(This is the second installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)
The long dark night turned out to be quite cold. My blanket, being perhaps one-eighth of an inch thick, reminded me of a large inexpensive beach towel—the kind you might buy for a few dollars in the souvenir shops of most touristy beach towns, only with a slightly better fabric.
And then there were two pitch-black middle-of-the-night races to a little yellow building down a seventy-five-foot, narrow, bumpy path. Even while wearing flip-flops, the well-worn trail felt quite moist as the sides of my bare feet rubbed against small grassy plants laden with a thick layer of cool, nighttime dew. I boldly pushed away all worries about what type of critters—whether insect, reptile, or mammal—might be lurking around the next bush or tree trunk, patiently waiting for their next meal.
But thanks to my sweatshirt and tiny reading light, I joyfully survive both the cold and the thick blackness of my first starless, moonless night in Santa Elena.
As the pale morning glow begins to filter through the plentiful cracks in my wooden wall, my body desperately taunts me to pull the pillow over my face—to sleep for an additional hour or two. But as I begin to think about my upcoming day, I realize that I have no idea what time someone will come to collect me for breakfast.
“I better get up just in case.” I tell myself as I force my feet under the edge of the mosquito net onto the cold concrete floor below.
By 6:20 a.m., my hair is brushed, I am dressed, and I have even applied a small amount of eyeliner and lipstick to a face that is still wet with moisture from the nighttime mountain air. As I open the doors and windows, I begin meditating in my lawn chair while facing the incredible view off to the northwest. I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the early morning mist drifting through the tops of the lush jungle, laid out in hilly vistas right before my still-waking-up eyes.
Suddenly, I hear the sound of a large noisy engine. The muffler-less rumbling continues for perhaps thirty seconds before again going silent. Clueless, I wonder what the racket might be. It cannot have been more than a few hundred feet away.
I am hypnotized by the sounds of crowing roosters that periodically echo all around me, some of them being quite close. Even though these roosters had begun their periodic calling at insane hours—some beginning even before 3:00 a.m.—I still find them charming, relaxing, and yes, even energizing.
Every once in a while the same loud engine noise rumbles through the valley, only to quickly go silent once again.
Suddenly, in the midst of my deep meditative state, I realize that a young man is standing in the other doorway, speaking quietly to get my attention.
“Is it time for breakfast?” I ask.
“Yes.” He replies with a glowing smile.
Morning Discoveries
As I begin following this handsome, well-groomed young man, I glance down at my wrist. When I note that my watch reads 7:10 a.m., I feel a deep sense of gratitude for having arisen so early—not just because of breakfast schedules, but because of the deeply peaceful feeling that now permeates my soul.
In quiet, well-practiced English, the young man tells that me his name is Heraldo, and that he is nine years old. But further attempts at conversation end quickly as we promptly arrive at our destination: a small home just across the road, and perhaps fifty feet closer to the stream. The home is perhaps 10 by 20 feet, with a concrete base, board sides, and a thatch roof. Another smaller tin-roofed building sits just ten feet away.
“Please, sit down.” A young woman tells me. I soon learn that her name is Christina, that she has three children, and that her husband is away working.
“He is building homes in Placencia.” Christina tells me. “He usually comes home every two weeks, but he just called and told me he won’t be home until Easter.”
As I stare at my plate, I again bite my tongue and face my food fears. There in front of me is a large plate. One half is filled with yummy-looking eggs, partially scrambled, but mostly fried. The other half is overflowing with what looks like a mushy, grass-like, deep-olive-green, over-boiled spinach.
Spinach just happens to be one of those foods on my mental list that I absolutely know without any doubt that I hate—even though I have never really tried it.
“Can you tell me what this is?” I politely ask with a forced smile.
“Yes, it is called Calalu (pronounced cah-lah-LOO).” Christina replies. “We grow it in our gardens.”
I take a small bite, managing to maintain a grin while I struggle to suppress my instinctual desire to gag.
“That doesn’t taste too bad.” I think to myself.
Next, I taste the eggs. They are actually quite good—a little oily and salty perhaps, but tasty.
