Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

“I lost my daughter. I lost my wife. All of that I bore. But now I wish
Saint Peter would find my name in his book and call me home.”
It was hard to console him. What was I to say? I too felt discouraged
and disheartened. Here was another swath of one of the world’s last great
rainforests going the same way as all the others. We never learn.
“There are still some Eremuil trees on my farm, papá,” I told him. “I’ll
bring you leaves from those trees every week. I promise you’ll never be
without. Don’t worry, please, my king. We’ll help each other. Greg and I
will go searching for your medicine wherever we have to go, we will.”
At that moment I was struck with a plan. Why not talk to the farmers
ahead of time and arrange for us to harvest their medicinal plants before
they burned their fields and destroyed them? That’s what Don Elijio’s friend
Don Antonio did for the plants on his farm. He harvested them and sold
them before he burned so that less of nature’s bounty would be wasted.
“What a shame the farmers didn’t let us know they were burning today
so we could have gotten some help and harvested the plants,” I told Don
Elijio. “Next year, we’ll start asking in February before the March and April
fires are set.”
“Good idea,” mumbled Don Elijio. “But what do I care? I’m dying and
probably won’t even be here next year. When I was young medicine was
everywhere—easy to find and abundant. Now, ha! Harder and scarcer every
year. Where will it end? This is a bad sign for me and my work. Worse for
the people, though.”
We picked up our burdens and made our way slowly back to the village.
To the left were the charred remains of a piece of second growth forest.
Tree stumps were still smoldering and the hilly landscape was gray, black,
and barren. There were no signs of forest life anywhere, just the hot sun
beating mercilessly down on the already-baked earth.
To our right was an untouched piece of woodland. The larger trees
shaded our advance under cool breezes. A yellow flowering vine hung from
a branch above. Butterflies romped, insects buzzed, and several species of
rainbow-colored birds flitted and chirped in and out of the foliage. A
chameleon darted for cover as we approached.
The contrast was sad and sobering. Don Elijio and I paused for a
moment to contemplate the stark, smoking graveyard just across the road
and what used to be and was no more. I felt as if my best friend, the forest,
had a knife to her throat and I could do nothing.