[~dayBlog~] Semuc Champey, Guatemala (www.chrisengholm.com)

Swimming hole at Semuc Champey in the rain forest near Coban, Guatemala

[~dayBlog~] Scene in Todos Santos, Guatemala (www.chrisengholm.com)

Father and son dressed up for a traditional Conquistadore Dance.

“Day of the Dead” Mayan Celebration in Santiago de Atitlan in Guatemala (www.chrisengholm.com)

This is a marvelous photo-story from the “Day of the Dead” celebration in Santiago de Atitlan last week, a Tz’utujil Mayan town on the shores of Lago Atitlan in the highlands of Guatemala. My friend, Tara Porter, was there and made some moving observations and photos.  Hope you enjoy the tour!

 

After both ceremonies were completed, it was as if someone sent out a “town” email for everyone to come to Santiago’s cemetery.  People just started coming and coming and coming, in droves–many thousands, all carrying flowers, bags of pine needles, bundles of candles to do their own grave-site ceremonies with.  This procession of people arriving went on for 6 hours and then throughout the night and into the next day.  There are 40,000 people who live in the town, and I think they all managed to make there way to the Cemetery at one time or another! 




The more that came, the more alive the cemetery became . . . alive with people, color, flowers, candles, music, and aroma!

 




 

This is Jose. His wife passed a year ago from illness. I bought a candle to put on her grave and to give him my blessings. In return, he sang a song to me about her and his sadness in living without her with him here on Earth. He poured his heart and emotions into his song. It was in Tz’utujil, so needless to say I didn’t understand a word of it, but the energy behind his words touched my heart, and brought a tear to my eye! 




 

It didn’t take but a matter of minutes for Jose to transform his sadness over the loss of his wife into joy and celebration with the other people at the Cemetery. He and the younger shaman amused crowds of people as they sang to one another–making up lines of the song along the way! They entertained everyone, bringing laughter and good cheer to all who stopped to listen. 

 

And then . . . the celebrating began! The children played all day in the Cemetery. This is a photo of them playing on Nicolas’ tomb (for future use, of course).

Mayan “Break-time” at the Cemetery (story-telling time, which last 1-2 hours each break)


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Hope you enjoyed my little “photo-story” of my experience of the Day of the Dead, and that someday you can experience it firsthand. It’s such a different perspective on life and living, death, and emergence, and how connected it all is–all the time, every day of the year!

-Tara

Dispatches from Coban, Guatemala – Rabin Ajau (www.chrisengholm.com)

 

THE CORONATION OF THE MAYAN QUEEN (RABIN AJAU)

 

Two weeks ago, during a month of writing and photographing in Guatemala, I had the pleasure of attending the “Rabin Ajau” celebration in Coban, Guatemala.  The event is a pageant culminating with the coronation of the Indigenous Queen of the Mayan World.  Eighty beautiful and highly-educated young woman compete fiercely for the crown in one of the most moving competitions I’ve ever witnessed.  Here is an excerpt from my journal…

