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- Herausgeber: Eland Publishing
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
The Missionaries is a searing examination of attempts by North American fundamentalist Christian missionaries to convert indigenous tribes around the globe. In a distillation of a lifetime's observation on the ground, Norman Lewis contrasts the self-contained, peaceful traditions of the tribal peoples he so admires with the violence, the ruthless double-standards and the greed of the men and women who seek to convert them. Lewis's description leaves the reader devastated by man's capacity for cruelty and with no doubt as to which of the two - missionaries or tribespeople - has developed the more admirable culture. It was Lewis's writing on this subject that led to the birth of Survival International, which seeks to counter his gloomy prediction that 'in another thirty years no trace of aboriginal life anywhere in the world will have survived'.
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The Missionaries
NORMAN LEWIS
My thanks are due to Luke Holland of Survival International for invaluable assistance in tracking down most of the quotations selected from missionary accounts of their activities featured in this book.
The Missionaries follows Voices of the Old Sea and Jackdaw Cake to complete a trio of autobiographical books. It is thus called because while remaining not only an autobiography, but also in a sense a travel book, my experiences of missionaries and their work play in it an increasingly prominent part. At first such contacts were accepted as an inevitable ingredient of travel in tribal areas. Later, as I encountered so many abuses and saw so much damage to the human environment inflicted behind a pseudo-religious front, I found it impossible to remain silent. In the space of a mere thirty years so much has been swept away. The great human tragedy of the missionary conquest of the Pacific is being repeated now in all ‘untouched’ parts of the world. In another thirty years no trace of aboriginal life anywhere will have survived.
Contents
Chapter 1
IN 1767 the English navigator Wallis discovered the island of Tahiti. His visit was rapidly followed by those of the French explorer de Bougainville, and Captain James Cook. Between them these men opened up the Pacific. All three captains were overwhelmed by their reception at the hands of the people of Tahiti, and by the gifts showered upon them. Bougainville renamed Otaheite – as it was then called – New Cythera after the island in Greek legend where Aphrodite had emerged from the sea. When Cook left Tahiti at the end of his second mission he wrote in his journal, ‘I directed my course to the West and we took our final leave of these happy islands and the good people on them.’ Some years later he was to write, ‘It would have been far better for these poor people never to have known us.’
Captain Bligh of the Bounty – that stern judge of men – was if possible more impressed. It had been noted back home that the physique of the people of Tahiti was somewhat superior to those of Europe, and the conjecture was that the breadfruit forming a large part of their diet might have contributed to this fact. Bligh spent five months in Tahiti gathering shoots from the breadfruit tree for transportation to the West Indies in the hope of improving the condition of negro slaves. In Tahiti he has become a kind of folk hero, and the memory of him was that he spent much of his spare time playing with the local children. When he finally sailed he wrote: ‘I left these happy islanders with much distress, for the utmost affection, regard and good fellowship was among us during our stay … their good sense and observations joined with the most engaging disposition in the world will ever make them beloved by all who become acquainted with them as friends.’ A few days later the famous mutiny on the Bounty took place, due to the determination of members of his crew not to return to England but to remain and settle on the islands where they had found so much happiness.
The accounts given by the great navigator, and by the lesser sailors and adventurers who followed them, of the civilisation of the South Seas produced a deep and even dangerous effect in Europe. Certain thinkers, above all Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who wrote of the Noble Savage, seemed inclined to argue the opinion that man had not – as has been so commonly preached and accepted – been ‘born in sin’, but in his primeval condition was naturally good, and that this original goodness had been concealed due to subjugation of corrupt societies.
A counter-attack by the religious orthodoxy of the day was inevitable. In 1795 the London Missionary Society was formed, its immediate attention focused upon the Pacific; two years later a convict ship bound for Australia put the first missionaries ashore on Tahiti. They, too, were overwhelmed by the warmth of their welcome and since the Tahitians were clearly disposed to give things away they asked for the Bay of Matavai, where they had landed, to be given to them. The request was instantly granted by the local chief, who had no conception of private property in land and was later disconcerted to learn that he and his people were to be debarred from the area.