“Are these made from flour?” I ask inquisitively as I try one of her tortillas.
“No,” she replies with a grin, “they are made from corn.”
“Wow,” I respond, “I have never tasted corn tortillas that were so delicious, so light and smooth.”
Determined to clean my plate with a continued smile on my face, I adopt the strategy of alternating foods. After each spoonful of calalu, I counter with a subsequent bite of tortilla or egg. Gradually, ever so slowly, I polish off my entire serving of calalu, quickly finishing my entire breakfast by chomping down on several more of those incredible corn tortillas.
While eating, the engine again rumbles loudly, nearer than ever.
“Can you tell me what that engine noise is?” I ask with curiosity.
“It is my corn mill.” Christina replies.
Then she tells me of a recent adventure.
“I went to Guatemala and bought 13,000 Quetzal worth of corn meal (about $1,600 US). I brought it in through the border at Jalacte, but I had to first go to Punta Gorda to pay the immigration people $200 BZ ($100 US) just so that no one would accuse me of illegally importing goods from Guatemala.”
“You mean you can go to Guatemala via Jalacte?” I quickly inquire.
“Yes,” she replies, “you take the bus from here to Jalacte. It takes about an hour. From there, you have to walk about fifteen minutes along a jungle path until you cross the border into Guatemala. At that point, you enter a small village where you can buy things and catch buses to other parts of Guatemala.”
“Is there an immigration office there?” I ask curiously, as I begin to consider other travel options.
“No.” Christina answered casually. “That is why I had to go to Punta Gorda first—to pay import fees before bringing the corn meal back. If I didn’t do that, I could be put in jail.”
Then she adds, “But when we don’t import things, we can freely cross the border without going through immigration.”
“Why did you import cornmeal?” I continue asking. “Don’t people here grow enough corn in their farms?”
“No, not everyone grows corn for their families.” She replies. “For those who don’t have their own corn, I can sell it to them.”
I soon learn that the other building on Christina’s property is a tiny store where the corn mill is located. In her store she sells only the most basic of items—grains, sugar, flour, spices, a few canned goods, toilet paper, soap, and a few other basic staples.
Then I learn a tiny bit more about Christina’s corn mill.
“Grinding corn to make tortillas takes about four hours by hand,” she tells me, “but with my mill, we can do it in seconds. I charge ten cents per pound—not very much profit, but that is all that people can afford. We grind it wet, pouring small amounts of water over the corn while it is being ground. The resulting doughy mixture is ready to flatten and directly fry into tortillas.”
The whole time that Christina and I have been engaged in conversation, I am also in deep observation mode, taking in all of my surroundings, picking up on as many little details as possible.
A dog that is obviously supposed to remain outside, gradually inches himself closer, sliding along just an inch or two at a time. As Christina shushes him back outside, he soon appears again, sliding sneakily across the concrete floor, closer and closer.
Meanwhile, a mother hen wanders through the house with a group of tiny chicks eagerly following behind. These hens and darling baby chicks seem to have free run of the house, going wherever they like.
“I notice that everyone has many chickens and roosters, and that they all roam freely.” I begin asking. “How do people keep track of their own chickens? Don’t they scatter and get lost?”
“No,” Christina laughs at me. “We all know which chickens are ours, and the chickens all know where they live. They don’t wander very far, and they always come back home.”
“But when the hens lay eggs, where do they lay them?” I continue inquiring.
“When my hens want to lay an egg, they come into my home and sit in that box over there.” Christina tells me as she points to a small cardboard box near her door.
“As soon as they lay their egg, they get up and leave.” She adds. “Each hen usually lays one egg every day.”
Noticing only one double bed in the room, I ask innocently, “Do you sleep in here, or is this where the children sleep?”
“This is my bed, but the children sleep here with me.” She begins. “They don’t like sleeping in the other building by themselves. It is much warmer when we sleep together.”
One end of the room appears to be a kitchen area. Many pots and pans hang on the wall, below which is a modern-looking gas range. In the other corner of the room I notice a concrete fire pit capped with a shiny metal griddle.
