The scribe, or ajtz'ib', was the most trusted person in the community, not only because of his ability to read and write but also because of his friendships with Ladinos. For these reasons, Mekel asked him to go to town with him to obtain a birth certificate for the child.

They left Jolomk'u long before the sun showed its face at the gateway to the horizon. Before the offices opened they were waiting their turn in the hallway. The morning air combed the tops of the bushes that grew in the town square. Every once in a while a man entrusted with telling time would strike a bell hanging in front of the town hall eight times.

ìThe offices are about to open,î commented the scribe, talking to himself.

Forty-five more minutes went by and people began arriving at the town hall for various reasons: disputes, land division, domestic quarrels, permits for cutting trees, or complaints of Ladino cheating. Then the town secretary was seen coming down one of the cobblestone streets, a mournful figure in black capixay and pants, his tight belt making him look like a gourd divided in two and tied in the middle with a cord. He was a man getting moldy among the books of that old town hall. He had been the secretary since time immemorial and knew his way through all the maze of those books and of his calling, especially the daily chores.

ìGood morning, Mr. Secretary,î greeted Mekel, hat in hand.

The man went into his office without acknowledging Mekel, leaving behind him the stench of tobacco, although he did not carry any lighted cigarette at that moment. It was like the odor of those shelves of old books.

Mekel wanted to go in, but a confrontational policeman with a scar on his face from a machete wound, stopped him by pushing him out.

ìCome back another day. Today the secretary isn't going to see anybody,î he said. ìDidn't you know that today is Columbus Day? It's a holiday,î he concluded.

ìBut, it's that ...î began the scribe.

ìYou stupid Indian, didn't I tell you today is a holiday?î

Actually, that day was just one among many that the local authorities had declared to be a holiday.

Returning to their village, the scribe and Mekel were commenting that they would undoubtedly be fined for not having applied for the birth certificate within the stipulated time. Mekel, who was not well informed about such matters, asked his companion:

ìWhat holiday is this Columbus Day, sir?î

ìFriend Mekel, to us Mayas many things have not been revealed. Our world is not the world of the Ladinos; our holidays are not their holidays; our lives develop along different lines. We don't have the same vision of life: theirs is one way and ours another. Race, nationality or so-called national identity, means belonging to something or to a group, to be part of it, do you understand?î

ìYes, I understand.î

After a holiday it was customary for the town officials to replace their lost energy and cure their headaches with another day off.

Days later, they went to the mayor's office to try again. They weren't allowed to go into the town secretary's smoky office until after midday, when the sun had changed its angle and the roosters announced the time with a song to the wind. There were a lot of people in the corridors waiting their turn, swallowing their boredom with yawns. Mekel, hat in hand, nervously approached the secretary.

ìGood afternoon,î he said. At his side stood the scribe.

ìWhat do you want?î asked the secretary churlishly.

ìSir,î said the scribe, ìA few days ago this man's wife gave birth to a son. Exactly five days ago,î he said.

ìAnd why did you wait until now to register the birth?î

ìSir, you yourself told us it was a holiday,î said Mekel.

ìThat's not my fault. To get the kid's birth certificate you have to bring three sheets of legal paper, the midwife's identity card; the father's identity card and his signature or two witnesses, if he's unable to sign his name. Oh yes! I forgot to tell you that since more than three days have elapsed, there'll be a charge of five quetzales per day, you know.î

ìBut sir, we're very poor,î Mekel began.

ìThat's your problem, the law is the law.î

The ajtz'ib' intervened, saying that they had run out of legal paper in town, but that they were willing to pay the value of the paper and as far as the identity card of the midwife was concerned, she was a Mayan woman, and so she didn't have such a document.

ìWhy didn't you look for someone in town, like from the health center?î asked the secretary.

ìSir, our long-standing custom is that it should be someone from our own people, because we have certain ceremonies that others don't know how to perform. Our women don't trust outsiders. Everyone is born like this.î

The secretary used his imagination astutely in order to think up a pretext to inflate the final bill. Pretending to be benevolent with the worried villagers, he pulled out an old book, opened it like the leaves of old squeaky doors and began to thumb through it. He pretended to study the legal possibilities of that complicated case like a serious legal eagle.

