Part I-
My last week in San Pedro could hardly have been more eventful. I turned 33, helped deal with a medical emergency in Los Angeles (via telephone and friend), finished my Tz’utujil classes, said goodbye to all the friends I had made over the last few weeks, and had my destiny foretold by a Tz’utujil shaman named Don Juan.
On my way back from the Panajachel buying trip (see last week’s blog), I overheard some Spanish inflected Spanish so I introduced myself to Juan, Juan, and Marta—all from Madrid. During our boat ride to San Pedro, we talked for a while about Spain. I told them about my semester in Sevilla back in 1996. They asked me about places to stay in San Pedro and I gave them my impressions of some of the local hotels. When we pulled into the dock after a short, bumpy boat ride across the dazzling lake I told them I’d be happy to walk them to a couple of the places I mentioned. The site of three newbies touting their luggage from the launch was too much for the local grifters to ignore so the four of us found ourselves hounded and hassled for the next five minutes. Finally, Marta forcefully informed these well-meaning but greedy devils that we had no need for their hotel finding services. Shorn of these persistent, constantly interrupting ‘guides’ I could explain the good and bad points of each of the small hotels as we passed them. I led us through the labyrinthine pathway that connects the Panajachel dock to the Santiago dock trying to point out good landmarks so that they wouldn’t get lost on the path that had become second nature to me. We inquired about the rates at Hotel Sak’cari and then went on to have a look at my top recommendation, Hotel Mikaso, run by some Spaniards. Juan, Juan, and Marta spoke with the manager—Luis (from Barcelona)—about Mikaso and about traveling in Guatemala for half an hour. I understood only about half of what they said in their fast, fluent Spanish Spanish.
Luis, who had lived in San Pedro for a couple of years, offered some excellent advice on traveling in the country and related some interesting observations about the culture as he had come to see it. Like some others before him that I had spoken with, Luis felt that the popularity of the local evangelical groups derived from the efforts of long-suffering wives who wanted to reign in their husbands’ drinking and bad behavior. The evangelical sects here are strident teetotalers. Led by their wives, sinning husbands find sanctuary in the evangelical churches and give up their partying for a new found sense of righteousness and familial harmony. Without Alcoholics Anonymous and other such secular (relatively speaking) temperance programs, the evangelical sects play an important role in helping alcoholics to overcome their addiction. Alcoholism does indeed seem to be a problem among the Tz’utujil and I often find myself having to step over what appear to be corpses in the street. In fact, these are passed out men whose excessive consumption occasionally drives them to find comfort on the dung coated cobbles of San Pedro’s streets; it’s a sad sight.
While Luis had been really helpful and Mikaso was exceptionally nice, the hotel ended up being too expensive for Juan, Juan, and Marta who returned to the cheaper Hotel Sak’cari. The three of them were appreciative of my help and took down my phone number so that we might meet for dinner the next night. So a day later we met at my favorite bar, El Barrio, and had a leisurely dinner with plenty of drinks. They brought along another new friend, Tali, from Israel. I think, at any given moment, there are probably more Israelis traveling the globe than in all of Israel. Apparently, there is a tradition of going on an extensive journey after serving one’s military service. I’m sure that the dangers and realities of military service in Israel stimulate a deep hunger for escape and adventure.
While having dinner, the subject of astrology came up and it turned out that three of the five of us are Leos. In fact, I have encountered more Leos on this trip than ever before…I wonder if there’s anything to this pattern? I hadn’t wanted to bring up my impending birthday but the inevitable question went around and I mentioned that I was a Leo by way of being born on August 21, the next day. They were eager to meet for dinner the following night to celebrate. Even if birthdays don’t mean anything to me, people going out of their way to be friendly do, so I happily acquiesced. The following night we met at Zoola, that most interesting and comfortable of San Pedro hangouts, and returned to the theme of good food and plentiful drinks. Juan, Juan, and I concluded that we needed to start a rum label, Los Tres Juanes. It turns out that all three of them are architects in Madrid and had only a short time to explore Guatemala. So they were off the next day for a visit to Tikal. We said our goodbyes.
Life in San Pedro, as a foreigner, can be strangely dreamlike. It takes a very short time to completely shift one’s frame of reference. Before long the strange landscape, the babble of foreign tongues, the tastes and smells all about become the sum total of one’s existence. Friends are made, experiences had, lives lived. In the morning one awakes reminded of something distinct and real but definitely lost. Time here often revolves around the making of short friendships; all anew one invents oneself in the light of others in a bittersweet attempt to enjoy the passing moment while accepting the fact that time is fast and futures scarce.
