At 8:30, with a strawberry-filled pastry in hand (Q4/$0.50), I meet my Spanish teacher in the park. The only thing I’m missing is a cup of coffee that for some strange reason is not available in my neighborhood even though coffee plantations surround it.
We board a bus to Chimaltenango, a suburb of Guatemala City and arrive at a makeshift bus station that is surrounded by a market at 10:00. Not only does the air reek of exhaust from buses but there so many people in the area that my head starts to spin. It’s not an attractive town by any means. It’s down and dirty, no frills, just a place to do business.
I was planning on taking the bus to Panajachel but after experiencing this, there’s no way I’m going to risk it with luggage in tow. My teacher confirms that the cost is the same to take a shuttle through an agency (Q80/$10/each way) – problem solved.
It takes a minute in the chaos but we finally find the bus to Iztapa. We ascend a mountain on roads that twist and turn and send us flying from left to right in our seats. The driver takes no mercy.
Iztapa is a small city at the top of a mountain. Its church is large but modest however we are on a mission to find something called Maximón.
We are directed down a dirt road. At the end is a small compound. Behind the gates my teacher begins explaining the significance of Hermano Maximón
(San Simon). Despite his best efforts to explain it, I’m still not 100% sure I get it.
In the most basic terms this man is a saint to the people. They worship him as they would any other saint however he additionally gets showered with booze. Today is his birthday so people wait at his alter to give him flowers, booze and to ask him for help and to thank him for his help.
Outside of this sacred space, people are executing rituals that have been performed by Mayans for years. I catch one from the beginning.
A man opens a bag and lays out the contents. There are blue candles, a large cigar, a bag of salt and an eight of rum.
I sit and watch as he draws a figure on the ground using the salt. He talks to it but I can’t hear what he’s saying. I can only hear people talking about me to the brother who gave me permission to take photos (and to marry him). They are more curious than upset that I’m there especially since I’m the only tourist here. My teacher explains that they don’t get many tourists but they don’t mind them so long as they don’t make fun of their beliefs.
Fair enough.
HeyKela 