ìYou're the father of the boy?î he asked Mekel.

ìYes, sir,î he answered hastily.

ìWhat name are you going to give him?î he asked.

ìWell, we want to give him my dad's name, according to our customs. What do you think?î

ìOh no! Forget that foolishness. That's why we have an almanac.î Having said that, he went up to a calendar hanging on the wall, dirty from being touched so much, and looked for the date of birth and then said: ìIt was the day of St. Serapius. But if you insist on giving him your father's name, then we'll have to make certain legal arrangements,î he said.

ìPlease, Mr. secretary, we want to name him Lwin and his father is named Mekel, so that his name would be Pedro Miguel,î interposed the scribe.

ìWell, I'll do everything I can for you, but it's just one more thing, and you know that it's not easy to change the law. Wait outside.î

After a boring hour Mekel and his companion were called in. The secretary read in a Spanish that limped into Mekel's ears, the paper with the name of Lwin Mekel, changed to Pedro Miguel for the Ladinos, planted like his umbilical cord. It was one more link in the line of Lwins and Mekels from Jolomk'u. The secretary finished reading and brought Mekel a stamp pad, took his stiffened right thumb, lifted it, and led it like a blind man to stamp his thumb print on the paper that he had just read.

ìWell, son,î he said in an affable tone, ìIt's all set.î

ìThank you, Mr. secretary. Excuse me, how much is it?î asked Mekel.

ìWell, for you, and considering that the elections are coming up, I'll ask for a little help. Let me have twenty-five bucks.î

Mekel, putting his hat on the floor, looked down into his string shoulder bag, pulled out a knotted handkerchief and took out a few bills. Before counting them one by one, he spit on his fingers so that not a single one would escape his count. He managed to scrape together the twenty-five with the change that lay piled on top of the bills.

ìNext!î said the secretary.

The second day after Lwin's birth, Two Iq', had been the day to look for godparents for the child. Mekel, the father, along with the paternal grandparents made a journey that evening to the village where lived Maltin Nolaxh and his wife Lolen Tumaxh, who had been selected as the godparents.

The sun was falling like a great comet over the crests of the mountains that surrounded Jolomk'u, when the small retinue set out, carrying small bundles of pitch pine to light their return, and each carrying a machete like an extra limb. Over the narrow road, actually nothing more than a path, they went one after another, one woman stumbling barefoot behind the men. They had to hurry, because the night was quickly swallowing up the day. They took shortcuts to reach the mountain and arrive quickly at their destination. There they found some workers returning to their huts for the night, who greeted them as they passed by. On their backs they were carrying firewood with their tools on top, all supported by carrying straps across their foreheads. Nearby, a lover whistled a melancholy tune like an evening serenade for some girl from the neighborhood, putting all his emotion into the sad whistle. The group devoured the paths with their callused feet, accustomed to conquering long distances. They passed groups of adobe houses that kept them company along the way. Some dogs came out to bark at them there, jealously guarding their territory, the owners quieting them by throwing at them whatever was within reach. After responding to the travelers' greetings, the people returned hurriedly to the hearth that gave them warmth and smoke under the straw roofs. Their comfort was to sit on hard three-legged benches, stir up the fire, clean the chiles in the depths of a clay bowl and smear them on hot tortillas to make them tasty. Their eyes watered on account of the chile, which stimulated their hunger and made them devour the corn tortillas. But above all their tears were over the lack of opportunity to change the disagreeable situation in which they spent their lives.

Inside the hut, the travellers heard the slap, slap of women's hands making tortillas to fill the stomachs of their crying children, struggling to keep their eyes open in the smoke.

The grandmother lagged behind the group, as her feet were losing the habit and the ability to conquer the road. The years weighed on her steps. They sat down to wait for her on the edge of the road, which was now only dimly seen in the night. It was the highest part of the mountain and they pulled out their cigarettes of corn husks to fill their dry mouths with smoke and saliva, and allow the grandmother time to get back her strength. They sat on some rocks like fireflies as they lit and then snuffed out their cigarettes. At their feet the village appeared like stars fallen from the sky. Each little hut was a light that came on, each home smoky with crying children.

