Last night I slept with don pancho


Chapter 15: A Shaman offers Advice



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Chapter 15: A Shaman offers Advice


Faced with a life-changing situation, I did what any Guatemalan would do and went to see a witch doctor.

When it comes to seeking answers, many rural Guatemalans turn to alternative sources. Fortune tellers, shamans and psychics are considered valuable resources. One of the most popular is San Simon, also known as Maximon. Although small shrines to the cigar-smoking, rum-swilling Mayan deity, are scattered throughout Guatemala one of the most popular sites is located in a pagan church located in San Andres Itzapa, a scruffy town just outside Chimaltenango, about 45 minutes outside Guatemala City.

Although Javier was not one to admit that he was superstitious, I knew that he believed in the world of spirits. He often spoke about seeing them in San Vicente when he was a young boy.

“It was early in the morning, just around dawn, when I saw a man with a wide cowboy hat turning the corner at the corral,” he recalled. “I was only around six years old and thinking he was my father, I ran after him. But the man was walking too fast and didn’t turn around. He was just a few steps ahead of me when I saw him pass through the fence. I got scared and ran to wake up my mother. She said it was my Uncle Javier. His spirit was often seen after his murder.”

There was a difference between spirits and ghosts. Spirits participated in community life and their presence carried power and ancestral authority. Ghosts on the other hand, were unrelated spirits and caused trouble so were best avoided. It wasn’t too difficult to convince him to consult one of the shamans in San Andres Itzapa, in the hope that he could give us some advice on our fast-changing life. I hoped to get some insights into my conflicted emotions about Guatemala itself. Was I meant to live here?

We stopped at la Alameda named for the alamos or poplars that line the road like sentinels. Other trees such as casuarinas, pine and cypress made for a pastoral scene and it was easy to see how it was an inviting spot for those wanting to flee the city for the day.

As we drove through, it was a strangely quiet day in Chimaltenango. A month earlier, the place had been bustling due to its proximity to the town of Santiago Sacatepequez where each November 1st on Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) locals build and then fly massive, brightly coloured kites from the top of the hills. November 2nd is a day to remember children who have died and the kites are smaller. The belief is that the paper emissaries will touch the souls of those in heaven. The strong November winds tear the kites to shreds and each year, the craftsmen begin their kite construction anew.

The valley itself is encircled by three volcanoes. The largest is Volcan de Agua , a volcano I considered a personal guardian as it shadowed my every move during my time in La Antigua. It’s a wide, flat volcano that rises 3766 metres in height and is named for its cone filled with water. Although it looks peaceful, when it erupted in 1560, it was one of the most devastating natural disasters to befall the colonial world. The lava buried the country’s original capital and entombed the country’s queen.. The other two volcanoes, huddled together on the west side of the horizon, include Volcan de Fuego (Fire) and the tallest Volcan Acatenango.

It was a windy day on the day we visited. Nearing the town we passed a campesino in rough hewn clothing leading a burro laden with poinsettias. We bought anonas from a street vendor, who waited patiently while Thelma examined each individual fruit with as much care as though it were a feverish child. We broke the anonas open and divided the chunks among us as we walked to the church. The fruit’s black reptilian exterior hid a sweet juicy white interior that encased shiny, black thumbnail-sized seeds. Despite its prehistoric appearance, the fruit was refreshing and cleared the fumes and dust from the journey from our throats.

At the church, smoke billowed over the concrete walls, painted a cheerful flamingo pink. We entered and saw three smouldering mounds of ashes and one flaming circle. A curadero with a red bandana on his head stood in the middle of the sacred space in the courtyard and gazed upward. The shaman’s face was as dark as mahogany wood and he disappeared in and out of sight, becoming invisible when fully enveloped by smoke.

Using a long metal poker that reached above his head, he tended the flames that engulfed the offerings left by devotees. As he poked the fire to stimulate more smoke, he puffed on a cigar the size of a salami and blew smoke heavenward. Skinny dogs rummaged and burrowed in the charred mounds of previous fires. One skinny hound scored an egg burnt solid in the fire, and ran away to eat his prize in private.

Inside the church was an altar with glass enclosed cabinet enclosing the figure of Maximon. A set of stairs led to a platform and then down the other side. Where pews would normally be were rows of chest height tables covered with offerings. One family was unpacking a boxed lunch of Pollo Campero fried chicken and readying it as an offering to Maximon. Hundreds of candles burned, each symbolizing a request from other petitioners.

I approached the shrine slowly and took out a handful of quetzals. My feet brushed the pine bows laid across the floor and a scent evocative of the boreal forest of northern Canada filled the room. Light cut in at an angle through the sidelights in the church illuminating the motes of dust in rays of light.

“Walk up the stairs and pay your respects,” Javier gestured. Following his lead, I climbed up the steps and stood in front of the altar. Pale pink and white gladiolas lay beside the shrine while inside were bottles of aguardiente anejo a type of rum. The sharp pungent smell of spilled alcohol was everywhere. The glass that encased his effigy was covered with the fingerprints of petitioners who had gone before me. I gazed at Maximon through the glass for a long while, slowly becoming aware of how fearless he looked. He looked downright nasty. His wizened face stared back at me with intensity and a jaunty black hat gave him a devilish air indicating he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him.

Unlike peaceful Christian saints, Maximón isn’t a benevolent deity but is a bully one does not want to anger. Known as a link between Xibalbá (The Underworld) and Bitol (The Heavens) he represents all the temptations of human vices. I had vices of my own. I smoked, drank wine and beer, coveted material goods and pursued my own interests travelling all over the world without my family when I could be at home helping them out. Gazing at the effigy, I couldn’t help feeling as though we had a lot in common. His expression seemed to challenge me to follow his example and accept myself – with all my flaws – as he had. It was an unexpected message.

Seeing the line of petitioners growing behind me, I retreated, without turning my back to him, as instructed.

Outside in the corridors of the church we encountered another curadero, reading cards for a woman. He identified himself as Hermano Antonio, a one the shamans or priests who tended Maximon’s shrine. He offered to read my cards for 10 quetzals.

I asked him about the prophecy – which I’d heard from fortune tellers in both India and Romania - that I would die in a car accident. He removed the bandana from his head and laid it on the table. He asked me to divide the cards into three with my left hand and then select a series of cards.

“Someone is jealous of you,” he said. “Its spirit is shadowing you and bringing bad luck. His negative energy will cause your accident.”

“Can you see who it is?” I asked.

“It’s someone who took a lot of your money in a real estate transaction,” he answered.

“And Javier?” I ask of his cards, now laid out.

“Javier is an intermediary and is using his energy as a shield to protect you,” said Jose Antonio, holding his hands still across the cards. “But he’s getting weaker because it has been going on for so long.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. I recall how strongly I had been drawn to Javier when I first saw him across the room. Thanks to his support I’d been able to leave my demanding job and pursue more creative interests. Now he shouldered the majority of the financial burden of the households in Canada and in Guatemala. Maybe I depended on him too much in Guatemala and was such a burden I should leave him to his family responsibilities without having to worry about me. I was shaken and disturbed by the shaman’s prophesy and final words.

”Just don’t do any business in Guatemala,” he had warned.



Too bad we didn’t listen to his prophecy.


Chapter 16: Henny Penny






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