I’m a Dog
The shaman, dressed in traditional knee-length pants, embroidered with local birds, handed me a carved box with a ceramic dog inside. He motioned for me to hold it up to the gods, or rather, life-sized statues of Mary, Baby Jesus, Gaspar and San Antonio. They had familiar faces (well, except for Gaspar), but their attire was more festive than usual. Instead of biblical robes, they wore frilly skirts, a variety of scarves and neckties, and an array of colorful beads. The scene was reminiscent of Mardi Gras and Saint Anthony was looking quite hip, but we weren’t taking part in a sacrilegious parade–we were in the middle of an initiation ceremony in Santiago Atitlán, Guatemala, the capital of the Tzutujil Maya Nation and the largest Indigenous town in Central America.
Lake Atitlan
This ceremony wasn’t on the itinerary–the carefully planned day-to-day schedule for my Eat-Write-Travel retreat to Guatemala. Rather, it was an unexpected opportunity and I said yes. My philosophy in life is saying yes to (almost) any new experience. Do you want to go to Peru next Tuesday? Yes. Do you want to pose (semi-naked) in a calendar? Well, ahhh, no, I couldn’t. How dare you suggest such a thing! But wait, maybe I could…because, at my age when will I get such an offer again. OK, yes! Do you want to let the strange man into your house that’s knocking at 2am (recently in Taos)?? The answer was no. I still have (some) common sense. But when it’s fairly safe, physically and financially, why not?
I stumbled upon the shamanistic Maya world by accident. I wasn’t looking for it, I swear. But on that very first day, gathering for a walking tour of Santiago, I met our local guide—highly recommended by the owner of the Posada where we were staying. There was something about Rosa. I liked her immediately, so much so that I hired her to be with our group for the next few days. All she had to do was accompany us to the neighboring villages and tell stories about her world and her culture: the Maya. We enjoyed the personal insight and important explanations. We met Rosa’s family, visited her home, and learned her story.
Mural of Mayan Village
Rosa had been married to an American, one that arrived in the late ‘70s to paint. In his spare time, he studied with an important shaman. The American lived next door to Rosa’s family and at 17 she married him. The next year her first child was born. The couple had no intention of leaving Guatemala, even after the civil war that destroyed the highlands began. That is, until one day when they saw their infant son’s name on a list of people that the army was looking for. They quickly went into hiding—3 months in a Catholic church in Guatemala City, before being smuggled out. Rosa and her husband moved to the States, where he started his “practice.” She was his assistant, teaching and guiding her husband in the Maya ways. He became quite successful and well known in this field. When another woman came along, Rosa got sent home with two children and no child support.
Upon returning to her village, the elders told Rosa that she possessed the real power, not the American. She was only holding him up. That’s when she began her own studies.
I had heard about her husband, had actually read the back cover of one of his books. I was surprised by the connection, but more surprised by the hypocrisy of the man. When Rosa sensed my intense interest in her studies, she offered to arrange a ceremony for me with the village shaman. I didn’t ask for details, I just said yes.
Village canoes and women washing on the banks of the lake.
I thought the ceremony would be for me to express my wishes and desires and see if the gods could lend a hand. That’s what a friend had told me…it’s how she got a husband. It sounded good, and with probably better odds than Match.com.
Rosa picked me up from the Posada and we walked to a humble timbered home where Mary, Baby Jesus, Gaspar and San Antonio stood in the corner of a dark room with a small window, curtained with a piece of thin fabric. The gods change homes every year, guarded by a chosen family who receives food and spirits for their role as caretakers.
For those that don’t know, indigenous people were made to convert to Catholicism in the days of the Conquest or die. The solution to their predicament: take the figures from the Church, but instill on them their own religious beliefs…hence, the Virgin in a pink tutu with a party hat. And yes, the Vatican would be horrified.
Gaspar
Nowadays, Christians have joined Catholics, both trying to annihilate a religion much older than their own. Santiago is full of missionaries and well-meaning yet misguided American church groups still playing the same old game—the price, or rather prize, these days to “save your soul” and forsake your religion and culture: a propane stove. If you convert, you get a stove, and no longer have to collect wood for cooking. To a single woman with 6 children, struggling to get by, Christianity can look pretty good. People now hide their ceremonies and visits to their shamans for fear of the stoves being repossessed. Many don’t dare take the risk.
I, on the other hand, as a person who doesn’t need a propane stove to survive, could flaunt my “heathen ways” to anyone I chose, so back to the ceremony…
The sacred room was lit with thinly tapered candles: blue, black, red and gold, arranged in significant circles on the concrete floor. I sat in front of the gods, on top of a folded blanket, with a shawl placed over my head, narrowing my view like blinders. The shaman spoke Tzutujil, but I do not, so Rosa translated. The first thing the he said, “You’ve been sent here for your initiation.” Really?? Cool!
Candles for Ceremony
That’s when he told me that I’m a dog. Well, at least according to the Maya calendar. It’s one of 20 astrological signs that supposedly define personality. The dog in the wooden box that symbolized me was handed over at the beginning of the hour-long ceremony and played an intrical role. She got to take swigs of alcohol along with the shaman, and got to bathe in it as well. She was enveloped in the smoke of burning herbs and kissed the gods, each one on both checks. I concentrated on the decorative figures and focused on my desires, even though I was distracted by the mesmerizing sound of a language that was spoken well before the dawn of Christianity.
The shaman asked for my initiation into the inner circle. He later explained that it takes three ceremonies and then you have to wait for a sign to see if you’ve been “accepted into the club”…sounds reasonable enough.
When the shaman finished, the candles were blown out and the dog put back into the cupboard. I was led onto a patio with a woman making tortillas on a wood burning comal—no propane stove for her, especially not with Baby Jesus wearing a Donald Duck tie in her living room.
Making tortillas
One day I’ll venture back to Guatemala for the second ceremony. Why not? Maybe nothing will happen, but I’m pleased to support an ancient culture fighting to keep its traditions alive.
Tags: Guatemala, Lake Atitlan, Maya shamans, Santiago Atitlan, shaman ceremony