ìLet's go on,î said the grandmother.

ìShall I light the pitch pine?î asked Mekel.

ìNo, not for me,î she said. ìThis old lady sees better at night than in the day,î she said.

Upon entering the hamlet, they were welcomed by dogs that came out to bark, setting off all the dogs of the neighborhood.

Mekel banged his machete against a stick or a rock to scare away the animals that would not leave the strangers alone. Arriving at their destination they called:

ìHello there.î

ìWho is it?î

ìGood evening, it's us.î

A maimed dog, which had its tail and ears mutilated so that it wouldn't get rabies, threatened them so loudly that it was impossible to hear. He rushed forth impetuously until the owner threw a rock to drive him off amidst growling and barking.

ìCome on in. We're sorry the animals have bothered you and almost bitten you. We've been giving chile to that poor dog and that's why he's gotten so mean.î

After greeting the people in the house, they sat down on the little wooden benches offered them, taking places around the hearth, which projected light and heat. They invited the grandmother to take her place next to the women near the grinding stone, facing the men. She sat on a mat next to the women. There was a woman attached to the grinding stone as though it were all of one piece with her, moving rhythmically, using the stone to crush the grains, which became a soft dough, which able hands then made into round lumps. These would end up on a griddle which cast an eclipse from the fire over the people. The griddle, a real bright red, cooked the round bubbly tortillas like craters on a big full moon. Cigarette smoke was flying, and the conversation was animated, touching on the work, scarcity and poverty which filled their lives. During pauses in the conversation, one could hear the crunch, crunch of the grinding stone .

Maltin Nolaxh stirred the fire, pushing pieces of burning, smoking wood under the clay griddle, which was supported by the hearth stones. Between the hearthstones were the simmering pots of black bean soup and thick corn gruel. Corn, beans and chileólinked through time in long chains of generations eating only corn, beans and chile. From time to time, they varied the routine with wild vegetables: colinabos, nightshade, amaranth and watercress.

The basket was filled with tortillas, hot off the griddle. The woman brought a clay pot with warm water for people to wash their hands. The host invited the visitors to make use of the water, which went from hand to hand, followed by a little bit of water to rinse out their mouths, which they spat into the corners of the house. They dried their hands on their coat sleeves or on their mended pants, which had patches over the patches. They held the clay pots with beans at the bottom with one hand and with the other they emptied the basket of hot tortillas, which increased the heat of the chile in their mouths.

ìEat, take some of our Mother Corn, please,î said the host from time to time. They blew on their hands as though they were gaining strength each time they took the tortillas, as a sign of respect to Mother Corn.

ìThank you,î they answered, ìhere we are eating our sacred corn, thank you very much,î they repeated.

A child who had been nodding as he slept over in a corner awoke. Crying, he timidly went to lie down on his mat, which was stretched out in the corner. Tattered blankets with holes in them were stretched over the slumbering child, blankets where the cold of the night went in and out. That child was not the exception, but rather was representative of the life of Jolomk'u and all the Mayan villages of the region.

Upon finishing supper they gave thanks to one another with their hands together, emphasizing with burps how satisfied and full they were and how appreciative of the family's services.

ìThank you,î they said. ìMay God bless you.î

ìI hope you've eaten well, that you're not still hungry. It's your own fault if you didn't eat enough,î insisted the hosts.

ìWe've eaten. Our Mother Corn knows that we don't disdain her. You are very kind.î

Once more they passed around the little bowl of lukewarm water to rinse out their mouths. Again they touched the firebrands to the ends of their corn husk cigarettes, and men and women let out smoke through their mouths and noses. Then the visitors began explaining the purpose of their late night visit. The grandfather of the newborn, a man with a face lined by the years, with two scanty wisps of whiskers that came down like moss over his trembling lips, was the one who passed out the cigarettes. He passed the smoking brand to each one and waited for each one to light his cigarette. Waiting for the appropriate moment, he spit vigorously, making an arc in the air and then spoke:

ìThe great God that holds up the four corners of the world, like pillars of the universe, who is with us in nature and gives life by the air we breathe, light by Father Sun, life by Mother Earth and water, has permitted a male child be born to my son and his wife, under the protection of our father Thirteen Ajaw. Considering our poverty and humble condition, we have decided to ask you to have pity on us and accept the responsibility of being godparents to our little grandson, because of your exemplary life and your friendship with our family,î said the old man.

