Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

Doña Rosa spent the night and we had a cheery time, despite the
distorted drone of preaching, blaring through scratchy speakers five miles
away.
But in the morning, I could see Don Elijio was suffering again. He
didn’t want to go out in the rainforest, he was well stocked. What he
needed, he said, was patients. To add insult to injury, some village men,
fresh from the revival meeting, came by and asked Don Elijio to give up his
practice.
“This is the devil’s work,” they told him.
That got his attention. Don Elijio bolted upright in his seat and said,
with great force and indignation, “You are wrong. I have no pact with the
devil. I work only with God and the Nine Maya Spirits. Devil’s work is evil.
My work is healing. Never has anyone walked in here and had to be carried
out. But many were those who were carried in and walked out.”
The three men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. I recognized at least
two of them as former patients.
“But I tell you what, let’s make a deal,” continued Don Elijio, sounding
strong and in control.
“Just give me twenty-five dollars a day of your daily collections to live
on. Some days I make up to two hundred dollars. But I’m not greedy. I
wouldn’t ask you for that much. Don’t ask me to sing or read the Bible,
because I can’t read. Don’t ask me to clap my hands and stamp my feet,
because I have rheumatism. If you agree to this, then yes, I will give up my
work.”
They left indignant and never bothered him again.
Fortunately, right after they left, Doña Maria, the wife of Manuel Tzib,
stopped by. At fifty-seven, she had delicate features with sparkling eyes and
long eyelashes. A slim woman with a youthfully thick gray braid down her
back, she wore a homemade, faded, cotton dress under a brightly colored
apron.
Her husband, Manuel Tzib, was Chinda’s uncle and one of the original
settlers of San Antonio at the turn of the century. He had contributed his
knowledge to Don Elijio when the younger man decided to become a
healer.
Tzib was still alive at 107 and lived just a short walk from the clinic. He
spent his days bossing Doña María around from his hammock, wrapped in
his wife’s reboso (shawl) and wearing her plastic shoes on his tiny feet.