I arrived promptly at 6pm, which here means two hours early. The
hall was abuzz with video crews setting up, police cordoning off
secure areas, guys hanging banners, and so on. There were folks
already filling the high bleachers but I headed for the white chairs
that had been set up within what appeared to be a cordoned area in
front of the elaborate stage. That’s when I noticed the orange
replica of a Mayan pyramid that had been erected as a backdrop, a
huge concoction with insensarios spewing copal plumes, stelae of
earth gods, and corn stalks for color. This was “Guatemalan Idol” in
full regalia and I took the empty seat (they were all empty in this
area) in the front row right next to the corner of the runway that
protruded from the main stage. Then I noticed a fellow sitting ten
yards behind me who looked familiar—it was Samuel Franco, the owner
of the Museo Kojom in Antigua who I spent an afternoon with three
weeks ago. “What’s the deal with the seating in here, man?”
“Go for it. This is Guatemala. Maybe they’ll let you stay.” 
Not having the requisite press pass, I spread out my equipment and
pretended to be deep in the process of “setting up,” like the Prensa
and video guys. Then a Korean guy came over and sat down in the seat
to my right. He was a hobby photographer but works for the Korean
Embassy in their visa office. Nice guy and I helped him get his new
digital camera system going—I thought I might have a use for him
later. About 30 minutes later, a woman covering the story for a
Cuban government magazine came over and sat next to Park. She was
energetic and we talked about my tentative Cuba trip next year. Now
there were three international photographers in the front row and I
felt we had a chance to hold out seats as VIPs began arriving. It
was 8pm and the place was suddenly hopping. Up in the bleachers
groups of supporters chanted for their regional queen. The beauty
queens and the queen of tourism of Coban were escorted in and took
seats behind us. A matronly woman looked perturbed that foreigners
were in the front row. A throng of well-dressed Ladinos and fabulous
Mayan VIPs surged around us. A large friendly woman appeared before
me wearing a gorgeous huipile. My hopes plunged. 
“Good evening. I am the wife of the mayor of Coban and I want
to thank you for coming tonight. You are welcome here. Have a
wonderful time as our guest.” 
Then she said the same to Park and to the Cuban. We were
overjoyed. And relieved, since the bleachers were looking like more
and more like this was a soccer playoff in Brixton. Then she
summoned some hombres to add three rows of white chairs for the
throng of VIPs. Now we were in the fourth row. The Cuban looked
upset and I said, “The government decided it wants three more rows,”
knowing she probably saw the same in Cuba on a daily basis. She got
it. However, my seat was still unmolested as the one at the corner
of the runway. The exquisite marimba band, accompanied by drums and
electric bass, broke into song and the crowd shrieked. It was 9pm
and thus began an evening without equal. Dignitaries took the podium
to speak about the importance of indigenous groups in Guatemala. 
Costumed dancers streamed onto stage. And then last year’s Rabin
Ajau (Daughter of the Mayan King) took the stage. Mind you, I’m
sitting three feet from all of this, as this wonderful cast of
characters mounts the stage to take bows and be photographed. About
9 press photographers are scurrying around me to get a position. 
At this point, some VIPs were honored and stood up at their
seats to take a bow. Park sitting next to me was one of them (pretty
good for a visa clerk). I had a Pentax 67 medium format camera with
a flash. Photogs came up periodically to check it out, as everyone
is using digital consumer cameras now, (and I would have been too if
I wasn’t a crazy purist looking for an art shot). Then last year’s
Queen took the microphone…and then everything changed. This
diminutive lady wearing a linen huipile, woven basket, beads, and
headband started a rant in Kiche that broadcast immediately that she
was not to be trifled with. You could tell she wasn’t talking about
how thankful she was to be in Guatemala and looking forward to a
career in advertising. In fact, her impassioned words were
accompanied by tears that welled up in her black eyes. The hall was
transfixed. After speaking in Kiche for five minutes with shocking
intensity, she began again translating in Spanish: same gestures,
moving about the stage in her bare feet and deerskin skirt, decisive,
powerful, glaring. The talk was about the destiny of Mayan culture,
the central importance of it, the persecution of it, and current
threats to its women and children. I was dumbfound. I hadn’t seen a
Mayan 22 year-old, or any woman for that matter, speak like this in
public with such immense authority and power. It was like Chelsea
Clinton took a mean pill. 
That done, another grupo came out with traditional marimbas and
dancers. Everything was a photo opp, and the Korean and the Cuban
were shooting every move. It was 11pm. Thank God, the hombres
brought us coffee and cake to help us VIPs through. Lol. Then the
introductions of the 80 candidates began, interrupted by more music,
fireworks, and dancing every 20 introductions. The women would come
out walking gracefully and slowly, bow to the judges and to the four
corners of the world, most carrying smoking incensarios and other
paraphernalia, not to mention wearing elaborate layers of colorful
woven fabrics. You could describe these gorgeous indigenous costumes
but photos will do them more justice. We would take turns venturing
up to the edge of the stage to capture the gestures and detail of the
clothing and faces. It was now 1am. 
When the introductions were finished it was time for speeches by
the mayor of Coban, a well-known women’s rights leader, and a Maya
academic. Then ten finalists were picked and each given a question
to answer without more than a few minutes to prepare. Like the
speech by last year’s queen, these were presented with great
intensity of gesture and dramatic eloquence, in a local Mayan dialect
first followed by an exact translation in Spanish. All were
spellbinders because the questions had to do with real social issues
of the Maya—children’s health, job creation, access to government
positions, violence against woman. I was truly spellbound at the
speaking and emotion. Then the final five were selected. It was
2am. Everyone in the hall was thinking they should go home and find
out who won in the morning, but no one left. I slept for 20 minutes
in my chair, like many others during another grupo or dance troupe,
but not the final speeches by the remaining five. I had picked the
best two early in the game, one a Mongolian-looking beauty who spoke
European Spanish as well as Quiche; the other a very handsome
Kackhikel who dressed to the nines in perfectly coordinated
hand-woven colors, and who is just about the best orator I’ve heard
in any language. Aww, but before announcing the final decision they
rolled out a group of Garifuna black drummers and dancers from
Caribbean costal town of Livingstone. We all nearly mutinied, but
then the drumming started and the colored girls started dancing. The
girls wore those little slave dresses you see in those plantation
movies, all barefoot, and they danced from their ankles and bums in
a…well…extremely alluring manner. Just spectacular. The crowd was
crazed again and it was 3:30 in the morning. 
Finally, the decision came down and my picks came in first and
second, the orator taking an emotional bow with touching humility. I
looked at the 80 women perched across the pyramid and realized how
hard they had worked to refine themselves for this event. It was
truly a great cultural occasion, a loud cry from the Maya people,
from every ethnic group, and an exposition of their cosmology,
clothing, social philosophy…just an extremely important annual world
event. And besides a Coke banner, I think I was the only American
presence, which is just a terrible indicator of our
relationship to the world at large.