“I noticed that you cooked my tortillas this morning on your gas range.” I begin to ask with an inquisitive tone. “When do you use the fire over there?”
“I usually cook on the fire, but today I did not have any firewood.” She replies. “I like to save my gas for when I really need it.”
As I wander away from Christina’s delightful little home, my hunger is comfortably satisfied, but my curiosity is greatly peaked.
I am thrilled by the incredible lessons I have learned about a small segment of her daily life—but I have learned so much in such a small timeframe that my mind struggles to hang on to every detail. How I wish I were a sponge, able to absorb every minute detail into an already overflowing brain.
A Man With Many Hats
“How are you doing Brenda?” Dionicio interrupts my peaceful post-breakfast meditation.
“I love it here.” I respond. “This place is so beautiful, and so peaceful. I could easily get used to living here forever.”
“Can you tell me something?” I ask. “Is there a schedule of when I will be eating my meals? I want to be sure to be around when people come looking for me.”
“Yes there is,” Dionicio quickly replies, “I tell everyone that we need to feed our guests at 7:00 a.m., 12:00 noon, and 5:00 p.m.. I know that 5:00 p.m. is a little early for dinner, but I think it is important to feed our guests before the sun goes down in case they don’t feel comfortable walking around after dark.”
“How many families participate in the guest house program?” I ask curiously.
“There are six families, but one is out of town.” He tells me. “I insist that everyone contribute equally so that no one family will have too much of a burden. Part of the money goes to help maintain the Toledo Ecotourism Association, but the remainder stays right here in our village.”
“We want to work on the guesthouse roof this evening, but one of the men is out of town.” Dionicio adds. “I want him to help with the work, so I am not sure exactly what we will do.”
“Can I ask you another question?” I inquire. “Is there a place here in the village where I can buy bottled water?”
“No, I‘m sorry,” he replies, “but if you like, Heralda will gladly boil some water for you.”
Soon, our conversation evolves into a long personal discussion, where Dionicio proceeds to tell me all about his family.
“I have seven children, five of them boys.” Dionicio begins.
Then a sad distressed look comes over his face as he tells me, “My oldest son died eight months ago. He was so happy, doing so many things with his life, and then one day he just decided to drink some farm chemicals. I was away at the time, and came home to find him dying. We were unable to save him. He refused to tell me why he drank the chemicals. All he would do is tell me that he loved me, that he would be in a better place, and would be with me again soon.”
“I nearly died too.” Dionicio continues. “For several months after my son passed away, I didn’t have a will to live. I was so heartbroken and sad.”
As I imagine the pain that this young man must have gone through to cause him to do such a thing, my heart also saddens. Dionicio and his family may never know the details of that pain, but I am deeply moved by the love I feel emanating from Dionicio while he talks of his dear son. There is no doubt that the young man was profoundly loved.
Dionicio soon changes topics, telling me that his grandfather settled the village in 1950. Coming from Guatemala in search of new places to farm, his grandfather selected this site for many reasons: the small flowing stream close to a larger nearby river, a sheltered and protected valley, and fertile jungle soils capable of supporting farming.
“My family has lived here for three generations.” Dionicio adds, “I was born right here in 1958. All of my children were born here, yet the government calls us squatters, telling us that this reservation is not our land.”
“This is a reservation?” I inquire in a surprised voice.
“Yes, it is,” Dionicio replies, but the government wants us to pay in order to stay on our own lands. I go to Punta Gorda every month to pay $12 just so they will have a record that I am still here—so they will not try to take my land away from me.”
Soon, I learn that Dionicio’s father lived to the grand old age of 94 before passing away from a stroke. I am amazed to learn that a man could live such a long life under such rustic conditions.
“I am the first chair Alcalde here in the village.” Dionicio changes subjects.
“What is an Alcalde?” I ask innocently.
“It is our village leadership.” He replies. “I oversee the other Alcaldes in village business. We also have a village chairman that coordinates our group, but for the most part I carry most of the responsibility. When there are disputes, or legal issues, it is my duty to attempt to solve them. If things get really out of hand, I have to call the police in Punta Gorda to have someone arrested.”