The evangelists were a strange assortment, picked by the Society on the score of their probable usefulness to uninstructed savages, and they included a harness-maker, bricklayer, farmer, weaver and a butcher and his wife. None of them had ever left England before and few had left their native villages. It was four years before any of them learned enough of the language to preach a sermon to a puzzled though sympathetic audience. The Tahitians built their houses, fed them, and provided them with servants galore, but after seven years not a convert had been made. Children called upon to line up and repeat over and over again this simple verse in Tahitian did so obligingly and with good grace,
No te iaha e ridi mei ei Jehove ia oe?
For what is Jehova angry with thee?
No te taata ino wou no to’u hamani ino
Because I am evil and do evil.
But another seven years of such attempted indoctrination produced no results, then suddenly the great breakthrough took place.
The device which eventually established the unswerving missionary rule is described in a letter to home by one of the brethren, J. M. Orsmond. ‘All the missionaries were at that time salting pork and distilling spirits … Pomare (the local chief) had a large share. He was drunk when I arrived and I never saw him sober.’ Orsmond describes the compact by which Pomare, reduced to an alcoholic, would be backed in a war against the other island chiefs on the understanding that his victory would be followed by enforced conversion. Since Pomare was supplied with firearms to be used against his opponents’ clubs, victory was certain. ‘The whole nation’, Orsmond wrote, ‘was converted in a day.’
There followed a reign of terror. Persistent unbelievers were put to death and a penal code was drawn up by the missionaries and enforced by missionary police in the uniforms of Bow Street Runners. It was declared illegal to adorn oneself with flowers, to sing (other than hymns), to tattoo the body, to surf or to dance. Minor offenders were put in the stocks, but what were seen as major infringements (dancing included) were punished by hard labour on the roads. Within a quarter of a century the process by which the native culture of Tahiti had been extinguished was exported to every corner of the South Pacific, reducing the islanders to the level of the working class of Victorian England.
J. M. Orsmond crops up again on Moorea where he is remembered with anguish until this day. After their mass conversion it was hoped that the Tahitians might be induced to accept the benefits of civilisation by putting them to work growing sugar cane. A Mr Gyles, a missionary who had formerly been a slave overseer in Jamaica, was brought over, along with the necessary mill to set the industry up. ‘Witnessing the cheapness of labour by means of the negroes he thought the natives of these islands might be induced to labour in the same way.’ He was mistaken. The enterprise failed, and Mr Orsmond, believing that ‘a too bountiful nature on Moorea diminishes men’s natural desire to work’, ordered all breadfruit trees to be cut down. By this time the population of Tahiti had been reduced by syphilis, tuberculosis, smallpox and influenza from the 200,000 estimated by Cook to 18,000. After thirty years of missionary rule, only 6,000 remained. Otto Von Kotzebue, leader of a Russian expedition into the Pacific in 1823, long before the decline had reached its terminal phase, wrote: ‘A religion like this which forbids every innocent pleasure and cramps or annihilates every mental power is a libel on the divine founder of Christianity.’ The Tahitians, he said, were by nature ‘gentle, benevolent, open, gay, peaceful and wholly devoid of envy; they rejoiced in each other’s good fortune, and when one received a present, all seemed to be equally gratified’. It grieved him that ‘every pleasure should be punished as a sin among a people whom Nature destined to the most cheerful enjoyment’.
John Davies, one of the pioneer missionaries, wrote a history of the Tahiti Mission which he finished in 1851. It was never published in full, probably because it was considered unpublishable by his superiors in the Society, who spoke of ‘those facts which it would be advisable to expunge altogether’. Only in 1961 were a number of chapters, put together with selections from missionary correspondence, published under the imprint of the Hakluyt Society. Davies wrote frankly, and from his account the missionaries could hardly have claimed to be saints. They were the sons of an age that has become a byword for hypocrisy and secret indulgence. Behind a sternly teetotalitarian façade the senior missionaries, Messrs Scott, Shelley, Hayward and Nott, wrote Orsmond, ran a still. ‘From it the King always drank freely.’ Mr Bicknall, a missionary leader, traded in spirits. Despite the Society’s written instructions to the missionaries to ‘avoid to the utmost every temptation of the Native Women’, several of the weaker brethren defected to set up house with them. Mr Simpson, a royal adviser, was charged with fathering a daughter on the wife of a Tahitian judge, and even John Davies had to face accusations of philandering.
