In The Land of Sixteenth Century Zunil, Guatemala

On the Road to Zunil, Guatemala

The yellow chicken bus is spewing toxic black smoke, struggling to maintain fifty miles an hour around curves through dormant volcanic mountains. The driver can’t initially find the next higher gear so  . . . gurrr . . gurrr . . gurrr . . He grinds the gear into place. The bus picks up speed as we start uphill to Zunil, a small Mayan village sitting on the side of an active volcano. It’s Sunday and market day. Indigenous people from villages throughout the mountains bring their produce to sell, buy, and barter. I want to witness this ageless community tradition and investigate a Mayan “idol” known in Spanish as San Simon, and referred to as Maximon in Mayan Quiche. On the radio a woman singer is belting out a Spanish salsa version of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire”. I silently sing the song in English and think Johnny would approve of the woman’s rendition. 

Chichen bus to Zunil

Landscape surrounding highland villages

I am sitting up front in the cramped seat built for kids to keep an eye on the road and watch the people getting on and off. The bus is full of mostly Mayan women on their way to the market. They’re all dressed in vivid colors of traditional clothing, carrying or holding loads of carrots, onions, many other fruits and vegetables, baked bread, woven blouses, and babies. I smell remnants of burning wood used for cooking fires, sweat from the woman next to me, hair product from the bus driver, stale old leather from the seat, my own deodorant and perspiration, and pungent raw onions. I’m the only foreigner on the bus, a good foot or more taller than everyone. This is were I belong. This drives my passion, stimulates my soul, and is what I live for. How can I possibly go back to work in an office environment, driven by a time clock, project deadlines, boring meetings to report what I’ve accomplished, or meetings to be told what to do? I can no longer do that. I won’t do it. I have a smile on my face and no fear in my heart.

I hear the bus attendant yelling out the next bus stop, “Banos, Banos, Banos, those getting off, move up to the front, we’re only stopping briefly, Banos, Banos, Banos is next.” The bus is filled with the rustling sounds of women preparing their loads, and moving out of their seats, hurrying young children to help, and . . . clap, clap, clap . . . shoes hitting the aisles and making their way to the door . . . . err . . . err . . . err . . . err . . . the sound of brakes attempting to stop the bus . . . . sha . . . click . . .  sha . . . click, click, click . . .  sha . . sha . . sha . . . sounds of Quiche commands to fellow passengers to let them pass into the aisle for disembarking. At the start of the twenty-first century Guatemala is still practicing ancient routines and rituals (open air markets), while employing aging twentieth century technology (buses), and listening to twenty-first century digital music. I can’t get enough of it. 

This is the first time in two days I venture out of my hotel. I’ve been ill with an intestinal bug. My stomach is still rumbling from emptiness and I feel weak and vulnerable. Extended travel is not only experiencing new, enriching ideas, people and places, but also hardships like the toil of traveling in a bus and train for long periods of time. Concern about access to hygienically acceptable toilet facilities is always in the background. There’s the need to stay alert and vigilant to potential thieves or situations that put one at risk for crime or harm. Getting lost in an unsafe area heightens awareness to be sure where one is going and how to get back. There is always the potential for illness from eating something strange or unclean and causing bouts of stomach problems. 

I’m feeling the lingering effects of an ill body and wonder why I expose myself to this potential. I’m following a passion and dream. To not do this travel adventure would only cause me to doubt if I’ve lived the life I expect from myself. I’ll go as far as my body allows me, turning back is always an option. On the other hand, I think about the pioneers and discoverers who came this way. Certainly they suffered the illness I have. They couldn’t turn back. They had to go forward. Granted, I’m not as strong as those trailblazers, but they’ve set an example, a few survived and prospered. I need to continue. This lingering illness will pass. I’ll regain my strength and ideal of adventurous travel.

Zunil still in the Sixteenth Century

Zunil is a Mayan village from antiquity where old customs are still practiced. It’s built on the side of a volcano and walking involves constant travel uphill and downhill. Women dress the same way they have for hundreds of years in vertical stripped skirts of purple, blues, or orange lines, with white diamonds, multicolored squares, dots, and stylized flowers. Their blouses usually have floral prints of red or pink roses. The roadways are original cobblestone laid in place by Mayan workers toiling under Spanish masters, and maintained by descendants of those Mayan workers under the offspring Ladino masters from the conquistadors. The Santa Carolina church was built in the sixteenth century and withstood numerous earthquakes, floods, and warfare. The alter is made of gold, though today for security reasons it’s enclosed by a wrought iron fence and guarded by the faithful. 

