Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

“Are there no curanderos in your own village near Merida?” I asked,
surprised they had traveled so far to find a bush doctor.
“There used to be, but they’re all dead and nobody learned,” she said,
letting out a doleful sigh.
It was true. Around the globe, traditional healers find it increasingly
difficult to find apprentices to carry on their work. This is especially so in
developing countries, where the need for traditional remedies still remains
vital while the practitioners are dying out.
People don’t want to appear “backward” by associating with these
remaining healers. Many prefer the methods of Western doctors in white lab
coats, who dole out expensive synthetic drugs—some culled from the very
plants and herbs growing in their native soil. Christian missionaries have
also made people feel ashamed of traditional healing by labeling it devil’s
work. Traditional healing has become so confused with black magic that
many now fear working with spiritual forces, even when used for healing
and service.
I craned my neck for some sign of Panti and spotted his small, sturdy
frame trudging up the hill behind the huts. Through slits in the walls, I saw
him inching up the hillside with a heavy sack strapped to his head in the
ancient Maya style. I rose to help him, amazed at the weight of the sack as I
lifted it off.
“Buenos días,” he said. “Just put that inside. First I must drink, then I
will attend to you.” I got a warm feeling seeing him again, but he barely
noticed me as he glanced inside the dark hut to check how many patients
were waiting. Within seconds, a smiling grandchild appeared with a
brimming cup of atole. I recognized the warm, sweet brew made from
ground corn kernels, traditional in Central America. With his drink, he
disappeared into the cement house.
The transport truck from San Ignacio arrived at 11:30. There were no
buses to villages off the main roads, so enterprising individuals bought
trucks and ran on regular schedules, carrying up to thirty people, chickens,
and farm supplies. Three people alighted, looking quite lost. The driver
motioned in the direction of the kitchen, and soon seven of us were
crowded into the tiny house. We watched the chickens pecking and
scratching in the dirt floor near our feet.
As we waited for Don Elijio, a lively conversation sprang up. It was a
warm and comfortable exchange, much more suited to a gathering of old