Nor were the possibilities of financial gain overlooked. Missionary police being paid from fines (what remained was divided between the missionaries and the judges) were anxious to secure convictions, if necessary, as Mr Davies says in his History, ‘by placing both the guilty and the suspect in the stocks’. The brethren also benefited from ‘a system of organised tribute to the London Missionary Society’. In all, they seem to have done fairly well for themselves. Coming in most cases to Tahiti as poor men and receiving no financial support from London, they had become not only all-powerful but affluent. Mr Davies died the possessor of flocks, herds, an orchard and a plantation, ‘having’, as a fellow missionary described him, ‘an abundance of wealth’.
Their power base firmly established in Tahiti, the missionaries moved swiftly to the outer islands. They were at first accompanied by the drunken and ferocious Pomare (‘a beastly creature’, Orsmond calls him). The methods employed were as before. A local chieftain would be baptised, crowned king, presented with a portrait of Queen Victoria, introduced to the bottle, and left to the work of conversion. In Raratonga chieftains, who opted to carry on as before, abruptly changed their minds at the approach of the missionary forces. In a matter of days huge numbers of islanders were baptised. Hitherto there had been nothing to compare with the success of the Gospel here. It took days to baptise the 1,500 who had chosen Jehovah. Mr Davies wondered if they had been true converts, admitting that Mr Bourne’s sermon had been in Tahitian, a language the people could not understand. However a party of idolators continued to hold out and one man in ten of the islanders was conscripted into the missionary police in order to deal with them. A moral code of such strictness was then enforced that a man walking with his arm round a woman at night was compelled to carry a lantern in his free hand. On the island Raiatea a man who forecast the weather by studying the behaviour of fish was treated as a witch-doctor, and put to death.
In this campaign conducted by Pomare and the missionaries it is clear that a process of mutual brutalisation had gone on. The missionaries had succeeded in infusing Pomare with a wholly un-Tahitian lust for power, and stupefying him with spirits. But having at first expressed their horror at his many human sacrifices, they were in the end able to overlook these. When he died of an apoplectic fit, John Davies wrote: ‘December 7th, 1821 King Pomare departed this life to the great loss of the Islands in general, and the keen regret of the missionaries … whose steady friend he had been for many years.’
By 1850 the conquest of the Pacific was complete. With the French and British’s formal annexation of the islands, references ceased to what The Times had called the missionary protectorate. The colonial officials of both countries who took over were indulgent, and with the development of immunity against imported disease, island populations were on the increase. Breadfruit trees, cut down ‘to incite the people to industry by reducing the spontaneous production of the earth’, sprang up again everywhere. All-enveloping European clothes, both ridiculous and in-sanitary in the tropics, would soon be thrown away, and bodies once more exposed to the sun. Peace had returned at last after the wars of religion.
Nevertheless the islanders had changed and would never return to what they had been. Once the lives of the Polynesian and Melanesian people had been intertwined with the processes of creation. They seemed under compulsion to decorate everything, from pieces of odd-shaped driftwood, which they twisted into human and animal shapes and inlaid with mother of pearl, to the enormously tall prows of their canoes into which they carved such intricate designs. But now the mysterious compulsion of art had left them. Of the innumerable masterpieces of carving turned out by the Pacific islanders, only a few examples had escaped the general destruction to become museum pieces. The desire to produce beautiful things has gone – possibly through the long association, transmitted by the missionary teachings, of beauty with evil. Island dances, reduced to grass-skirts and swaying hips, are for tourist consumption, and the islanders’ songs seem lugubrious as if they have never freed themselves of the influence of the gloomy hymn-chanting in which they are based.
Missionary effort slackened off by the end of the last century, because for a while the movement had run out of feasible objectives. In the Pacific, hundreds of islands had been reached and overrun with such ease, because they had not only become accessible, but because when reached there were no natural obstacles by way of mountains and forests to delay occupation. Assuming no resistance was encountered, a native ‘teacher’ supported by a half dozen missionary police could take over almost any island in a week. Suddenly the Pacific had become full of the whalers of all nations, and nothing was easier than to take a passage on one of these promising a harvest of souls.
