front of this floor altar and also along the center dividing wall, were some interesting pieces, including a three inch smoky quartz crystal. Don S spoke on an on as his fingers played in the beans and crystals from time to time. After his diatribe Juan began a set of statements/questions that lasted about ten minutes. Then Don S replied for thirty or so minutes. The strangeness of the language I heard, various pieces of which I could now discern, led me to realize that I was a genuine anthropologist witnessing something that must have occurred, in a somewhat similar way, for centuries among these people. Juan the tailor talked a bit and then Don S replied again for ten to fifteen minutes. Towards the end of this discussion, I understood Don S to be mentioning the need of some money in order to perform the proper ritual. All the party members then went outside and talked among themselves for five or so minutes.

I sat quietly and then Don S asked about me. I told him I was studying Tz’utujil and he said he understood I was an anthropologist. I assented and told him I was studying Tz’utujil at the moment but hoped to return to live among the Tz’utujil in the future. I looked over to the table and asked if the large effigy was Maximon. He was forceful in his negation of this and said that it was Mam to which I replied “Rilaj Mam?” He confirmed this. I then asked him what the beans and crystals were for and he said they were for divining. I also asked about the altarpieces. He said he found them up in the mountains over a long period of time and used their ‘energies.’ I asked him how he came to learn his special knowledge. He said he learned it in various ways since as a young person he had numerous sicknesses that he needed to heal. Eventually an anciano who had a lot of knowledge began to instruct him. I believe he said that it is normal for there to be a transmission of knowledge from an elder to a student and that sometimes the student dies from the knowledge but if he lives then he has that knowledge to use and share. He said the good student must be simple and very humble but also intelligent and hardworking. In a short time he told me a great deal, all of which confirmed my previous understandings about shamanic traditions. The men came back inside and said they would like to present Don S with a gift and then handed over a wad of bills which Don S put in a basket of coins that sat in front of Rilaj Mam.

Don S then went outside and began preparations for a fire ritual. He motioned Juan outside and gave him two baskets, one full of large corn husks that had been diligently wrapped into packages and one full of smaller corn husks that appeared the same except for their diminutive size. Juan then told me that I could help in this preparation. He began cutting the three husk ties that bound each husk-wrapped bundle. After cutting these, he would hand them to me and I would shake out their contents; each held approximately 20 small black brickets of some hand fashioned resin and plant incense. We continued until the basket brimmed over with these brickets and then did the same to the smaller bundles which held smaller brickets of another incense. Meanwhile, Don S rolled out a large brick and mortar circle that he set in the dugout space just in front of his home, where we were also doing our preparations. Don S placed a scarf on his head and carefully formed a circle in sugar upon the brick base. He crossed the circle with two lines of sugar and said some prayers. He then prepared a basket of various packs of herbs and ingredients. We handed him our baskets of incense brickets and he slowly built up a circle of the large brickets and began layering it up until it was approximately three brickets deep and nearly two feet in diameter. He poured some more sugar down upon these and then began layering it with various herbs. Don S took a thick chocolate bar and broke it up into various chunks which he set towards the outside of the circle. He then put four pan dulces on the pile, one in each cardinal direction. He poured some honey on these and then upon the rest of the mess. The sheer caloric value of this meal for the gods was staggering. Finally, he layered a few of the smaller brickets upon the circular pile. He then started saying prayers for a while. He paused and handed three large candles to each of us. Then each of us in turn stood before Don Samuel who waved these candles around us and had us kiss them. He then piled the candles upon the rest of the ingredients and set it all on fire. He said some prayers and waved the group’s political flyer above the fire.

Don S kept praying and praying and then motioned Juan over and waved the flyer above the flames a few more times. The fire had been going at least half an hour by this point and kept going strong. One of the party members had mentioned that I could take a photo now, which I had asked about earlier. For the next few minutes I took a set of photos as discreetly as I could but it seemed like it was annoying one or two of the party members so eventually I relented. Don S passed around some smaller candles to each of the party members and said some prayers. He then had them approach the fire and laid the candles upon the middle of the fire. The smell of the black smoke had a hint of sweetness and incense. Don S went inside and grabbed a bottle of aguardiente. He then poured some of this onto the four cardinal points within the circle which flamed up. He pulled out a long piece of rebar and began to mix and stoke the fire with it while saying prayers. He was sweating profusely by now, not surprising given his proximity for the last hour to this hot fire. He added some more honey to the fire and later some more aguardiente. He then passed out some of the small incense brickets to each of the party members and said some more prayers. Each was then asked to come to the fire and place their brickets into the stoked fire. Finally, as the fire was well-burnt coals he said some more prayers while waving over the political flyer and then layed it upon the dying fire. The entire sequence had lasted nearly two hours. We all went inside and sat and Don S used the handkerchief on his head to wipe the sweat from his face. He talked for a while and then everyone got up to leave. Each thanked him and we all headed out. It was 2:00pm and we had been there a total of three and a half hours!