ìDon Maltin, doÒa Lolen,î interrupted the grandmother, ìforgive us if on some occasion we haven't shown you all the respect you deserve. Perhaps our children have not greeted you on the road or have not doffed their hat to you, or our animals have trespassed onto your cornfield or your land. These are situations beyond our control. Forgive us. We've chosen you because you are ordinary folks like us, and your example will serve as a guide to our grandchild.î

ìWe're really happy that the child was born without any problems and that the mother has recovered satisfactorily,î said Maltin Nolaxh. ìReally, there's no dearth of problems and complications, especially in such cases. Above all, if it is the first child, the mother has to be very careful not to go uncovered, nor to touch cold water until she has bathed in the sweat bath. As far as being godparents to the child, we appreciate your choosing us very much. Our merits are very limited, but we can't refuse the honor you do us, for our elders' tradition tells us that it's our duty to accept with pleasure. My wife and I thank you.î

ìIn view of the fact that you have done us the great favor of agreeing to be the child's godparents, a thousand thanks from us,î said Mekel, ìand according to our customs, we'll expect you tomorrow in our home to celebrate the child's ox q'in in a simple way.î

The night was gnawing away at time like rats gnawing on ears of corn stored in an attic. They spoke of the care of the child and of the mother: eye diseases, avoiding hot-blooded people, who should not see the baby, what herbs to prepare for the sweat bath, the incense in the corners to scare away the nawales so they couldn't take over the child's soul, the clothing that shouldn't be left out in the night air to avoid frightening the newborn, the warming of the head, the tying of the feet and hands of the little one so he would be a calm man in the future, avoiding, if possible, getting near pregnant women, drunks, or overheated people. At night they should leave crosses made of pitch pine behind the doors, tie a bag of seven herbs wrapped in red cloth around the neck of the child, and tie the navel so that it won't pop out when he cries, and thus in his adult life he will be able to carry heavy loads in his daily work. They should give the mother enough artemisia, alucema, pericÛn, and chicken soup with lots of mint. Furthermore, she shouldn't lack chile at each meal for warmth and cups of boiled yellow corn meal, so that she would have plenty of milk for the child day and night, until he reached the age of two. To keep the little one from vomiting, it was recommended that the mother should drink a cup of liquor from time to time, which would also avoid indigestion.

Before going to bed they lit pitch pine torches dripping with turpentine. Then they said good-bye and opened a path through the dense night. The dogs that were beginning to fall asleep, coiled up on their flanks, suddenly stretched out, and started to bark in a contagious chorus of protest.

There were three celebrations in honor of each person in Jolomk'u. Ox q'in was the first, and it was held the third day after birth to give thanks for life to the great God.

Relatives, neighbors, and friends began to get together at Mekel's house. Happiness shone across their faces, a respite from the daily work and pain. They momentarily left their sorrow, their struggle, and their exhaustion hanging in their houses. The men brought firewood, corn and beans. The women offered their empty hands to do housework. They slaughtered chickens, washed the new mother's clothes, blew like bellows on the sleepy fires under the griddles, ground corn on the stone, or made tortillas near the fire like a perpetually applauding audience.

All wore tattered but clean clothes instead of the tattered work clothes left on their beds. They welcomed each man as he noisily dropped off his load of firewood in the patio and wiped off his sweat, and gave him a small cup of coffee made of toasted corn with brown sugar. Real coffee was drunk only when one went to work at the fincas. On one side were the men, on the other the women. Conversations developed regarding their daily work, sick relatives, the harvest, and trucks full of people falling into ravines.