The Pacific operation at an end, there was – at least by comparison – nowhere left to go. Much of the interior of Black Africa remained closed except to the intrepid explorers. In South-East Asia three-quarters of the vast islands of Borneo and New Guinea remained to be explored. South America contained an area larger than Europe covered by Amazonian forests and swamps. Such regions were known to be peopled by numerous tribes, many of which no one had even set eyes on. There were no maps. In South America the evangelists, who had persecuted Catholics in the Pacific, were not made welcome by the Catholic authorities. In South-East Asia, where they faced Muslim competition, whatever work could be done remained slight and peripheral.
Chapter 2
AFTER 1945 ALL THE BARRIERS began to fall. The resourcefulness of war had invented the means of conquering the jungles. A miscellany of light vehicles were now fitted with the caterpillar tracks that had permitted tanks to roll over all obstacles. Bulldozers and colossal earth-moving machines smashed roads through the trees, and prefabricated surfaces could be laid over swampy surfaces and used to build airstrips. Above all, short take-off and landing planes were developed that could be put down in many jungle clearings, even without previous preparation. Immediately the blank spaces on the map began to be filled in, and the exploration teams, pushing on into the jungle while the trees were crashing down only a few hundred yards ahead, moved steadily towards the sources of unexplored wealth.
Many surprises awaited the pioneers of such penetrations of the unknown. Stark-naked Indians surrounded by their children appeared softly among the trees to watch wonderingly and perhaps with concealed sorrow as the great machines devoured their environment. In these first good-natured contacts the clearance crews gave the children sweets, and sometimes opened tins of meat for their parents, and often the Indians presented them with superbly feathered handicrafts in exchange. When the time came to claim their villages and plantations in the transformation of the forest into ranching land, they sometimes showed resentment at the loss of livelihood and homes. The original smiling contacts were at an end, and the men on the bulldozers might from time to time be received with a flight of arrows.
Resistance was punished. Indians attempting to impede development were shot down out of hand and on sight. Later, agencies not only in Brazil, but in the US and in this country, offered patches of ‘safe’ jungles for investment or ‘fun ranches’, and in the short-lived fad for such acquisitions a number of these were bought by the personalities of the day. Some of these would have been cleared of their original Indian population – as it was later learned – by such methods as aerial bombardment, poisoning by mixing arsenic with gifts of sweets, the production of local epidemics by the distribution of clothing infected by the microbes of deadly disease, or more commonly by armed expeditions of mercenary gunmen. All these things were eventually made public in a White Paper published by the Brazilian government. Action, however, came late and it will never be known how many thousands or tens of thousands of Indians perished at this time.
*
With the opening up of the previously sealed-off jungles in all parts of the world (although at first more particularly in Latin America) the second great historical upsurge of missionary activity was under way. In 1797 it had taken the London Missionary Society’s first ship, the Duff, six months to reach Tahiti, and to do so it had sailed 13,800 miles – believed to be the longest voyage ever undertaken – out of sight of land. Now the savannahs and forests of Colombia, Peru, Venezuela, Bolivia and Paraguay had been brought within days of the new airborne race of missionaries, and they began to pour into these countries. Previously the English had always been first in the missionary field, but now they had withdrawn into the background to tend their flocks in such places as Singapore and Hong Kong, where proselytising effort was largely at an end, and it was the Americans who took over.
Within a decade of the war’s end it was reported that more than 300 foreign religious sects, most of these originating in the USA, were in operation in South America alone. Although many of these had some pretension of missionary endeavour, real power was divided between the Summer Institute of Linguistics and the New Tribes Mission, who virtually shared the continent between them. The SIL and NTM were interested only in tribal societies and were specially welcome in ‘backward’ Latin American countries governed under dictatorial regimes. Here missionaries were accorded the status of government officials and the missions given large tracts of land and contracts to ‘settle and civilise’ Indian tribes. Between these two organisations, with ample funds at their disposal, an airforce, and the smoothly efficient organisations of a multinational corporation, several thousand missionaries could be put in the field. By comparison the penurious London Missionary Society of old, with its few hundred missionaries at most, who were obliged to trade in order to live, appears as an evangelistic pigmy indeed.