“I used to run the TEA (Toledo Ecotourism Association) office on a volunteer basis.” Dionicio changes subjects yet again. “But after serving my multi-year term, I gave up the reins to someone else. When I was in charge, I traveled to Punta Gorda every day to be in the office.”
“I go to my farm almost every day.” Dionicio changes subjects yet again.
“Tell me about your farm.” I reply. “I would love to go see it sometime.
“Why don’t we go this morning?” He grins. “I can take you there in a little while. I will show you and tell you all about it.”
“Will my flip flops be OK?” I ask, pointing to my feet. “Or should I put on long pants and shoes?”
“You will probably want to wear shoes.” He answers with authority.
Jungle Farming
Not more than twenty minutes later, Dionicio stops by my room to fetch me. Noticing that he is wearing rubber boots, I begin to wonder if even my hiking shoes will be adequate for our trek to the farm.
“Normally we would take a shortcut through here,” Dionicio points toward the stream, “but you would get wet, so we will take a slightly longer route.”
Soon, we are walking through the edge of the school playground, headed almost due north toward a small path that disappears into dense jungle foliage. At its beginning, the path is nearly six feet across, but within five minutes jungle plants are brushing against both sides of my long jeans, transferring considerable moisture onto my lower legs and tennis-shoe-style hiking shoes.
Stopping suddenly, Dionicio bends over and breaks off part of a leaf.
“This plant here is good for healing bites and wounds.” He tells me. “If you rub it on your skin, it promotes healing.”
“Can we rub some on my bites?” I ask eagerly.
My lower legs were covered in bites that I had acquired just a few days earlier, thanks to the appetites of hungry sand fleas in Placencia. After spending parts of two days writing while curled up in the sand under a palm tree, I only later discovered that I was one big walking and never-ending itch.
“Sure,” Dionicio replies, as he promptly rubs juice from the plant’s stem all over my numerous bites.
Soon, we are stopping at another plant.
“This plant here is good for women’s problems.” He begins. “For a woman having painful periods, drinking a tea of these leaves will take her pain away.”
Four more times we stop. One plant, when chewed and then rubbed on an open cut will make it stop bleeding. Another functions like aspirin. This one over here will help a woman increase her fertility so that she can become pregnant. That one over there can be used as a birth control, to prevent pregnancy.
I ponder in amazement at how much Dionicio knows regarding the medicinal uses of all these jungle plants. His father taught the information to him, and Dionicio is teaching the same things to his own children, yet so much of this precious information is being lost.
“My father knew many magical things about the ancient Mayas.” Dionicio tells me. “He had many powers and abilities which he never would teach me how to use. He kept saying that I was not ready to learn them.”
“One day he held an empty coke bottle in his hand, and then squeezed it, causing water to come gushing out.” Dionicio confided. “I asked him to show me how he did that, but he refused.”
During this conversation, Dionicio shared several stories of magical things that his father could do—but sadly enough, my memory overflowed and sprang a leak. I cannot for the life of me remember the other stories. Suffice it to say that Dionicio believed his father had many mystical powers.
After resuming our walk, we soon reach the farm—a fifteen minute walk if we had not stopped so often. As I look around, I can clearly see that a large area of jungle has been cleared, and a huge field of corn stands over seven feet tall—but when Dionicio points out the other vegetables that are growing, most are small and hidden by surrounding jungle plants. I can barely see them.
“I don’t use chemicals on my farm.” Dionicio proudly tells me. “When a plant is struggling, or insects are destroying a plant, I grind up cacao leaves and sprinkle them around the base. That keeps the insects away, and helps to nourish the plant back to health.”
The size of the corn field is impressive. Dionicio tells me that he or his sons come up here every day to walk the perimeter of the farm, checking for any animal invasions, or issues with the plants, etc…
“I love living here and working my farm.” He adds. “I can spend several hours per day out here, and spend the rest of my time resting, interacting with my family, or taking care of other business.”
After a long visit in his field, we begin our return journey.
