We made our way through the thick brush, Montero hacking a passage through the foliage that had overgrown on a faint trail. Five Mesoamerican indigenous groups lived in this region. They were the Tojolobals, Chols, Tzeltals and Tzotzils, which included descendents of the PreHispanic era and specifically the Lacandones. The Lacandones practiced the cultivation of milpa, their main food staple, as a highly diverse sustainable agricultural system integrated into the rainforest ecosystem, staying true to their ancestral methods.
“It mimics the forest dynamics,” Cassarina informed me as we hiked in the misty rain.
The Lacandones were proficient with farming techniques that surpassed any modern day forest regeneration management knowledge. This agrarian knowledge was the same as the Classic Maya civilization practiced two thousand years ago. Cassarina walked along and lectured as if we were touring a botanical garden, oblivious to the slight rain shower and distant rumbles of thunder.
“The true tropical rain forest only occurs in a few locations in the upper drainage region of the Rio Usumacinta. This is multistoried with several species covering the second canopy level and under stories. In the lower mountain rain forest they are lianas and epiphytes trees with dense shrub layers that are well developed.”
She was not kidding about “well developed.” I was surrounded by gigantic leaves of plants that were larger than my body spewing out of the earth like green fountains.
“However the Selva Lacandona has not been thoroughly researched to catalog the abundance of species which are threatened by the land exploitation. The compositions of floristic associations of the Selva Lacandona and the Guatemalan Peten region are poorly understood. This will be the focus of my field work and I am counting on you, Jules, to assist me,” Cassarina said without reservation.
We moved on. The rain stopped. Montero continued to hack away at the overgrowth with his machete. I thought to myself that the existence of a living organism in this wilderness was a battle for life. That was the first thing that impressed me as I saw an abundance of bird life flying through the canopy above us. This was just a small example of the viable populations of fauna that inhabited Middle America. The rainforest’s truths suited the indigenous that inhabited this region. Taken in whole the rainforest was their link between nature and the universe.
But the affliction of man-made destruction threw out of balance the function of a natural course of existence. I had read about it, sensed it, but never came directly into the heart of the savagery. Feeling the impact upon my senses made me think that ministrations of this passionate tropical life, the splendor of its ritual and the functions that suited their consciousness, which secured for us on earth some adumbration of an ineffable glory, perpetually guarded over by the mythological deities of divine intercession was being blindly ravaged by First World economies.
The great exploit of natural resources by the industrial world knew no restraints or adherence toward this human and nature link. Instead, any natural truth for existence that came into collision with industrial greed was immediately annihilated through political inventions.
“This is one species of economic importance to this area,” Cassarina said pointing to a large tree. “It is the Castilla elastica or more commonly known as sapodilla. The sap is extracted and made into chicle’s gum.”“Its latex was the source of rubber for the Mayan,” I replied.
“You are a promising colleague,” Cassarina said impressed with my quickness. Cassarina mentioned that the tree had recently been cut to draw the sap out. I saw a long machete cut from the top of the tree trunk all the way down to the root base. The length of it was over 15 meters.
“The chicleroes put a bucket at the bottom to collect the sap then cook it into cubes to haul out on their horses,” she said stopping for a moment to look at a flowering plant off the trail. “I must have a sample of this.” Cassarina left our trail to enter into the dense shrubbery. Montero continued on unaware that we had stopped. I started to question her but she waved me off.
“Cymbopetalum penduliflorum,” she announced unloading her backpack to get a clear plastic bag out. “It is used for food flavoring and medicine.” She carefully severed the stem with her pocketknife and gently placed the flower into the plastic bag. Then she pressed the bag between the pages of one of her leather-bound journals.
“When we make it to the settlement I’ll show you how I want these cataloged,” Cassarina said off-handedly as she gathered up her backpack to set out on the trail again.
The reference to me cataloging her plants and flowers was the first time I had heard of this. A pall fell over me, wondering if Hornsby had just enlisted me as an over-educated laborer enslaved to her work. He had seemed indifferent to my presence at Anahuac, not the kind of convivial reception I expected. I wrote off his aloofness towards me because of my late arrival to the briefing session. Maybe he was avoiding me for this reason, fearing I’d abandoned the expedition, costing him a valuable body.
But moreover, I was beginning to wonder who Dr. Cassarina Deakin really was. As mysterious as she appeared outside of the church, the more intellectual and academically astute she showed herself to be. This was an uncommon trait that I didn’t feel comfortable interrogating. At least for the time being I would oblige her wishes.
We soon caught up with Montero, lounging by a large mangrove tree. The rain had stopped. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the forest canopy, glistening sparkles of light off the wet foliage around us. With his machete draped over his lap, he smiled pleasantly at us as we approached; content with the rest while leisurely smoking a cigarette. Snuffing out the butt under his boot, he stood and turned to lead the way.
Coming to the boundaries of the settlement was the next surprise for me. I had imagined we would enter Metzabok by breaking through the foliage at some point, opening up to a vast cleared area occupied with crudely constructed huts. But instead, the boundaries of the Lacandones settlement showed their demarcation in an unusual manner.
At first there appeared a white tunic clad Lacandon standing erect amid the huge roots of a mangrove tree.
Silently watching us with mixed awe and wonder, Montero didn’t acknowledge the figure that seemed to be suspended in air, standing motionless, as an all too familiar occurrence. As we made our way further, more Lacandones appeared in the same manner, like a traditional means of greeting their new guests.
Through their long black strands of hair cut at the forehead to expose their eyes, I could make out a few smiles, though they preferred to keep their heads bowed down, as if too shy to look you straight in the eye.
Soon a young Lacandon man met us along the trail. He was wearing a torn wool sweater over his white tunic and Nike running shoes. After a hurried conversation in his native tongue, Montero introduced us to Jorge, our Lacandon translator and guide during our stay at the settlement. I suspected what had been communicated between them was the arrangement for our living quarters to be apprized when we entered the encampment.
But I was wrong.
Continued...