Part II-
Just about a month ago, perhaps ten days after I arrived in San Pedro, one of the teachers at Corazon Maya left on an illegal journey to the United States. Xavier, as we shall call him, had been my first contact with Corazon Maya because he was in charge of dealing with emails for the school. For one reason or another, I expected Xavier to be a capable middle aged man. I was thus a bit surprised to meet him on the ninth of July and find myself face to face with a young man who was barely out of his adolescence. Xavier is about 20 years old, on the small side, just an inch or two above five feet but full of energy and confidence. I had the opportunity to speak with him a few different times before he departed on his harrowing journey to El Norte. I also heard more about him from my friend Ryan, another student at Corazon Maya. Xavier was Ryan’s Spanish teacher for about three weeks. Ryan and he always seemed to be having a good time trading jokes. In fact everyone seemed to have a good time with Xavier as he was always teasing people.
I was surprised when Ryan told me that Xavier was intent on illegally immigrating to the United States and would, in fact, be leaving fairly soon on his journey. For some reason I had it in mind that illegal immigrants were desperate people from the slums of Mexico City or Tegucigalpa, those masses of the wretchedly poor who were willing to take any risk to escape their situation. It didn’t occur to me that a Tz’utujil Maya enmeshed in a loving family and living in one of the world’s most beautiful places—Lake Atitlan—would be interested in leaving all behind in order to become one of those nameless folks who wait in groups outside of Home Depot to take on any job people offer them. But as Ryan explained to me, Xavier could only manage to save about 50 dollars a month which would mean that for him to buy a house or start a business he would need a decade or more of meticulous saving to set himself up. If one wanted to be a responsible breadwinner and find himself a wife he needed house and opportunity, something Xavier didn’t feel he could easily acquire in San Pedro. His plan, then, was to immigrate to the United States, work for a year or two, and return with ten thousand dollars after his expenses. Such an amount, in San Pedro, meant the difference between a life of opportunity and one of constant want.
Xavier’s family managed to obtain a loan from the local bank for $4000, the amount Xavier would need to pay to his coyote. A coyote is a peddler of dreams. These are the men who specialize in bringing people across the border from Mexico to the United States. While they are usually successful, they are also usually merciless…requiring their clients to cross scorching hot deserts or worse. They are paid up front, whether the client makes it or not, whether he lives or dies. After Xavier’s coyote was paid the deal was done. Xavier professed a brash confidence in his ability to make his way in the world. Indeed, what 20 year old is any different? Some of his fellow teachers warned him and worried over him. Esteban, my next door neighbor at Corazon Maya, did everything to convince Xavier to cancel or postpone his journey. Not only were the borders harder than ever to cross but in August the deserts Xavier would have to cross were deadly hot, como un infierno, as Esteban warned him. I gently cautioned care but never tried to convince Xavier against his journey. Were I in his place I think I’d be doing the same. So Xavier said his goodbyes and was gone. I received an e-mail from him about a week into his journey and didn’t hear from him after that. Like everyone else, I hoped for the best.
Three weeks later Marta, Corazon Maya’s owner, told me that word had come that Xavier had made it and was in or near Los Angeles. The coyote Xavier was working with on the U.S. side needed to deliver other immigrants to their final destinations in California farms and meat packing facilities. So, according to Marta, Xavier needed somewhere to stay for a night or two in Los Angeles while the coyote was taking care of these other immigrants. Did I know anyone in Los Angeles who might be able to shelter him? I thought at once of my always hospitable friend Howard, as we shall call him. Given his busy travel schedule, I thought it unlikely that Howard would be available to help but figured I would try anyway. Luckily, he was in Los Angeles. I explained the situation to him and he happily agreed to help, if he could. So I let Marta know about this option and gave her Howard’s phone number to pass along to Xavier.
The next day Marta said that the coyote and Xavier had tried to contact Howard but that Howard had refused to help them. I knew this at once to be a fabrication. Not only had Howard already agreed to help but, as a person, he simply could not say no to someone who needed a favor. I called Howard and he said he had received one call but could not decipher what the person had said. Howard speaks very good Spanish and said that the person who called did not make sense in English or Spanish. I spent the rest of the day on the phone trying to figure the situation out. It was exceptionally hard to get the story straight but with many calls Marta and I finally were able to get things clear. As it turned out, things had gone very bad for Xavier. But clearly, he was in need of more than just a place to crash for a night or two.