*
As an average churchgoing village child I had heard missionary endeavour praised from the pulpit, and I had probably been persuaded to contribute a tiny additional amount to a collection for their funds when occasionally the vicar called for some special effort. Thereafter I lost track of their doings. It was many years indeed before I heard of their exploits of old in the Pacific, and only in 1946 that I began to realise that they remained an active force in the religious world. This came about when Doña Elvira, an imposing matriarch I came to know in Guatemala, Central America, happened to mention that she was very happy with the Indian servants she employed through them.
When the war broke out I was living in Cuba with my wife Ernestina. I returned to England in order to join the forces. In response to the British government’s urging that all families resident and able to support themselves overseas should remain where they were, she stayed on. In the army I went to North Africa, Italy, Iraq, Italy again, and Austria, and letters from America trailed after me from one theatre of warfare to the next and took as long as seven months to arrive. Another year was added to our separation by the delays of demobilisation, and the re-establishment of normal communications between this country and the rest of the world.
When I met Ernestina again in the winter of 1946 it was in Guatemala City to which she had moved soon after my departure. Slowly we had both entered different worlds, and a great divide of time and unshared experience separated us. She was now living in Guatemalan colonial fashion in a house with five patios, the first occupied by its owner Doña Elvira, and the rest shared by family members, visiting relatives and friends, servants and permanent hangers-on. Ernestina was the companion of this elderly, powerful widow, whose natural genius was slowly being invaded and consumed by the cancer often concealed in great inherited wealth. I settled in the old Palace Hotel.
Doña Elvira claimed to be a member of the ‘fourteen families’ élite, and could prove her descent from one of the mass-murderers sent by Spain to conquer the country, but like so many of her kind she had been ensnared in habits of indolence, spending too much of her day seated in a throne-like chair on a wide balcony over the street. Here she waited for President Ubico, preceded, flanked and followed by his numerous escort, to roar past on his Harley Davidson. Sooner or later he usually did. Doña Elvira studied the way the President crouched over the handlebars of his machine or sat confidently bolt upright, convinced of being able to pick up valuable hints from these minutiae of behaviour. In the changing membership of his cortège she would identify shifts in political power. It was an activity that epitomised the watchful lethargy of the country. The preoccupation of Guatemala City, as ever, was with the possibility of this or any other regime coming to a peaceful or violent end, and with the improvements to be fought for, or – in the case of the privileged ladies with whom Elvira played canasta on most evenings – the deprivations to be endured.
This process of looking on, the torpor, the eternal canasta, the incessant parties organised in celebration of trivial events, the ritual of overeating (Doña Elvira consumed five meals a day), the ever-present sensation of lives drifting towards a bloodbath: all this took its toll in Guatemala. Life expectation among the ruling classes, despite their high standard of living, was relatively short. The nervous and indolent five per cent at the tip of the social pyramid were the victims of heart, liver and stomach diseases reaching almost epidemic proportions.
In addition they were prey to numerous other ailments, less easily diagnosable, which were seemingly fostered by the intellectual and emotional climate in which these people passed their lives. In a single week Doña Elvira, for example, had complained to Ernestina of pounding headaches, a persistent itch in an inconvenient place, a tendency to burst into unreasoning and uncontrollable laughter, tingling in the extremities, reduction of the field of vision, the feeling that she was ‘somebody else’, and a lunatic urge when in the most straitlaced company to shout out the word cojones (balls)!
The thing that most impressed one was the number of her Indian servants, who were among the first Indians I had ever seen. They were small, fresh and silent girls of fourteen or fifteen in meticulous highland costume, who went barefoot, flitting from room to room, continually dowsing water on the tiles which, as they dried, gave off an odour not unlike that of rain falling on warm soil. Doña Elvira was fond of them in her way, but worried by the fact that they never laughed and only smiled as if to please her. Sometimes she stopped one to ask if she was happy, and the girl told her that she was.