The women blew like bellows on the fire. The children cried endlessly, fussy from so much smoke. The older ones ran around happily outdoors, knowing that they would eat well that day. Finally, after so long there would be meat, something whose taste they had forgotten. They ran from one side to the other, their hunger awakened by the smell of the boiling pots. They entered to look furtively at the pots on the hearthstones, went running out again, dreaming of chewing on a bone or eating a bowl of soup.

Inside the house they set up rustic planks to serve as seats for the guests. People kept arriving and those that didn't fit inside stayed outside. In one corner, the mother, with her head tied in a white kerchief, was lying down with the child. She had changed her clothes too. She had put on the white g¸ipil that she used on Sundays to go to town, along with her marbled wraparound skirt, and a checkered cloth as protection against the cold. For the first time, her son was wearing diapers, made from Mekel's old pants. His colorful hand-woven cap with a design dominated by red, and so good for protecting newborns from the evil eye, was closed at the crown like the peaks of the straw roofs.

Ox q'in was the public presentation of the newborn. No one else had met him yet except his mother and the midwife.

At the crossroads near the entrance to the house they had built an arch with pacaya leaves and green pine boughs adorned with wild flowers hung according to Mayan aesthetics. The children were delighted with their job as watchmen, playing around as they waited under the large arch full of patas de gallo and other flowers. One of the children ran to announce the news: ìThe godparents are here.î Actually, the couple was just then coming down the path that went across the river.

ìTie up the dogs,î someone suggested. The dogs had actually been tied up since dawn.

Mekel went out to receive the godparents under the arch, without letting go of his machete. The women milled around doing housework, the children ran from one side to another, the grandparents raised themselves lazily on their arthritic legs, relying on the strength of their canes. After the exchange of greetings between the godparents and the family, they came into the house. On a rustic table were some candles with restless flames in front of wooden crosses. There was a pot without ears stuffed with flowers of all colors.

The new arrivals went discretely to the crosses, which had a picture of the Sacred Heart on one side and a Virgin with Child on the other side. The images could barely be made out under the layer of smoke and time. They kneeled down and, after kissing the earth, brought two large candles out of a bag, passed them in front of the crosses and the saints, muttering prayers through their teeth. After a short while they got up and went to the corner where the mother and child were, surrounded by the torn blankets that warmed their cold nights. They greeted Lotaxh and exchanged a few routine remarks and then went to their place on the planks that served as chairs. The ajtz'ib', the midwife, the diviner, and the paternal and maternal grandparents were seated there along with some neighbors and friends. It was a good opportunity to demonstrate the esteem and unity of the community. While they waited for the food, they passed the time discussing events of interest to the group. The diviner commented that this year there wouldn't be enough rain and that the cornfields wouldn't produce the needed harvests, and consequently, the price of a measure of corn would probably double.

The midwife found it alarming that the nurses of the public health centers were requiring pregnant women to attend classes on birth control. In order to get rations of corn, oil, milk, as well as medical attention for their children, they had to participate in these programs and use various methods contrary to their usual customs. And they suspected that the products they were given contained something to sterilize them so they would have no more children.

ìThey are always inventing new techniques for doing away with us,î said the ajtz'ib'. ìOver time, and one way or another they try to negate our existence, either physically or culturally. If you consider all the health, education, agriculture, and ìdevelopmentî programs, they are nothing more than instruments of alienation and a pretext for getting big loans from other countries. A friend who knows a lot about this told me not long ago that our great-great-grandchildren will already be in debt before they are born. They never take into account what we really need, nor do they ask us what we want and how we want them to do things.î

No one else felt like expressing an opinion after hearing the ajtz'ib', and, to change the subject, the paternal grandfather stood up with his hands clasped together and said:

ìWe thank God, who is the sole owner of our lives, who has kept us alive this morning and I'd like to thank you who are with us. Please have a tortilla.î

ìThank you,î everyone said.

ìHave some food, Lotaxh,î said the godmother. ìPut lots of chile on your food so your milk won't get cold.î

The adults ate inside the house, the children on the porch, climbing up on the stacks of firewood or on the ground, whatever way they could get comfortable enough to enjoy that chicken soup with its wings or necks that they sucked clean. One woman began to serve seconds on soup. Most bowls were filled and there was a pile of tortillas for each group of people. The mothers masticated for the smallest ones, who opened their mouths like baby birds getting their lumps of food.