“That is Jippi Jappa right there.” Dionicio points to a small long-stemmed plant with fanned palm-like leaves on the top. “We use it to make baskets, and we eat it too.”
“I know,” I eagerly reply. “Glenda fed me some last night. Can you show me the part that I ate?”
After selecting a young stalk that is perhaps six feet tall and one inch in diameter, Dionicio cuts with his machete below and carefully pulls on the stem. The bottom eight inches or so of the young stem is a pure white color.
“This is the part that we eat.” He tells me, as he proceeds to bite into the tender white base before placing the stalk in my hand.
Soon, I take my own bite. What I am chewing, even though it is raw, tastes remarkably like last night’s dinner. I take several more big bites before discarding the remainder of the stalk.
“This more mature part up here is what we dry and use for basket making.” He tells me as he peels back some of the upper portion of the long stalk.
After resuming our trek back to the village, we again pause for another lesson.
“That vine right there will give you drinking water if you are stranded in the jungle.” Dionicio points to a long winding vine, about one inch in diameter.
Soon, he is chopping a two foot section with his machete, quickly holding it above his mouth while a stream of clear water drips out of the end onto his tongue. Seconds later, he chops another section and hands it to me. Momentarily holding the dripping vine above my own tongue, I taste the cool clear liquid. It tastes like pure, refreshing water.
Maya Mountain Extension Agent
As if Dionicio doesn’t wear enough hats, I am surprised to discover yet another.
A white SUV is parked in front of Dionicio’s home as we return into the village from the shady jungle trail.
“It looks like I have visitors.” Dionicio remarks casually.
Soon, I am being introduced to a tall white-skinned, brownish-gray haired, bearded man named Chris, a dedicated man who runs an NGO (non-government organization) called the “Maya Mountain Research Farm.” A young assistant is also with him.
“Do you mind if I sit and listen to your discussion?” I ask Chris hopefully.
“Sure, pull up a seat.” He graciously replies.
Soon, I am a fly on the wall, observing a fascinating conversation.
Chris has come to talk to Dionicio about two possible projects.
The first is to investigate Dionicio’s reaction to the possibility of receiving a donated small solar-power-operated pump and a water tank—a system that could be utilized to assist residents in getting small amounts of accessible spring water for their village.
Dionicio expresses an eager response to such an endeavor—a topic that will be continued in future discussions.
The main discussion soon switches to Chris’s desire to further the work of an organization called “Trees For Life”—a group that promotes the planting of Moringa trees in tropical and sub-tropical regions of the planet. Every part of the tree has life-promoting uses. The leaves can be eaten like spinach. The seed pods can be cooked and eaten like green beans or asparagus. The leaves can be dried and converted to a very nutritious power that can be used in teas, or as a food supplement. In addition, Moringa seeds can also be used to aid in water purification, and many cultures in the past have used the plant for medicinal purposes.
“We want to hire and train two part-time extension agents in your village.” Chris adds. We will train them, both locally, and also in Honduras, where they will learn all about the trees and their uses. Then these two agents will help to train others in their planting and use.”
As the conversation winds down, Dionicio agrees to assist Chris by selecting two individuals from the village. He later tells me that he himself has decided to be one of the village’s extension agents.
A Roof-Raising Afternoon
As Chris and his assistant drive away in their white SUV, I am surprised to notice on my watch that I still have some time to kill before lunch. Quickly, I resume a meditative state, simply sitting outside of my small quarters, doing nothing but inhaling the vista while absorbing the peaceful energy.
Soon, a thirteen-year-old young man named Walencio comes to request my lunchtime presence. This walk is by far the furthest I have yet taken, all the way to the crest of the hill on the westernmost edge of the village.
As Walencio escorts me into the small ten by twenty foot hut, I realize that I am in a very humble abode. Sweet little Irma, a small, wrinkled, and thin, but very-energetic, forty-two year old woman, greets me with a nearly-toothless grin. As I look around, I note that the floor is nothing but hard, lumpy, uneven dirt. Her indoor fire for cooking does not have the fancy concrete borders that surrounded Christina’s fire pit, nor does it have the shiny silver circular griddle propped above the fire. But one thing is certain: the home is filled with love.