The privilege of getting to watch such an interesting ritual was not lost on me and I tried to burn each of the details into my memory. Here was something right out of the ethnographies I had been reading of late. Moreover, the ritual I had witnessed had a particularly intriguing cross-over to political consciousness. Two methods the Tz’utujil had been using to contend with serious issues for centuries—on the one hand religious and on the other political—were merged in this one ritual action. In truth, these two spheres cannot be easily separated, as we would have it in American culture. But, of course, even in the supposedly secular political landscape of the United States the intersection of religious and political power has been noteworthy at least since the Declaration of Independence.

On Sunday morning I was glad to wake up to clear skies after a night of rain, the better my chances to have good views from the top of Volcan San Pedro, my destination for the day. I dressed lightly, ate a little, grabbed my bag, and headed across town to meet with a small group of hikers and a guide organized through a local outfit called Bigfoot. I was the last to arrive, right at 6am. There was a total of six of us. Two French Canadian girls, Vanessa and Catherine, Vanessa’s French Canadian boyfriend, whose name I forgot, an Austrian named Dennis, and our guide, a lithe Tz’utujil named A who hikes the volcano 3-4 days a week with groups from Bigfoot. We proceeded up through town until the settlement eventually merged with the jungle/woods. We followed a path up through this until we reached a well paved highway that snaked from San Pedro around the volcano to Santiago Atitlan and further to parts unknown. We hiked up this road about a kilometer until we reached the volcano visitors’ center, a nice little place that sat perched on the entrance to the volcano path. A paid our entrance fees, I did not see how much they were, and then we began on the path which dropped down from there; this was comically misleading since it was the last downward trek we would experience until we reached the top of the volcano and turned around almost four hours later.

The path began climbing up through lush forested areas and eventually took us through some cornfields high on the volcano’s slopes, pity the farmer. As we proceeded higher up the terrain became noticeably alpine, the trees coniferous, the undergrowth less dense, and the air cooler. The path was merciless, a steep incline that never let up. While I had done harder hikes, the hardest probably being up and down the Grand Canyon in 7.5 hours (with Greg Penny), this was the most consistently steep hiking I’ve ever done…a real calf burner! I kept up with our guide who talked on endlessly while I ached for breaths and mumbled affirmations to keep him talking rather than me.

After much hard hiking we came to the first real stop, a platform that looked over the lake. I had already taken some good photos through breaks in the vegetation but got some more from this raised platform. By this point I had drunk one of my two bottled waters which worried me a bit. After a ten minute break, we turned back to the trail and kept going up the steep, muddy incline for what seemed an interminable climb. The terrain was pristine, dense trees and green plants in a nice cool climate, mist seemed to hang in the air.

A told me a few of his hiking stories as we kept chugging upward. He mentioned that the prior week a tourist had hiked up with him and somehow (!) left his backpack up top with a very fancy camera inside. Of course, he didn’t remember this until they were all the way back at the Bigfoot office in San Pedro. So A turned around and jogged up the volcano to retrieve the pack that same day! This guy’s circulatory system must be superb after hiking this strenuous path 3-4 times a week, at altitude. He told me another story about an unusual German (are there any usual ones?) who proceeded to collect every budding, growing, slithering thing he came across on the slopes of San Pedro from 6am until 10 at night.

After more hiking we reached a camping area that was full of Guatemalan university students who had camped out overnight and climbed from there to the peak to watch the sunrise. We rested here ten minutes and then proceeded the rest of the way—a tough, but mercifully short, distance to the cone. I knew we were almost done when I looked up from my trudging feet and saw sky coming through the tops of the trees with no further hint of trees obscuring its clarity.

The top of the volcano offered beautiful panoramic views of the entire lake. This was the first time, in fact, that I have seen the whole lake rather than just some piece of it. We also had a nice view of Santiago Atitlan to the south. The altitude of the lake is 1560m (5118ft) and the top of Volcan San Pedro is 3020m (9908ft) which means that we climbed 1500m (4921ft) in the space of three to four hours! A number of people were hanging out up top and we sat around enjoying the views and resting for more than half an hour before turning around. I took many, many photos.

Heading down was less strenuous on the cardiovascular system but much more so on the knees and leg muscles. Each step had to be placed carefully due to the difficult, muddy decline. Again, I kept close to A but the others trailed behind and seemed a little impatient that A was going so fast. I believe he had an appointment that afternoon and what was to him a well-traveled trail did not hold the interest that it did for everyone else. By the time we reached town my legs were numb with exhaustion and didn’t feel totally under my control. Days later, this sensation has not changed much.