Dispatch from a Photo Journey to Semuc Champey, Guatemala (www.chrisengholm.com)

 

 

 


Last month I had the pleasure of visiting a magical place.  Though the Lonely Planet travel guide claims that “many people consider this the most beautiful spot in all Guatemala,” it is far enough off the tourist-trodden path that you don’t have to worry about your trip being tainted by the hordes.  Thankfully, most visitors to the country find comfort in Antigua, Monterrico, Tikal, and Guatemala City.  

Semuc Champey lies deep in the jungle forest of the Alta Verapaz region two hours east of bustling Coban.  You can get there by microbus from Antigua in 6 hours for $55 round trip.  You change vans in Lanquin, a small village near the famous Lanquin Caves.  The final 10 klicks is on dirt road into canyons cut by the Rio Cahabon and filled (after harvest time) with the blue smoke of burning milpas.  The river turns azure as it slides along a bed of natural limestone, its jungle-covered banks rising majestically a thousand feet on either side.  

Though solo in-country, I reached Semuc along with a gaggle of backpacker-style travelers from Canada, Ireland, Germany, and England.  As we neared the thatched huts of our “hotel,” we watched three bronzed boys throw themselves off a high bridge into the green river 80 feet below.  It was humid here, but comfortable if you did absolutely nothing but lay in a hammock watching the river go by.  We walked about in swimwear for two days, talking about life back in the “real world,” and drank Gallo beers under the thatched roof of the dining area of the Las Marias hotel.  The hotel features a dorm and three “private” rooms in open-air thatched huts.  I was there for two days and one night, drank constantly, ate huge, and when the bill came it was $22.  That night, a farmer lost control of his burn and a 5-acre swath of jungle ignited, lighting up the sky as a crescent moon set behind the mountain.  We watched in dumb amazement thankful that the river ran between us and the flames.

At dawn I awoke to my watch alarm and gathered my gear quietly so not to disturb my hut companions.  In the dark I used a penlight to venture up the river to the entrance to the Semuc Champey park.  I didn’t expect a guard to be on post that early, but there he was in the misty dark at the closed gate.  The area would not open until 9am.  Meanwhile, the mist was rising on the green pozas, or pools, and my photo opportunity was slipping away.  I won’t mention how I gained entry into the park at dawn, but I will tell you that I had a true paradise to myself for three hours.  The waterfalls cascade over the limestone and then the river flattens out in a series of cool green swimming holes that would make Huck Finn weep.  The limbs of forest trees hang over the river and the limestone is smooth as marble.  At first light I opted to climb a near vertical path to the famous viewpoint, called El Mirador.  This became a serious endeavor as the humidity wore me down under 50 pounds of panoramic photo gear.  Half way up and deep in the forest I ran into a Mayan family hiking down.  I asked where the viewpoint was since the trail had become vague.  They directed me east and headed south on another tiny trial, to their “casas” in the forest.  Later, I followed this trial into dense stands of maize and jungle, but after 200 yards turned back realizing I may never be found if I got lost.

After shooting some large-format stuff at the top I hobbled down 1,000 feet and dove into a green pool. It was liquid crystal.  Nobody in site.  After a nap, half submerged in the water, a throng of locals showed up  and I photographed them frolicking with their kids.  It was 9am and the park had opened.  Back at my hut, the folks from Seattle and London were just getting up, and looked at me like I was from another planet. “Where have you been?”  

Paradise Found.