Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

“This is Man Vine. This plant is for ciro, and its root is for men who
can’t.”
I smiled at his delicate description then watched as he chopped. He
wielded his machete without pause or worry, as if he were a master chef
mincing vegetables with artful aplomb. Despite his failing eyesight, he was
amazingly dexterous. At times, though, my heart leapt as his machete
appeared to come dangerously close to hacking his already scarred fingers.
Juanita picked up Maria and arranged her on her lap as she sat in the
room’s only chair. The girl held a battered, naked, pink doll missing all its
arms and legs. With one of her delicate fingers, she skillfully traced the
lines around the doll’s eyes and mouth, turning wounded plastic into a
joyful toy. She bumped her thin, bare legs against the side of the chair, and
some of the black powder Don Elijio had rubbed into her sores fell like coal
dust onto her mother’s already heavily stained dress.
“Ciro is something that jumps in your belly like a rabbit, but it is not a
rabbit,” Don Elijio continued without breaking the rhythm of his chop,
chop, chop. “It is a very bad disease of the stomach.”
Juanita interrupted, announcing that the Epasote herb, Wormseed, had
run out. She had given Maria the last of it that morning. Despite the rain
and mud, someone would need to gather more before dark.
I knew Epasote from my days in Mexico and volunteered to go hunt for
it. Don Elijio was skeptical but handed me a quart-sized muslin sack and
told me to try.
I found the plant about a quarter mile down the road, growing along a
footpath near a creek besmirched by rusty cans and plastic bottles. I filled
the bag with the fresh, aromatic leaves and returned to the hut.
Don Elijio was clearly surprised to see me return so soon. He seemed
even more surprised when he inspected the contents and found I had
brought back the correct plant. Without a word he dropped the Epasote into
a pot of boiling water waiting on the hearth.
The afternoon transport arrived, and soon four patients wandered into
Panti’s cramped kitchen. “Is this the house of Elijio Panti, the doctor?”
asked a somber-looking man in Salvadorean Spanish.
“Elijio Panti?” shouted the medicine man, without missing a chopping
beat. “That rogue! He’s gone. You missed him. They chased him out of
town long ago…said he was no more than a mad clown.”