It was a motley group of people dispelling their hunger. The women who hadn't found straw mats sat on their feet talking to one another.

ìPlease eat,î the hosts repeated again and again.

The people held their clay dishes on their knees with both hands, raising them to their mouths. The hot chile made their tongues curl.

ìHow did you get the chickens for this party?î the midwife asked the group of women eating in a corner. ìWhere we live, nobody has even one chicken.î

ìYou poor things,î said another woman. ìThat's because of the disease that came through here about two years ago, and if it starts up again, it's almost sure to wipe out our animals one more time.î

ìWell, if it's a disease, one can accept it,î said the godmother.

ìSo it wasn't coyotes or foxes?î asked the others with interest.

ìNo, it wasn't sickness or animals, it was people.î

ìBut a thief couldn't steal the chickens of a whole village,î they said.

ìIt wasn't a thief. It was one of those men that work for some institution, supposedly to improve the production and quality of our animals and harvests. One day they arrived and assembled the whole community, and we even fed them for two days, and as you know they don't just eat vegetables. We had to make donations for meat, coffee and bread. They said they had come to vaccinate our animals to avoid this disease you're talking about. We gladly took our chickens, ducks, and turkeys the day of the vaccination to the front of the town hall annex. You should have heard the animals cry, it was just like a market day. To begin with, the expert arrived around eleven in the morning. Someone had brought him on a horse, since he wouldn't dream of walking. First they vaccinated the cattle, then the dogs and pigs and finally the poultry. They put some drops in each eye of the birds and after lunch we all went home happily with our animals. What a shock the next day when we saw our birds walking around blind, running into things. They lurched from side to side as if they had been hit on the head. What had happened was that they had gone blind from the drops they put in their eyes. We didn't know whether to kill them or wait for the medicine to wear off. We were all crying at seeing our animals unable to eat. Some hand fed them and made them drink medicine, but the animals stayed blind. We went to talk to the development man of our village who understands our language, but he said the men had already gone back to the city and that they were a group of students that were studying I don't know what. The development man said they probably gave the wrong medicine or gave too much.

The women paused quietly, their thoughts traveling the stretch between heart and mind, between feelings and ideas in those simple people.

After a long while someone spoke: ìAt home we've talked about thisî he said. ìProbably the things that are done to us are intentionally planned, or else nobody cares whether we get ahead, since the meaningless little things they come to give us just don't measure up to our needs. Or it could be that they send for things from other countries for us, and since we're so far away from any urban center, they send us people without knowledge and experience to come and do their internships or in some cases they send them as punishment to these places. The truth is that in general, whatever experts come here have come without much of a desire to work. For example: The interns come to do experiments here, and then they go to the cities to exploit people.î

ìDon't you think that after so many years of the same old thing, with the same promises, that the money spent to support the institutions, well used, would have made our communities grow?î suggested another. ìFor example, our traditional methods give better corn harvests than the famous `demonstration plots' of the experts who say they have studied for I don't know how many years.î

ìMy son, who understands a little Spanish,î said another woman, ìheard on the radio about millions in aid and loans that good people from other countries send. But from this, all we get around here is the news .î

General laughter from the men brought them back to reality, and they realized that everyone had finished eating. The hostess told her helpers to wrap up the meat left over on each plate in kanac leaves and to give them to the guests so they could take them home. The godparents' plates were taken to the kitchen, because for them there would be special food. The godparents stood up in their respective places and spoke to all those present: ìWe would like to thank you, all the good friends, the diviner, the scribe, the midwife, all of you. Thank you for the food. May God bless you.î

Meanwhile the grandmother hurriedly helped Lotaxh prepare the child to be presented to everyone, since until now no one had seen him, with the exception of his mother and the midwife.

The first thing hung around his neck was the red bag containing seven herbs against the evil eye. On the wrist of his right hand they placed a coral bracelet, then the grandmother made a cross of saliva on his forehead. Without taking off the homemade cap with the red fringe, she wrapped him in a checkered cloth. Lotaxh stood up, and taking the child in her arms, went to show him to the godparents.