Her servants came from a mission that had established itself among the Indian tribes at Quetzaltenango where the largely Indian population lived in distressed conditions. Quetzaltenango in the impoverished north was Guatemala’s second city; whenever Doña Elvira decided to add to her staff, she had herself driven there, stopping one day en route at Lake Atitlán to sketch lakeside scenes. At the mission she placed her order for one or more girls from clean and respectable families whose backgrounds the missionaries assured her they had investigated. I was a little surprised that missionaries should run an agency for domestic servants, but no more than that. Doña Elvira undertook to pay the girls twenty quetzals – the equivalent of five pounds a year – contributing an equal amount to the mission funds. Part of the bargain was that people for whom the missionaries acted as agents should provide their servants with religious instruction. Although Doña Elvira agreed, she made no attempt to keep her promise, and the devotional literature handed out went straight into the fire. ‘It’s we who need the religious instruction, not them,’ she said. ‘They’re better Christians than any of us.’ When Ernestina commented that the wages seemed low, she said, ‘Why give them more? There’s no point. They haven’t the slightest idea of the value of money.’ At Christmastime she took her girls out to see the shops and the Christmas decorations. She once bought a girl a doll, but the girl pushed it away in terror, crying out that it was a demon.
Whenever Doña Elvira suffered a severe crise de nerfs she would gather Ernestina up and take off for a day or two in the mountains, to be soothed by the cool air, staying for a day or two in Momostenango, Huehuetenango, or Cobán, with one of the numerous distant relatives she possessed, scattered about the country. On these jaunts she made it a matter of religious duty to call on any of the Catholic missionaries working in the area. She and her friends treated such men as if they were members of the deserving poor, never failing to arrive with some gift in the way of food to relieve a normal diet of maize gruel, such as pig stew with aubergines and tortillas, together with a generous handful of medium-grade cheroots. Doña Elvira said they had to be warned in advance of such visits to give them time to remove any Indian ‘housekeeper’ from the scene.
The evangelists drifting in from Mexico and El Salvador provided a new and enlightening experience. All I could remember of the missionaries described by the vicar of our parish church was that they had chosen to lead uncomfortable lives to rescue the souls of those living in darkness, in savage and often dangerous parts of the world. Guatemala, referred to in its national propaganda as the Country of Eternal Springtime, was not at all like this. The Guatemalan ladies were a little surprised that the missionaries should have involved themselves in trade and commerce, claiming as they did that all profits derived in this way would be put to the service of God. The one in Momostenango ran the filling station. They all seemed to Doña Elvira to have an iron of some kind in the fire. She found it a little shameful that the man in Cobán had organised a trade in exotic birds. The word had gone round that, among those exported to rich collectors and foreign zoos, had been several examples of the exceedingly rare quetzal, symbol of the Guatemalan nation – and for this reason protected – which had by far the longest tail of any small bird in the world. It was sad, too, she said, because not a single case had ever been known of a quetzal surviving in captivity.
Whatever their occasional lapses, the lifestyle of the Americans never ceased to amaze her. Although the aristocratic ladies of Guatemala City might occupy houses with three, four, or even five patios, they were in reality living in the past. Doña Elvira’s kitchen was a smoke-filled cave in which half-a-dozen female hangers-on struggled for access to charcoal fires, and the drains in her enormous house remained blocked for weeks on end. Having taken her order for maids-of-all-work, the missionary showed her round the first labour-saving house in northern Guatemala, set a dishwasher churning for her benefit, and smiled with quiet pride. She found it impossible not to be impressed. She told Ernestina that the rumour was that as a young man in El Salvador he had given valuable aid to the authorities when they had suffocated the rebellion of the Pipil Indians, back in 1932. On the whole she thought it a good thing that he and a number of his friends had come to Guatemala. If ever a communist threat should develop they might be useful people to have around.
‘So many revolutions, so many assassinations,’ she said, ‘I can’t remember them all. Who was that president who sold out to the American Fruit Company? They took him to Miami, gave him a ride on a circus elephant, stuffed a half million dollars into his travelling bag, and he was their man. They say the missionaries are in with Arevalo, and a good thing, too, if they are to help him to keep this place in order.’