To my surprise I am presented with a meal that is nearly identical to my breakfast. A large plate filled with half-scrambled-half-fried eggs, a huge pile of calalu, and a stack of corn tortillas. In addition, she presents me with a separate plate, piled high with chopped cabbage—more than I can possibly imagine myself eating.
“I guess I better get used to the calalu.” I silently tell myself as I eagerly dig in to my meal.
Feeling quite proud of myself, I finish off the green spinach-like mixture in record time. While eating the remainder of my meal, I take the opportunity to begin connecting with Irma.
Irma tells me that she was born and raised in the village. Now, at age 42, she proudly reports that she has given birth to ten children. The oldest child died as a baby, the next three are old enough to live out of the home, and the final six were all hanging out in the kitchen watching me eat my calalu with a focused smile on my face.
While walking back toward Dionicio’s home, I catch a glimpse of an older gentleman carrying a large stack of fifteen-foot-long palm branches on his back. I can barely see the man underneath as the oversized leaves hang over his back on both sides, nearly covering him. These palm leaves have a long stiff vein running down the middle. All along this strong middle vein, coming off at right angles, three-foot leaves branch stiffly outward.
“Could those be for the guesthouse roof?” I ask myself.
Eager to find out, I stalk the man, watching his every move. Sure enough, as the man crosses the road he continues up the small path leading toward the guesthouse and plops the leaves down on the ground, right to the side.
Soon, he disappears once again, returning fifteen minutes later with a second stack on his back.
As I approach Dionicio’s home, I notice that four long poles are lying on the ground, each being perhaps eighteen feet long, having been stripped of all branching foliage. By now, I am convinced that a roof-raising is about to begin, and I am eager to help in any way that I can.
By around 3:00 p.m., Dionisio, one of his sons, the older man, and two other thirty-something men have assembled. I assist by carrying one of the large, heavy poles, and by dragging old palm branches that had blown off the roof over to a pile that is soon burning in the jungle.
With the debris cleared away, I clearly see that only the top cap of the roof has been destroyed—leaving an eighteen-inch gap at the peak of the roof where rain could, and did, penetrate freely.
In curious fascination, I watch as Dionicio and two men whom I never officially met climb onto the roof—a roof that must be nearly twenty feet high. The first one shimmies up a single pole that is leaning against the middle of the thatch roof on one side. The second tries to do the same, but keeps falling off, losing his balance. Soon, a second long pole is placed parallel to the first. I volunteer to hold these poles in place while the second man, plus Dionicio each take turns scaling their way to the top.
Once the three are standing evenly spaced, one on each end, and one in the middle, they stand with their bare feet straddling the open gap at the roof’s peak, Dionicio’s son then begins to pass the huge palm branches up to the top, one heavy awkward branch at a time. One by one, the men on the roof place the branches on alternating ends, slightly overlapping in the middle. The process continues until at least twelve of the branches are in place.
Being quite stiff and rigid, the leaves of the branches now stick straight out to each side, refusing to sag at the angle of the steep roof below. This is where the poles come in. Four staggered poles are subsequently placed atop the stiff and stubborn leaves—two on each end of the roof, on alternating sides of the center peak. Then, using vines gathered from the jungle, these poles are carefully strapped to smaller poles anchored underneath the center roof support.
As the vines are gradually tightened, the large heavy poles gently push downward. Their weight is used to force the palm leaves to sag until they finally fall flush with the steep surface of the peaked roof. At last, these heavy poles are securely anchored in place with the same vines. The process is finished, and the men carefully descend the same poles on which they originally ascended.
Telling me to wait outside so as to not breathe the dust, Dionicio enters the house and frantically sweeps debris and dust throughout the interior, pushing most of it out the front door. I can only imagine how much of the airborne dust simply resettles onto the ground and furniture once the windmill of sweeping is complete.
Five minutes later, Dionisio emerges from the front door and tells me that my quarters are complete. As I enter the front door, I am greeted by a small reception/lounge area, with a small table, a five-foot wooden bench, one solid wooden chair, two folding wooden chairs, and two large storage cabinets.