The godmother took him in her arms. The firecracker that went off at that moment shook the nerves of the newborn, who trembled in the godmother's arms, turning purple from crying, and looking as if his breath were gone.

The people who were outside came to see the ceremony and meet the child. Momentarily there was a crowd of people inside the house. The godparents came near the place sacred to the hybrid faith of the men of Jolomk'u, where candles were burning and the cross had arms outstretched between saints with foreign faces, to the place where the men of Jolomk'u practiced costumbre. The godmother cradled the child in her arms while the godfather held the incense burner in his hands, swinging the smoke that enveloped the child.

The child was presented to the crosses, to the saints, to the fire, to the beams, to the roof and to each and every part of the house. There was a murmur among the people watching the ceremony. The smell of incense was everywhere in the smoke. The godfather lifted the child to show him to the crowd. He made the sign of the cross in the air, made another sign of the cross over Mother Earth, from west to east and from north the south.

The child's crying brought them back to the reality of the here and now:

ìI've seen that your little head has two whorls,î continued the godfather. ìThe strength of Mother Nature and of the ancestors is with you. You are predestined for service,î he concluded.

The godmother picked him up and took out some new clothing from the bag she carried: a red colored cap, a kerchief, a little shirt. She put them on her godchild.

Two porters accompanied the godparents after they said good-bye that afternoon. One of the boys carried a heavy basket containing bread, party tamales, meat and brown sugar. The other carried a pot full of soup and more meat. Their lithe bodies moved along the trail without raising dust, and their minds were agile, thanks to the chicha.

After the godparents left, the women prepared the sweat bath, that began to emit smoke through its little opening, waiting for the new mother to be purified.

No Mayan home, no matter how small, failed to have a sweat bath, attached like a callus to feet, a mound with a little door for people to enter on their knees.

It was the place were men, women, and children bathed themselves in heat. Beneath the center of the sweat bath's low vault there was a pile of a certain kind of stones which would not burst with the heat, or turn to lime in the high temperatures to which they were subjected. At first, clouds of smoke came out of the opening of the bath, but when all the wood was burned up, only the red-hot stones remained with pots of boiling water. Various wild herbs were used in the steam.

Four men carried Lotaxh on a blanket to the door of the sweat bath. She was received by two women who were already inside getting it ready. The heat was unbearable, the stones red-hot, the coals like brilliant sunsets shining in that oven. The men closed the door with a board to prevent the heat from escaping.

ìWell kumare,î said one of the women. ìPut water on the rocks and I'll fan it with the leaf.î Right away the rocks were sprinkled, turning the water to hot steam, filling the small enclosure with a burning mist. The three women sweated until their body juices broke out all over from their pores.

The other woman slapped her back, stroked her stomach, and massaged Lotaxh's hips with the medicinal herbs. The third time they put the water on the still red-hot stones, they burst like erupting volcanoes. Then with warm water and lard soap they bathed Lotaxh between the two of them.

ìAll right, boys,î instructed one of the women. Without looking inside, the men quickly handed her a sheet with which to wrap Lotaxh.

ìLower her carefully,î ordered the midwife.

Lotaxh was almost unconscious. The four men put her down on the blanket again, covered her over and carried her to a corner inside the house. Then they gave her a little water with anise, and she slept on her straw mat the rest of the afternoon.

Source: A Mayan Life, First English Edition 1995.

Back to Chapter 1

Title of original: La otra cara, Translated by Elaine Elliott.

If you would like to read the rest of this novel, 225 pages in length, it is available from Yax Te' Books for $10.95

Yax Teí Books
Cleveland State University
Rhodes Tower 1654,
2121 Euclid Ave.
Cleveland, OH 44115-2214
Telephone: (216) 687-4797
Fax: (216) 687-4650
e-mail: yaxte@csuohio.edu
Internet: http://www.csuohio.edu/yaxte

---

Return to Indigenous Peoples' Literature

---

Compiled by: Glenn Welker




This site has been accessed 10,000,000 times since February 8, 1996.