After crossing the blazing desert from Mexico to Arizona, Xavier was picked up by his coyote's counterpart north of the border. This sketchy guy, who I talked with a couple of times, spoke terrible Spanish, no English, and had trouble relating a consistent story. Apparently, three of the immigrants he picked up fell out of the truck he was driving. It’s still not clear how this happened. Perhaps they were exhausted and dehydrated, perhaps he wrecked. One way or another, at least three of these immigrants were injured. Xavier received severe head trauma. As was related to Howard later on, Xavier lost a lot of blood through his ears and nose! The coyote sought no medical attention for any of these men. He delivered them all to a safe house in Los Angeles where they remained for two days. Sometime during this period the coyote tried to pass Xavier off to someone else. First they contacted a family from San Pedro, in fact they were cousins of Xavier. The coyote tried the same story with them that he later related to Marta and I: he needed to deliver some other immigrants elsewhere and Xavier needed a place to stay for a night or two in Los Angeles. So they went to this family, also illegal immigrants. Upon seeing Xavier, the family refused to shelter him. They figured he needed medical attention and, as illegals, were unwilling to get involved for fear of deportation. The next day, the coyote and Xavier called Marta. This is when she asked me for help. But fearing another refusal, the coyote didn’t tell us about Xavier’s grave condition. Once this became clear, much later in the day, we began more earnestly to assess the situation. I spoke to Xavier on the phone but could not understand him. He said a neck injury prevented him from talking clearly. Marta was able to understand him better and got much of the story from him. Xavier said he didn’t need to go to a hospital but just needed somewhere to rest and recuperate. I spoke with Howard, warning him of the messiness of the situation and suggesting that he not get involved. But, in spite of my warnings and his own travel arrangements early the next morning, Howard wanted to at least check on Xavier to provide him with some food and money. We then came up with the idea of getting him away from this coyote and putting him up in a local hotel for a few nights to rest. So, later that evening, we got the coyote to bring Xavier to a location where Howard could pick him up. Howard called and without a moment’s hesitation said that Xavier needed to go to the hospital. He explained that Xavier could not stand on his own and couldn’t talk clearly. Howard got more of the story from Xavier, including the bit about blood streaming from his ears and nose after the accident. This was not the kind of injury that could be healed with warm food and a comfortable bed. We agreed that he needed medical help even if it meant that he would be caught and sent back to Guatemala. The coyote refused to take Xavier to the hospital. We told him he could simply drop Xavier off but he still refused. He said he wanted Howard to do this! We explained that it was his responsibility, both by profession and due to the accident, to get Xavier some help. The coyote remained steadfast in his refusal. So ultimately Howard, in spite of some legal risk to himself, took Xavier to a good medical facility and told the hospital staff that he met him on the street. Luckily, he was able to get Xavier admitted without too much trouble.
The next day I called this medical facility only to find out that Xavier was not there! After checking around they told me that he had been transferred to a bigger hospital. I called that hospital and was eventually put in touch with the neurosurgeon in charge of Xavier’s case. They had admitted Xavier to the intensive care unit. The doctor then explained to me that Xavier had damage to several cranial nerves, had contusions to the frontal lobes of his brain, was deaf in one ear, and had partial paralysis of his face! The neurosurgeon, with measured incredulity, told me that Xavier claimed his injuries were from a soccer game. Same old Xavier!
Due to the kindhearted efforts of Howard, Xavier got the medical attention he needed. He is now recovering, outside the hospital, in the care of other Guatemalan immigrants. He’s young enough that he will probably recover from the bulk of his serious injuries but it will take some time for him to get back on his feet.
The terrible experience of this border crossing gone awry has left me with a lot of questions about the state of illegal immigration. I don’t think there is anyone to blame in a situation like this but it is clear to me that new laws are in order. On the one hand, I think we need much tighter border security. This will deter immigrants—and their coyotes—from attempting these dangerous journeys. But even with much tighter security there will be plenty of people who will continue to take such risks. The desperation of many immigrants is too severe, and the payoffs too great, for them to ignore. But more importantly the U.S. government needs to pass more legislation for guest workers so that people will be less tempted to become illegal immigrants. Many of these immigrants have no intention of staying in the U.S. For them, a couple years in the United States opens the way for a better future in their own countries. And a better future for these people is a better future for the United States. The trade between the U.S. and Latin American countries will continue to grow if these people can improve their quality of life. The system as it is doesn’t work. Xavier’s experience testifies to this. His medical bills, which will fall into the hands of the state of California, will far exceed the meager amount he wanted to make in the United States. Had other options been available for this bright, hard-working young man his family wouldn’t have had to go into debt for thousands of dollars, he wouldn’t have had to risk his life and suffer from injuries which may permanently scar him, and the small amount he hoped to gain from honest work would have been both legal and taxable—ultimately providing income to the United States.
Part III-
The temptation to know more about my future was too great. Moreover, I considered the opportunity of meeting another local shaman too good to pass up. Juan had scheduled a meeting for Friday with a very powerful shaman named Don Francisco who used flowers as a means to predict the future. On Thursday, we dropped by Don Francisco’s place to ask about what color flowers I needed to bring (this was part of the technique). Don Francisco disappointed us when he let us know that he just didn’t have time the next day to meet with us! Juan was very sorry, though it wasn’t his fault, and managed to contact another shaman, Don Juan, who could meet with us the next day. Throughout the summer, Juan had told me a bit about each of the shamans in San Pedro. Don Juan’s technique for predicting the future was unlike any I had heard before. Apparently, by inspecting a person’s forearm, feeling the pulse and the joints, Don Juan could determine one’s Mayan birthdate and predict one’s future! Having already learned my birthdate from Juan I was curious to see whether the famed Don Juan truly possessed this intriguing ability.
