Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

pamphlet. On the back, we printed an old Chinese fable that tells of a
student who has studied with his master for nine years and asks to be
released from his apprenticeship to return to his village. The master tells
him his work is not yet finished. The apprentice is told he must go into the
mountains and find nine useless plants. Weeks pass. Months pass. The
student returns to his master’s hut dejected and exhausted. He falls on the
ground and proclaims, “Master, I have failed my last task. I could find no
useless plants.” “No,” replies the teacher. “You have learned a valuable
lesson. There are no useless plants. You may now go and heal your people.”
The day of the funeral, February 6, 1996, dawned clear and sunny. We
arrived in San Antonio by 9:00 A.M. to help set up the enormous tent brought
in by the town board on a forestry truck. It spanned the road in front of Don
Elijio’s house and clinic, forcing traffic to make a long detour through the
village to get back to Pine Ridge Road. By midmorning a brutal tropical sun
plowed a cloudless sky. Mourners arrived in buses, in pickup trucks, on
foot, and on horseback. San Antonio villagers streamed down from the
hillsides onto crowded footpaths. All 250 seats were filled and many people
had to stand. All were dressed in black, white, or purple—the traditional
colors worn to funerals in Belize. A group of musicians from Succotz, Don
Elijio’s home village, arrived and set up a marimba under the tent and
began to play. Police in dress uniform stood guard as officials and
dignitaries from Belmopan and Belize City took their places on the central
stage. Among them was the minister of natural resources, Eduardo Juan; Dr.
Palacio, dean of the University of Belize; the director of the Peace Corps;
members of the British High Commission; a representative from the
ministry of forestry; two Evangelical ministers; and, of course, Angel and
Isabel, and Greg and me.
Four policemen carried Don Elijio’s wooden, satin-lined casket out of
the house and placed it in front of the stage. Numero Uno, as Don Elijio
was lovingly called, looked almost comical. Someone had tied a strip of
cotton cloth around his head and chin, toothache fashion. Angel whispered
to me that his jaw would not stay closed and they thought it looked
unsightly. Children gathered around the casket daring each other to touch
him and a few brave little souls poked a quick finger at the body.
The radio announcer took the stage. He shook a finger at the crowd and
scowled. “You’re all here today to honor and praise Don Elijio. But while
he was alive, many of you called him a witch doctor, a devil worshipper,