Temple of Santa Carolina

Golden alter behind wrought iron

Sixteen century cobblestone roadways

Outdoors in front of the temple, women vendors sell clay pots, locally grown produce like chile, onions, corn, carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, squash, bananas, watermelon, and apples. There are freshly cut meats hanging from outdoor shops ready for sale. Though the buzzing flies distract from their attractiveness. Quiche is spoken, with basic business Spanish used for selling when needed. Smells of newly harvested raw vegetables, mixed with wet dirt and decaying meat are prevalent in the market place. Now and then a fresh scent of carnations and chrysanthemums is detected.

Vendors selling produce in front of church

Meat for sale

Shoppers negotiating deals

Flowers for sale: Do you need some to take to Maximon?

Very disturbing is the sight of young teenage men walking home or to work in the agricultural fields with manual pesticide spray rigs strapped to their backs. No protective clothing, masks, or gloves are used. They’re dressed in their normal street clothes, jeans and T-shirts, and probably do not change clothes when they arrive home. No doubt they are contaminating their living environments and children with the chemicals.  Other men walk by hurrying with enormous loads of produce strapped to their backs held in place by a single line wrapped around their foreheads. This explains why the majority of the older men of the village walk permanently bent over. The surrounding mountains are terraced with rows of crops, mostly corn and bananas. I saw no tractors, forklifts, or heavy duty trucks working in the fields or carrying produce. Soil preparation, planting, weeding, spraying, watering and harvesting are done manually. The people of Zunil pay a high price for surviving as an agriculture producing community. 

Zunil is built on the side of an active volcano

I went to the weekly regional produce market held on the bridge leading into Zunil. On both sides of the bridge were vendors selling large bulk bundles of mostly vegetables like carrots, lettuce, spinach, radishes, different varieties of onions, cabbage, and cauliflower. Fruit like bananas and apples were being sold in smaller quantities. Women were doing the selling, buying and bartering. Teenage male family members like sons, brothers, cousins were delivering the heavy loads into buses, homes, or down to other vendor stands. Every now and then, small Toyota pick up trucks came on the now one-way bridge to load and unload produce. Subsequent traffic would patiently wait. No one blew their horns or orally complained. While observing the activity of buying and selling produce, a late teen or early twenties albino Mayan fellow with what looked to be his sister walked by me. I saw many albinos, male and female, in the small village. 

I'm headed into the middle of that market

Let's all help unload the truck

We deliver

This should feed the family until next week

Ancient rituals and practices with Zunil in the background

An albino young Mayan fellow with his sister

Maximon: Saint, Idol, God?

I found where Maximon was located by asking a ten year old Mayan boy. He gave me exact directions, “Take the road up the hill until it ends.” When I entered the shrine fifty-five year old Francisco, a Mayan priest, met me by explicitly stating, “The cost to enter is five quetzals, ten for each photo you take. It’s my job and honor to maintain this ‘confradia’ (an association).” I paid the fifteen quetzals (about $2.00 dollars) and only took one photo. He kept calling me “joven” (young man), thinking he was older than me. I didn’t correct him. It seems that fifty-five is an elder in Zunil. 

Looking down from the end of the road where Maximon "resides"

I asked Francisco if he would share the story of the origin of Maximon with me. He said he would for an additional twenty quetzals (about $2.50). I paid him and he started his story. He didn’t know exactly how Maximon started, but has existed in Zunil for one hundred and fifty years. Francisco has worked in the shrine for twenty years. He said there are many Maximons all over Guatemala, but this one is the original. 

Years ago, I travelled to Santiago de Atitlan and viewed a five hundred year old Maximon. It only cost two quetzals and no photos were allowed. The Mayan priest told me that Maximon was a Mayan shaman before the arrival of the Spaniard conquistadores. Maximon stayed in the village while the men travelled some distance to work the corn and bean fields. Upon their return they discovered Maximon abusing his position and violating the women of Santiago. The men cut off the arms and legs of Maximon. He lived. He changed his life and started to guard the village against “evil dark spirits”, conducting curing rituals, and promoting good harvests and life sustaining rains. When he died, his torso metamorphosed into the wooden carved statue that still exists in Santiago. The idol has the face of a Mayan, looks like it’s over five hundred years old, with a dark, burnt face from the cigars it smokes. Maximon is visited by the different villagers that live around Lake Atitlan to ask for favors of good health or cures from illnesses, plentiful harvest, successful marriages and relationships, or to safeguard and protection for long journeys. 

While I was paying my respects, accompanied by twenty believers who were asking for favors, I witnessed Maximon taking a puff from the cigar in his mouth, creating the tip of the cigar to illuminate and smoke to be released. It unnerved me. I felt a presence emulating from the idol. Perhaps being in a dark, hot, small room with twenty of the faithful, breathing candle and incense fumes combined with “group thinking” gave me the feeling. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I’m a skeptic by nature. There was something to that idol that to this day, I’m unable to explain. At the time my father was ill and on the verge of death, so I lit a candle, asked Maximon to safeguard my dad, and left. I figured it couldn’t hurt. My father continued to live for many years after that.

I didn’t tell Francisco any of this story. I was there to listen not to challenge his account. He said that many people come from Guatemala, Honduras, Mexico, El Salvador and now from the United States and leave candles, cigarettes and cigars, alcohol, and money for Maximon. The faithful ask for good health and some of the other favors I heard at Santiago de Atitlan. When I arrived there was a Mayan woman lighting a candle and leaving money as she beseeched in Quiche, Maximon for favors. 

As Francisco was relating his story, two twenty year old Mayan men came in and wanted to speak with him about a problem one of them was having. Francisco asked if I could wait to finish his story while he attended them. I said of course help them. I wanted to listen to their problem and what Francisco could do for them. The fellow with the problem wanted Francisco’s intervention and to make a “petition” to Maximon. Francisco laid a deck of tarot cards on the table. He placed the fellow’s right hand on the deck, blow three times over his hand, made a dusting motion over the hand, and asked him to pick nine cards, and lay them face down on the table. 

As Francisco turned over the cards and interpreted the symbols, he said, “You’re in great danger from a woman and a man. They’re after you and trying to harm you. Be careful, you need Maximon’s help to safeguard you and eliminate the evil spirit. Someone may try to kill you. What exactly is your problem and what petition are you making?” The young man said that his ex-girlfriend is after him and has brought in the police. There’s two children involved, though he’s sure they’re not his, and he doesn’t want them to pursue and bother him anymore. Francisco asked why don’t you just go back with her. The fellow said, “I have another girlfriend.” Francisco said, “Oh, let’s do another reading and see what can be done.” 

He repeated the same ritual and read the nine different cards. This time he said, “There’s a real urgency that we do a ‘cleanse’ within two weeks, or you risk death. We will need to sacrifice an animal to appeal to Maximon for help. I can arrange everything. It’s going to take a minimum of two cleanings. Each is going to cost three hundred quetzals (about $38 dollars each), and it may require a third. We need to do this right away, when can you get the money.” The young man said, “That’s a lot of money. It’s going to take me sometime to get it. Can we do it in one cleaning? The alternative is they’ll put me in jail and I’m sure the kids are not mine.” Francisco was adamant that the minimum is two, and the first needs to start within two weeks or something harmful is going to happen to him, maybe death. The fellow said, “I want to be rid of her. Let me see what I can do. Give me your phone number so I can call you when I’m ready with the money.” Francisco said he can help, he’ll need a photo of her and something of hers that she’s touched. They exchanged phone numbers. Francisco ended the session by saying, “We have to act immediately, times is running out, you need to be very careful, things are going to get worse if we don’t do something. Your time is limited.” A black cat ran through the room, meowing as the candle lights in front of Maximon dimmed. The two fellows got up, shook Francisco's hand and left.

Francisco and I resumed our conversation. He said that Maximon died of natural causes, old age. When he died, he was blessed by Jesus and his spirit lives. Maximon is not a god. He is a saint of both Christianity and Mayan religion. He helps people by intervening through Jesus. One has to have faith in both Maximon and Jesus Christ for Maximon's power to work. Francisco said, "I have no power. I work through Maximon to help people. I only intercede and ask Maximon to honor your request."

Francisco turned to me and asked if there was something I wanted to “petition” of Maximon. I said no, I was just interested in the history and story of Maximon. Francisco said, “In that case, we’re finished. I need to prepare for another session I’m having in a few minutes.” With that, his story telling was over. I said thank you, shook his hand. He wished me save journey. I left wondering why this Maximon doesn’t look Mayan, or even Latino. Quite frankly, I thought it looked liked Michael Jackson, after he attempted to lighten his skin. I have a lead on another Maximon in the highland village of San Andres Xecul. I’m headed there next to continue my investigation.

Zunil's Maximon