Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

“I’m willing to wait three years if I have to for a few good heads of
lettuce,” I added, chuckling because I’d probably have to, given the
impoverished soil on our farm.
He nodded in approval, then led me off the main road toward a thin line
of small trees and thorny shrubs that hid his cornfield from the road. As I
crawled past the green barrier, my eyes lifted to grasp the masterpiece of
cultivation spreading out before me. The sheer size of his handsome milpa
was amazing, with stalks appearing to climb one on top of another until
they reached a zenith at the top of a steep hill, spilling over into a sea of
pale gold tassels and silk.
He sensed my wonder and spoke about his milpa with paternal pride.
Corn was very important to the Maya. It was both food and medicine as
well as a symbol of rebirth in Maya religious beliefs. The farmer buried the
seed into the earth. It then died and went into the underworld. Then after the
rain God Chac came and prepared the earth, the maize was reborn.
We climbed to the top of the hill, and he handed me a palm woven
basket and pointed. I knew what to do and asked for no further instructions.
Walking down the rows of tall, drying corn I began to pull off the mature
ears and toss them into the basket, which I slung over my forehead, Maya
style.
He looked over at me with bright eyes and a surprised smile on his face.
I knew he was impressed, and I felt like I’d conquered a cultural wall that
had separated us.
We worked in silence for hours in the cool morning air, but I couldn’t
help noticing that Panti took a new interest in me. I would catch him
studying me as I rounded a row of corn or dumped a full basket onto a pile
under a rough shelter he had built to keep his harvest dry.
When the sun coated our arms and slowed our rhythmic picking, I
invited him to sit down under a Gumbolimbo tree and share an orange. As
we sucked on the juicy sections, stopping to wipe our overheated brows, we
exchanged tidbits about the crops we liked to grow best.
Suddenly he turned to look at me, peering curiously into my eyes. “Are
you married?” he asked. This was the most personal question he had
addressed to me over the last year.
“Yes, Don Elijio, I am married with two children,” I said, slightly taken
aback. It seemed that my ability to pick corn had suddenly aroused his
interest in me.