*
Ernestina herself, in the former years robustly devoid of neurotic symptoms, had been unable to escape the contagion of her surroundings. Now she was troubled by a mysterious constriction of the throat that made it difficult to swallow, and within a few days of my arrival came up with the remarkable suggestion that I should take her to the small town of Chichicastenango, in the mountains some hundred miles away, for treatment by a brujo – as witch-doctors are known in Guatemala.
The Guatemalans had become devotees of fringe-medicine, of acupuncture, homoeopathic remedies, faith-healing and the like. Now, after the centuries of contempt, the Indians, long suspected of being experts in this field, were in the public eye. Many claimed to have experienced almost miraculous cures at the hands of the brujos, and the pilgrimages to Chichicastenango had begun.
We hired a car and set out northwards through a landscape copied from China: bamboos brushed in on mist; the grey lace of precipices hung from mountain outlines in the sky; Indians dressed in coolie straw under the slant of rain; a stork in silhouette transfixed in a swamp; soft, melancholic water-washed colours.
In Chichicastenango a big church had been built on top of a great pile of masonry with a flight of steps up to its doors. Its echoes of the Mayan pyramids of old, it was hoped, would attract the Indians. Otherwise the town was a rigmarole of low rain-stained houses, general stores selling candles and rope, and slatternly cantinas where it was possible to get drunk and stay drunk indefinitely on very little indeed. Behind the face of Christianity the Indians remained stolidly pagan, but a comfortable arrangement had been reached some twenty or thirty years earlier with the priest of the Church of Santo Tomás: before entering the church they were permitted to build their altars, burn incense and invoke their gods on the steps; thereafter they would go through roughly the same devotional procedures in favour of the Christian god and the saints. Almost within memory of the oldest grandfather the Indians had been forcibly baptised, compelled to live in houses without windows, debarred on pain of death from riding a horse, forbidden the use of their twenty-day calendar, prohibited from taking astronomical measurements to work out the dates for sowing their crops, and flogged publicly in the square for failing to produce a child within a year of marriage. Yet now the ancient civilisation of the Maya-Quiché, for nearly five centuries buried in secret in the mountains, had stealthily re-emerged, and there were aloof and dignified men in their Indian finery in the streets of the town: the regidores and principales of the old pre-Colombian hierarchy, to whom more than a shadow authority had returned.
The brujos were to be contacted in a slightly shamefaced way through an Indian on the staff of the Mayan Inn, the town’s one hotel. We explained to him what was wanted, then settled down for a wait of uncertain length. The powerful and mysterious figures who were the repositories of the ancient culture were extremely poor and obliged therefore to live by raising crops in tiny and remote mountain clearings. From these they returned with ceremony – having let off rockets to announce their imminent arrival – after absences often lasting a week. The hotel go-between promised to enlist the services of a brujo regarded by the Indians as an incarnation of the god Zoltaca, Mayan guardian of the dead. This brujo, he assured us with some pride, was the poorest and most prestigious of them all.
Several other guests were here, obviously on a similar errand, but only one was prepared to admit that such was the case. She was the owner of the country’s leading antique business, a graduate in social sciences who had come to believe that the earthquakes persistently afflicting Guatemala City, and which had brought her ceilings down on several occasions, resulted not from geological but supernatural causes. It was her hope that the same brujo as we expected to see would persuade her that this was not the case.
Beyond the spectacular rites performed on the church steps, Chichicastenango offered little by way of entertainment. Indian groups from all over the mountains came here to conduct their special ceremonies. They wore long indigo capes, sometimes great winged hats modelled on those of the Spanish alguacils of the sixteenth century, and were otherwise clad in garments woven with symbols proclaiming not only the social, religious and marital status but also the sexual potency of the wearer. They capered in pious frenzy to the music of drums and flutes, burned copal incense, swung their censers, let off firecrackers and banished the lurking spirits of evil with furious gestures – oblivious of the tourists who little suspected that according to local Indian conviction they were no more than ghosts who had succeeded in taking possession of the world.
In the evening a tiny fleapit of a cinema functioned in a haphazard fashion, invariably showing some instalment of the old B-movie series Crime Does Not Pay. The cinema could only operate when two policemen were available to control the audience. There were always a few for whom this was a first-time experience, and they were prone to violent intervention, in the belief that what they were viewing was an episode from real life. Whenever the policemen were called away to deal with some emergency the cinema closed until their return.
After the adventure of the fleapit, the evening’s last option was a visit to a cantina called ‘I Await My Beloved’, which was dark and full of charcoal smoke and insanely drunk Indians, and whose décor attempted to attract custom with a vast collection of dried snakes – some of extraordinary length – dangling from the rafters, their jaws fixed open to show their teeth, and red glass-beads set in their eye-sockets. Whites, up from the City, attacked by boredom and nostalgie de la boue, would sometimes slip in here to try the sinister and legendary boj. This, brewed illegally by the mountain Indians, and originally sipped only by the officiating priesthood on sacred occasions, was sold here at some risk, since its possession or sale was punishable by a stiff spell in gaol. The boj, frothing and bubbling, released a faintly animal smell, and was kept in a great earthenware pan in a cavern haunted by hairy spiders which leaped from the walls upon intruders, into which a customer practically had to crawl to be served. It was made from sugar-cane juice fermented with certain pounded-up roots and, although the first mouthfuls tasted no better than slightly sour beer, it filled the body with fire and the mind with benign visions, and fostered in the drinker the impulse to give his property away. It was for this latter reason that labour recruiters hung about Indian mountain villages – on the lookout for happy soaks who, having handed over their possessions to anyone who seemed to be in need of them, could easily be cajoled into putting their mark on a contract committing them to three months’ labour on a plantation for a dollar a week.
By a curious accident the mission house, run by a fervent American evangelist, was next door, and Mr Fernley, the missionary – a simple and straightforward man – must have been one of the few inhabitants of Chichicastenango who had no idea what was going on in the cantina practically under his nose. Nor did he realise that he had boj to thank for the regular evening attendance of a handful of softly smiling Indians, who reeled into the mission from the cantina in search of a quiet place to sleep – which, if left alone, they were able to do in almost any posture.
Mr Fernley’s presence in the town was not viewed with enthusiasm by the local authorities, or by the management of the Mayan Inn Hotel, which depended heavily for its revenues upon American tourists for whom the Indians were a prime attraction. The missionary furiously disagreed with the local Catholic Church’s policy of ‘doing a deal with the devil’, as he was said to have described it. He had no power to put an end to the pagan ceremonies that set so many shutters clicking, or the spectacular and dangerous performance of the Palo Volador, in which the Indians attached themselves to ropes at the top of a revolving pole and were then swung out centrifugally in midair. Nevertheless, he set out to disrupt such entertainments in every way he could – often with some success. Mr Fernley’s scouts kept him informed of fiestas when these things occurred, and he would hurry to the spot carrying a movie camera on a stand, and start close-up filming. This was often enough to frighten the performers into taking to their heels. He had not the slightest hesitation about discussing the mission’s motives in such interventions. Whatever Don Martín Herrera, the priest of the Church of Santo Tomás might claim, he said, the mission would not accept that the souls of these Indians had been saved. Nor would they be saved until every vestige of the customs linking them to a hopeless pre-Christian past – including their dances, music and dramatic entertainments – had been abolished.
The missionary was both ingenious and persevering. He had opened the first tourist shop outside Guatemala City, displaying in its window the finest collection of huipils – the blouses worn by the Indian women – that Ernestina had ever seen. These were of a classic design, now hardly obtainable, woven from cotton threads dipped in dye obtained from molluscs, snails, the bark of trees, insects and the excrement of certain birds, and at best they were examples of pure Mayan art surviving only here in Guatemala. Now they were rapidly disappearing, or suffering degradation through the introduction of trade textiles and aniline dyes. Mr Fernley’s collection, woven with symbols providing biographical information about the wearer and sometimes a potted history of her tribe, was impossible for collectors to resist. Ernestina, not knowing at that time with whom she was dealing, asked to be allowed to go through the stock, and Mr Fernley smilingly agreed.