As I look to the right end of the guesthouse, I see a separate room with one large double-sized bunk bed—neither bunk being currently configured for sleeping. A pile of small, unused mattresses is stacked up on the bottom double bed.
As I look to the left end of the cabin, I spy another separate room with two twin-sized bunk beds. The bottom one on the right has a small mattress, two sheets, a small blanket, and a mosquito net. The other three bunks are merely bare wood bed frames.
“I guess that takes away my need to decide which bed I like best.” I silently chuckle.
Soon, Dionicio’s son, Filimon, has helped me move my belongings up to the guest house. In the process, I learn that it is his private quarters that I have been occupying. I graciously thank him from the bottom of my heart for surrendering his personal space to rescue me in a time of need.
In a second trip, I grab the oil lamp and my pitcher of boiled water, carefully carrying them both to the guesthouse—not wanting to spill or break either.
The water has a bitter, metallic taste—but hey, it is water, it has been boiled, and it is all I have. I know I will get used to it, but I also know that I will probably be drinking as little water as possible throughout my remaining days.
Righteously Rocking Evening
As I sit wondering if my dinner family will know where to find me, a young ten-year-old girl named “Elida” soon comes calling on my door.
“Is it time for dinner?” I ask, by now already expecting a ‘yes’ in reply.
Soon I am in the house of Teodora, a sweet elderly woman of 74 years. A twenty-year-old new mother named Lavina, Teodora’s daughter-in-law, serves me my food, while she, Teodora, and Elida look curiously on.
Just like Irma’s humble home, this small building also has dry, lumpy, uneven, dirt floors. For the third time today, I am served half-scrambled-half-fried eggs, but this time, rather than calalu, my side dish is a very greasy plate of refried beans. I can only imagine the lard that I must be eating as I slowly place each spoonful into my mouth. The eggs are tasty, but very salty. The delicious corn tortillas, as usual, help me to pleasantly swallow everything else.
Lavina seems very curious about a single woman traveling alone.
“Where is your husband?” she asks.
“I’m not married.” I reply.
“Do you have children? Were you married? What happened? Why are you no longer married? Are you still friends? Do you still see each other? Do you want to get married again?”
Lavina’s questions seem to go on and on, one after the other, in a rapid shotgun procession.
As I attempt to lovingly deflect and graciously answer each question in the most simple way possible, I realize that the concept of divorce, and the thought of a woman traveling alone, are both very difficult concepts for Lavina—and probably many others in this humble community—to grasp.
To Lavina, her whole life is this village—a place where the women are almost all married, staying home, doing the cooking, laundry, dishes, having children, changing diapers, … and the list of traditional roles goes on and on. I am extremely careful in my conversation, not wanting to influence her innocent beliefs in any way.
As I stroll back to my new home, I do some serious pondering about how I may have answered differently.
But soon, I have a new adventure in which to participate. Earlier in the day, Dionicio informed me that while his people still believe and respect the traditions of their elders, the vast majority of them have long since converted to Christianity.
“Are you a Christian?” he had asked.
“Yes, I believe in Christ.” I had replied.
“I joined the Baptist church many years ago.” Dionicio continued. “For a while, I was even a Baptist missionary to the other surrounding villages. Then I became a pastor and led services here. But the Catholics and the Baptists all left. Now we have a ‘Church of Christ’ here in the village. The majority of villagers attend. My sons are all involved in the youth leadership.”
“We are having a church service tonight at 7:00 p.m.” He then told me. “If you want to go, you can stop by my home and we will go together.”
“I think I might just do that.” I had responded, knowing in my heart that this would be an incredible opportunity to develop a closer connection with the community.
As I walk towards Dionicio’s home at 6:50 p.m., I am captivated by the sight of small groups of fireflies periodically blinking in the darkness all around me. A slight twinge of anticipation sparks through my soul as I wonder just what tonight’s services might be like. As I reach Dionicio’s home in the pitch black of night, I quietly call out “HelloooOOooo.”
