Lords Of Atitlan

I don`t claim to understand Mayan culture, only to be on a first name basis with it. My first week in Panajachel I met Maximón. He is the Mayan god who survived the Conquest in the guise of the Catholic Saint Simon. One starry night I entered before the altar of Mayan priest Evaristo Rosales in Jucanyá ("the other side of the water") sated by the strong scent of copal incense. Crepe streamers and adornments in pastel shades draped from the ceiling. Gladiolas, mums, and roses lined and surrounded the altar. Images of saints crowded there: San Miguel Arcangel, San Antonio, San Lorenzo, San Marcos, San Judas Tadeo, Santo Domingo de Guzmán, Cristo Negro de Esquipulas, Santa Cruz, even the Afro-Peruvian San Martín de Porras. The walls bulged with framed prints of the saints.

I`m not Catholic, nor religious, so at the time I didn`t know who or what was present in the room, to me only objects and sensations, enough that my head swam. Today I know a little more about the saints. I know their individual feast days and the towns throughout the area, of which they are the patrons. I attend their fairs, and I walk with them in the processions. And, while I`m sure they`re aware I`m a non-believer, I think we`re at least on friendly terms.

Evaristo, grandson of Antolín Can Churunel, a chamán of legendary powers who died at age 95, defiantly defends the mixed and Catholic religions, native traje, and the Mayan culture. Like the saint who occupies the seat of honor at his altar, Evaristo is also a controversial figure. San Simón was the only saint seated. He was also set apart from the other saints by his breezy attire and laid-back demeanor. He wore a Stetson cowboy hat, sport coat, vest, boots, and sunglasses, and clenched his fist around the shaft of a bastón, or mando (ceremonial staff signifying great power). His skin was alabaster, with a blush upon his cheek; his moustache, meticulously-maintained; a cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips. Tucked between his fingers were U.S. bills and Euro and Quetzal notes of various denominations. Offerings from admirers lay at his feet: quartz crystals, pre-Columbian pottery shards and figurines, mangos, papayas, apples, cigarettes, soda pop, beer, and every class of liquor. I could tell at once He was special, very cool, a real dandy.

Maximón practices white magic, mostly. Visitors ask for help in business or with their corn yield. They implore his intervention with the weather. They entreat him to mend broken relationships or to find them new love. Worshippers ask Maximón for good health and to be independent of drugs or alcohol. Maximón is a very personal god (a running-buddy of sorts), so they not only beg his assistance, kiss his hand or cheek, and say endearing things to him. They curse him, chastize him, and spit on the ground before him. They do so with reason. You, see, He´s not exactly perfect. As the Mayan god most closely associated with humans, He has human failings. He`s a womanizer (although He´s also the protector of women), often drinks too much, and routinely indulges his friends and followers to excess. He also parlays black magic at times.

Mindful of this, I had minded my manners and did not arrive empty-handed. It´s always best to pay respect. Reaching into my bag, I offered San Simón the bottle of rum (Venado) within. Evaristo congratulated me that it was his favorite brand, showed him the bottle, opened it, then spilled liquor out on the ground in the doorway of the room, in its four corners, and in a straight line before the Saint. Candle flames darted and jetted about the room (a space no larger than 10´x 15´), licking and lapping at San Simón (who was beaming cordially now) and casting eerie shadows on the walls and ceiling. Maximón is a social character. He likes the ladies. They like him back. And He hates to drink alone. Seated on the long cofradía bench by the doorway, drinking in the many sensations and a little Venado myself, I became intoxicated, over-stimulated, and, despite myself, began to feel the force of the place. I thanked them, bid them goodnight, and stumbled out into a star-lit night sparkling more brightly than before. Looking back to the altar over my shoulder, I saw Maximón smile to me around the corner of the open doorway.

Staggering away down the Callejón Chotzité, I muddled thoughts about Brazilian novelist Jorge Amado`s playful treatment of the condomble religion of his country, and about the Santería movement of Cuba. The magic created by these dialectical fusions of America, Africa, and Iberia had been recreated for me this evening with a slightly different tinge. Since that night, I have considered Maximón a fast friend, and have visited him in altars, humble and grand, throughout the highlands. Sometimes I bring him food or liquor; sometimes, clothing ítems or accessories. But I`ve been told by several Mayan priests that He really likes my gifts, and for that I feel strangely proud.