On Friday, Juan and I had our last Tz’utujil class reviewing a bit of everything we had covered and talking about the possibility of following up with more Tz’utujil classes next summer. After a terrific farewell lunch that Marta prepared for me, Juan and I got ready to leave for the consultation with Don Juan. I told Esteban what we were up to and he was quite interested so we invited him to join us. We walked up towards the center of town and through a number of different alleyways until we came upon Don Juan’s house, an old fashioned local home that had been in its present location for a century or more.
Don Juan came out to meet us dressed in a collared shirt and the traditional short pants of the Tz’utujil. He had short gray hair, wore glasses, and possessed a couple day’s worth of white stubble. He invited us into an empty room adjacent to the house. A blue tarp draped down from the top of the walls, separating the room from its thatch roof. Apparently, a kitten was somewhere up there on the tarp because I heard occasional cries during our visit and listened to the rustle of the tarp as the animal crept around up above our heads. This is the kind of weird scene, consulting a shaman ignoring a stranded kitten in the rafters, that one just gets used to when living in Guatemala.
Juan and Don Juan chatted for a while and then Don Juan shifted his seat and faced me. He didn’t seem interested in speaking Spanish so Juan translated between us. He asked me what I was interested in knowing. I said I’d like to know more about my future, in general, and my love life, in particular. He asked me to hold out my arms and began to inspect them. Having worked in one of my lives as a phlebotomist I half expected him to pull out a hypodermic syringe and plumb for a vein. Instead, he felt my pulse, inspected my joints, looked over my palm, and then began a series of rapid touches up and down each arm. After a few minutes of this he began speaking with Juan. Juan then translated, saying that Don Juan hadn’t perceived any major troubles in my future. All my energies—or what have you—seemed balanced and were not disrupted in any way. I should just keep on doing what I am doing. He asked if there was anything else I wanted to know. Unimpressed, I reminded him—through Juan—about my love life. He played my forearms like a xylophone and said that my love life looked like it was on the up-and-up as well and that I could expect a traditional marriage in my future. He asked if there was anything else I wanted to know about. Eager to see if he could really determine one’s Mayan birthdate I asked if he could tell me if my Mayan horoscope and my destiny were in harmony. Without giving any specifics, I started to notice a pattern here, he said that my Mayan birthdate and destiny were indeed in alignment.
I expressed gratefulness but was thoroughly unimpressed. The only specific prediction he offered is that I would be starting a successful business. Indeed.
We asked if he would move on to predict Esteban’s future. I observed this process again and noticed the same generic predictions. I began to really regret not being able to meet with the flower shaman. Though Don Juan’s technique was intriguing, his abilities seemed muted.
But understanding my prediction in the larger context of my experience in Guatemala provided it a greater meaning. In looking back over my seven weeks in San Pedro I realized that nothing did stand in my way. There really were no obstacles in my near future. If I wanted to work here and study this was not a bad divination. For fieldwork, in general, is plagued with obstacles. People don’t want to talk to you or they talk to you and relate a bunch of nonsense just to throw you off. Sometimes you can’t make any useful contacts or you have to bribe those you make. But everything had been going amazingly well for me. I hooked up with a terrific school that is run, it just so happens, by the former translator (Marta) of Barbara Rogoff, an eminent developmental psychologist who did groundbreaking research on the cultural dimensions of human development. Moreover, Marta and Antonio had helped me throughout my time and promised to do so even more in the future should I return. My next door neighbor at the school, it just so happens, is the nephew of the eminent anthropologist Benjamin Paul who worked for decades in San Pedro and helped to start the field of medical anthropology. Esteban, his nephew, has a longstanding interest in depth psychology and shared some of his interesting papers with me. By the end of the summer, I count him as a friend. The teacher that Corazon Maya procured for me, it just so happens, is one of the only scholars of the Tz’utujil language. Moreover, his life has been spent trying to rescue and preserve the traditions of his people. He is a brilliant and thoughtful scholar with connections to all of the other Mayan intellectuals in his community as well as all the shamans, curanderos, and diviners. And, it just so happens, that everyone I contacted to provide me letters in support of my work (for the purpose of grant applications) were eager to help. In short, my destiny is not dramatic…I will not win the lottery or discover a trove of Spanish gold. But my future is clear and it flows from the choices I make. These choices, according to Don Juan, will not encounter any unforeseen obstacles. Sounds good to me. ¡Adelante!