Soon Dionisio steps outside, telling me, “I’m sorry, I am not going to church tonight. My grandsons Leroy and Elroy have already fallen asleep. They are so tired, and I don’t want to wake them.”
“That is fine,” I tell him, “I think I will still go by myself. Can you tell me where to go?”
“Do you hear all that music?” He asks. “Just follow the sounds and go there.”
Just a short distance up the hill, I can hear a generator running, a keyboard playing, and a microphone squealing. Unmistakable bright lights are also shining throughout the neighboring trees. I know exactly where to go.
As I enter the small chapel, eight rows with four chairs each are set up on both sides of a small aisle, providing space for sixty four people to sit. The concrete structure with corrugated steel roofing is very basic. The entryway has a large set of swinging double doors. The opposite end of the room has a small platform with a pulpit and a keyboard. Several large arrangements of jungle flowers are beautifully arranged at the front of the pulpit.
Four large square window openings are evenly spaced along the upper left wall. Along the right wall, three such openings exist, with the spot where a fourth might exist being replaced by a small door that leads out into the darkness.
Wanting to remain inconspicuous and unobtrusive, I sit on the back row, quietly observing. Dionicio’s son, Timoteo, is playing rhythmic chords on the keyboard. Another son, Dionicio Junior is loudly praying at the pulpit, holding the microphone tightly to his lips, expressing considerable emotion with his voice. The women in the room have colorful scarves pulled over their heads. I feel slightly out of place in my jeans, but I know they will understand.
Ten minutes later, as the chapel has gradually filled up, the loud praying stops, and the organ cranks up a notch. Dionicio Junior begins to sing slow chanting songs while many in the audience stand up, wave their hands in the air, and sing along as they slowly sway their bodies with the music.
Then, after nearly an hour of slow melodic singing, the keyboard suddenly picks up the tempo to a very fast bouncing rhythm.
Everyone in the small chapel (at least everyone except me and a few women holding babies) stands on their feet and begins clapping and dancing. I go along with the clapping part, but am reserved and hesitant to jump up and join in with the dancing.
Thirty minutes later, the music stops, and Pastor Antonio walks to the front, delivering a sermon of some type, totally in the Mayan language. I do hear the occasional Spanish word, and one distinctive English phrase “Repent or you shall perish.”
Biting my lip, I choose to embrace these beautiful people’s beliefs with no form of judgment whatsoever.
As the pastor sits down, another short ten-minute round of slow music begins, the women again place their scarves over their heads, and many people in the room become engulfed in deep emotion, while a great number of the women erupt in large sobbing tears.
Then, as quickly as it stopped, the loud rapid tempo suddenly takes over, and everyone is again on their feet dancing and clapping. This time I do stand up in front of my seat, slightly swaying while I clap awkwardly. For some strange reason, I am still hesitant to fully jump into the service.
As the service ends at 9:00 p.m., I quietly exit out the back into the pitch black night that awaits me. Deep gratitude is again my companion as I realize that I have brought my little reading light. The night is now so incredibly devoid of any light that I most likely would not have been able to find my way, even down the main road, without my dimly glowing little beacon.
Embracing Love
An incredibly full day was topped off with some very interesting emotions. In many ways I had wanted to jump in and embrace the worship service of these devoted Christian people.
However, in my silly awkwardness, I resisted, holding back, slightly judging the things I observed and the few words I had understood.
“This is not what I believe.” I silently bantered in my brain. “I cannot join in or they will think I am endorsing their way of worship.”
Then I realized what I was doing.
“I am judging.” I told myself out loud. “This method of worship is beautiful for them. It is plain to see that their souls were fully immersed in a beautiful act of faith, gloriously embracing their love for Christ. How could I possibly judge that, regardless of what my own spiritual beliefs might be?”
I made new inroads tonight in my quest to simply embrace the truth that flows through my heart while loving everyone else for exactly who, what, and where they are in their own belief systems.
It all flows down to the basic concept of embracing genuine love, no matter where or how that love may be found.
As I placed my head on my pillow, alone and engulfed in the absolute darkness of my guesthouse, I realized that my incredible day of new discoveries was now complete—and it was all good.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved