After finishing his instructions for Montero to deliver Cassarina’s latest collections of plants, Hornsby, Cassarina, Jorge and I hiked out of the peace and comfort of Metzabok.
“Que le vaya bien,” Montero said to us, waving goodbye as we disappeared into the rainforest.
Surrounding him were the Lacandon villagers looking cheerfully sublime. It dawned on me that I had metamorphosed into one of them, instinctively sensing their civilized world as less idiotic, less tangled and less violent than the one I was born into. To the outside world they may look unsightly, but to me gloriously beautiful. As I took a glimpse of my friends -- the indisputable poignancy of being -- over my shoulder -- I realized that I was indebted to them for hosting me into one of the last vestiges of prehistoric civilization.
Hornsby was enthusiastic as we headed into the mountainous rain forest of the Sierra Norte De Chiapas, Cassarina harboring indifference, Jorge blissfully unaware of any controversy between us, and me dragging along in somewhat of a cowardly action because I refused to divulge the evidence of my dreamtime experience, the prick of consciousness.
Along the way to Lago Metzabok, Hornsby informed Cassarina and I that the two researchers at the southern Lacandon settlement had quit. Ever since the 1971 massacre of Mexican students, there were reports of military Civil Defense Squads or ‘death squads’ coming across the Guatemalan border invading Quiche villages, not far from the southern Lacandon settlements. The alarm of military incursions was becoming palpable.
“Garthwaite has decided,” Hornsby related, “to go off on his own to Tenejapa, the Window to the Universe, where the Tzotzil and Tzeltal live.”
I wasn’t surprised with this news about Garthwaite. Being a maverick in his own right, he would take advantage of his time, having been adequately introduced to the region, to do some of his own exploring.
“He’s more interested in Nahuatl and the tomb of Pacal Votan at Palenque rather than the Lacandon,” Hornsby said keeping a brisk stride in front of us.
Cassarina had kept some correspondence with Garthwaite. At times, I had observed her reading his letters in seclusion at Metzabok. It seemed she was reciprocating responses to his letters to her, handing sealed envelopes for Hornsby to deliver at his bi-weekly visits. I didn’t pry into their affair, whether it was romantic or plutonic, but I did notice a look of disappointment on her face with the recent news about Garthwaite. Not surprised, just disappointed.
“That leaves the three of us,” Cassarina said resigned to the depleted numbers of our expedition’s group.
“Quite so,” Hornsby answered impartially.
Hornsby kept up a jaunty pace. The afternoon heat didn’t slow him, in fact, I wondered if it invigorated him.
“Rock art is the largest body of evidence we have of humanity’s cognitive beginnings. What is so engaging about deciphering these images is that they open a window into the identity and meaning of the past. The amazing thing is that throughout the world, Paleolithic rock art is surprisingly consistent in uniformity. Its as if there was a universal language among Homo sapiens. I’ve often wondered if the geometrical art form is based upon a genetic mathematical formula, but this is the argument, isn’t it?”
Hornsby paused for a moment pondering the facts of his statement, while keeping a brisk pace. Cassarina and I were trailing close behind.
“Conclusively, the argument is Style versus Function.”
“Instinct versus Reason,” I added.
“Nature versus Nurture,” Cassarina said in an acidic tone of voice. I knew she was making a deliberate dig at me. Hornsby remained oblivious to our quarrel and I imagined he didn’t care to understand her intentions.
“Apart from petroglyphs, pre-historic rock art is the first evidence we have of how pre-humans became human and eventually developed complex social systems. Here is the heart of the evidence. Rock art is Dreamtime, which is to mean that its symbolisms are the access to the inference of the origin of consciousness. We want to trace its archetypal structure, wouldn’t you agree, Jules?”
It was at that moment, Jorge, just up ahead of Hornsby, froze. Hornsby was startled at his abrupt stop.
“What is it?” Hornsby was impatient having his train of thought interrupted.
“Jaguar, agui,” Jorge said. He pointed to the tree trunk of an evergreen tree. The bark had been deeply scratched. We gathered around as he nervously explained that these were the claw marks of a jaguar warning us to stay away. Undaunted, Hornsby told Jorge to move on.
“Pero, Jorge protested in Spanish. “The jaguar seeks it prey,” I interpreted Jorge saying.
Hornsby immediately displayed a large six-chambered revolver from his backpack to reassure Jorge that we could protect ourselves in case of an attack. Not convinced, Jorge was forced to push on under Hornsby’s command. But the mules, which I had been leading, dug in their hoofs. Hornsby’s revolver didn’t convince them.
I tugged at their reins, without success. Hornsby made a switch with a tree branch and vigorously whipped at the hindquarters of the mules. They too were going to press on regardless of their instincts about an impending danger. Jorge and Cassarina offered assistance by pushing on the rumps of the mules. Straining against the massive weight of the burros, Jorge seemed to be pushing against the very difficulties of social change.
During the time I spent with Jorge I noticed that he was more conflicted internally about his place among his people and the outside world. Born in the onen of Ma ax, the Monkey, during his adolescence he wondered into an evangelistic camp of Christians where he learned to read and write Spanish. The injection of a Western religious education caused his natural Lacandon instincts to be discontented with his ancestral existence. While he was shedding new light to scientific researchers as a translator, such as our selves about his heritage, at the same time I could sense a split to his character manifesting itself in his psyche.
At times I thought he was on a road to his own abyss because every indigenous tribe relies on their traditions to sustain them. If they lose their traditions they float in a space-time limbo. It’s that mysterious impulse of nature that they can’t afford to be disconnected. Jorge was caught in the current of social change that brought economic enticements.
The Mexican government was hopeful in winning over the Lacandon by starting a program of issuing biannual payments as compensation for the loss of their land under encroachment of homestead and evergreen rainforest clear-cut logging. Though the program was promoted as a sweeping abundance of opportunity, all it accomplished was raising more suspicion of the government’s inscrutable motives.
Jorge referred to the Mexican humanitarian aid program as winik ku sihi t’a k’in or “the men who give money away.” One of the men at the Metzabok settlement told me that t’a k’in literally means, “shit-of-the-sun” which summed up their general attitude toward the Mexican government.
Jorge complained that the free handout was making the Lacandon lazy about planting milpas, and more dependent as consumers, buying their food at a community store. Money was also spent on accumulating battery-operated radios and phonographs. The fact was they were never really interested in using them. The electronic devises were used as decorative ornaments for the walls of their huts.
Three hours later we made camp within a kilometer of the rock art site. It was dusk by the time we had gotten that far. But Hornsby was pleased with our progress so he could get an early start exploring the area. We set camp, ate a meal of rice, beans and tortillas then retired in our hammocks exhausted from the day’s hike.
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