No place exceeds highland Guatemala for pageantry. The religious calendar peaks at Semana Santa (Holy Week), when virtually every town in the republic is ablaze with color, and its skies and air waves barraged by pyrotechnics. Almost any week, however, some town in the area celebrates its fair. The highlight of any town´s fair is the feast day of the patron saint and the religious procession in his honor, but fairs have a secular side too. While religious fairs last typically a week, less in small places, the food vendors, game tents, and carnival rides, featuring the Rueda de Chicago (Ferris Wheel), may remain for a month or more.

Associated with most fairs is the election and coronation of the new Ruk Tinamit, the town`s indigenous queen. Beauty is not the primary criterion for her selection. Rather, character, community service, academic achievement, knowledge of Mayan culture and the Catholic religion, and proficiency in one`s native dialect are the bases upon which she will be chosen. The coronation is a real spectacle. Young exotic queens from throughout the nation arrive to bid farewell to the exiting Ruk Tinamit, and to usher in the reign of the new. There are astonishing beauties in attendance attired in the most exquisiteceremonial traje their towns can produce. Elaborate headpieces (cintas, tocoyales, and crowns carved from wood) adorn their splendid, radiant faces. Huipiles requiring months of labor by skilled weavers hang to below their knees. Banners draped across their breasts identify their pueblos. Swaying rythmically and sensuously to a few native melodies repeated over and over, they dance tirelessly into the night with a grace becoming divas. Tender flowers, they are a credit to their towns and a source of pride to the nation.

Music and dance are central to Mayan festivals. Pairs of chirimia and tambor (flute and drum) lead the processions. Small brass bands follow them. Marimba accompanies the dance steps. The baile (dance) de los mexicanos and the baile de los negritos share the theme of drunkenness. The baile de los toritos is incorporated into the most popular and widely-performed dance in the Mayan realm, the baile de los conquistadores (also known as moros). This dance relates the epic tale of the Conquest of Guatemala by Pedro de Alvarado and his rag-tag mob of coarse, ignorant Estremaduran sailors. They, like modern-day gringos who reinvent themselves in Guatemala, elevated themselves to the status of hidalgos (hijos de alguien, or sons of someone) in the New World. When the conquistadors raise their long-bearded white masks during breaks in the dancing, they reveal dark brown faces, angular noses, and almond-shaped eyes. Dark-skinned women in bright ceremonial huipiles, with thick black hair cascading over their shoulders and hips rush over to hug their conquistador husbands and to kiss them on the cheek. In the processions, they walk hand-in-hand with their toddler sons, also dressed as conquistadors. Thus, as a sideline to the baile de los conquistadores, is told the story of the mesticization of Mesoamerica.

In addition to the traditional convites (dancers) is a rather absurd class who dance in the fairgrounds and alongside the iglesia but never in the processions. Dressed in costumes appearing to have been made in Hong Kong, a plethora of personalities abound: Vikings, barbarians, pre-Republican Chinamen, cavemen with bones through their noses, and members of the rock group Kiss. Tweety Bird does the two-step with Sylvester the Cat. Al Sharpton bops with boxing promoter Don King. Michael Jackson moonwalks alone. Bill Clinton and George Bush slow-jam together, locked in a languid and tender embrace.

Previously when women were portrayed in dance (as in the case of the Maruca, la Margarita, in the baile de los mexicanos), the performers were usually men. A recent phenomenon is lady convites. The appeal is pedestrian and rather obvious. The dance of the lady convites provides the opportunity under masked anonymity for the performer to display, and the spectator to view, substantial portions of legs otherwise covered by corte. Happily, these are legs conditioned by long walks through the mountainsides under the strain of heavy loads.

The reason I walk with the Catholics has nothing to do with religion. It`s that they speak, say hello, and ask me how I`m doing. When I arrive at their activities, they treat me as an honored guest, invite me to partake of ceremonial dishes and drink, pat me on the shoulder (When I leave Patzún, it`s with a sore shoulder.), and thank me again and again for coming. The Catholics provide me with an unconditional sense of community without requiring that I believe as they do.