El Templo de Santo Domingo
In a corner of the church just beyond the
altar, two Indians pray, their voices echoing, reverential and melodic, more a
sacred chant than a recitation. One calls out and the other answers, like a
priest and choir. The sounds of their voices rise up towards the rafters and
pull me away from my thoughts, like something inside me is rising along with
their song. I listen. In front of them they’ve set up their own shrine, five or
six tall candles and sticks of incense, the smoke rising and a pungent odor
filling the air. The shorter man takes two small glasses from a pouch at his
side. He fills them with a dark liquid.
Behind me, a group of European and Asian tourists enter the church. They ignore the architecture, the sculptures, and the art and instead watch the two men. To them, the dark, the light, the cavernous temple, and the indigenous ritual must appear superstitious, perhaps barbaric, something prehistoric. To me, it appears magical and mystical.
It’s no wonder Mexicans are turning to evangelical churches, their ministers convincing them the Catholic rites are nothing but rote mumbo-jumbo.
The tourists turn quickly and leave, as if
they’ve interrupted a private exorcism. The smoke reaches me. The chanting
fills each crevice of the church. I lose track of time. I want to leave. It’s
getting late, but I can’t move. I listen. Something stirs inside me. Nothing
exists except these two men dressed in ragged clothes, and the thin, worn soles
of their sandals, more like extensions of their feet. They pray, moving closer
to the candles and incense. They drink the dark liquid from their small glasses.
The prayers begin again, exotic but lush, like a mediation.
There is a tug at my side, something forcing
me to stand, but there’s no one, only me. I resist the invisible energy or my
imagination until I’m on my feet, levitated. I go to the woman selling
religious items from a cart. I buy a rosary, small hand-carved wood beads,
fifty pesos, about $2.50. I return to my seat. The two men, still chanting,
swaying slowly. They stop. It’s like the silence after a storm. The church is
silent. Another group of tourists enters, looks around and leaves. The men
raise their glasses, say another prayer and drink, emptying their glasses.Tzotzil women selling their wares
I want to tell them how deeply their prayers affected me, but I resist. I don’t know why. I stand to leave, but I’m pulled toward them, like a magnet. They watch as I approach. It is him, the man from the church of St Nicholas, the man who wouldn’t accept my money, earlier in the day. He'd told me he wasn't begging and didn't accept charity.
He smiles. My legs
seem to weaken at the coincidence, like I need to sit down, but I don’t.
“Hello, again,” I say, in Spanish. He nods. “You are right,” I add, “one never
knows.”
I ask him if he is a priest. His face is
old and weathered. He smiles, shyly, and says, “No, an ilol.” He sees my
confusion and clarifies. “My people call me a curandero.”
I tell them both how much their prayers
moved me. I have no idea why, but I hear myself asking for their blessing. I
hold out my rosary. I ask if they will pray for me. It’s as if someone else is
speaking, but I hear my voice. The man who led the prayers asks my name and
from where I come. He tells me his name is Epifanio but is called Pablo, and
his friend is Pedro. I offer a slight smile at the symbolism, Peter and Paul, he
Rock and the Epiphany, enlightenment and strength. It’s as if I’ve been waiting
for both of them, so familiar yet complete strangers.
Epifanio places his hand over mine, the
one holding the rosary. He places the other hand over my head. Pedro puts one
hand on my shoulder. They begin to pray in their native tongue. They raise
their eyes upward. I stand, immoveable. Faces pass through my mind, the missing
Margaret Everett, then Serena, Jimmy and Elena. Epifanio switches to Spanish, a
smooth transition, as if the two languages are one.
He prays for my family. He asks the virgin
of Caridad to protect me and accompany me on my travels. He says my kamel is
carrying a heavy burden, my chulel is lost, and he asks the Holy Spirit
to return it. I don’t’ understand the two words I take as Tzotzil. If things
are incongruent in my life, he prays that I learn to find order and
understanding. He goes deeper, saying other unfamiliar words, chulmetic,
chulotic, and nichmonil.
He calls me his brother and my family his
family, all one in God’s love. It is like a memorized prayer, yet, it can’t be.
It’s spontaneous. He says Serena’s name, and prays for our partnership to last
forever, and no matter what, we will remain friends in God’s love. I am
startled. I open my eyes and look at him. His eyes are closed. I didn’t tell
him my wife’s name. I no longer hear his words. I just keep trying to recall at
what point I mentioned Serena. I didn’t, or I just can’t remember. Or maybe I
misunderstood, and he used the word “serene” in his prayer.
When they finish, I wipe moisture from my
eyes. I give Pedro two-hundred pesos, about $20.00, a lot in Chiapas.
“It’s not necessary,” Epifanio says.
“This
time you provided a service.”
He bows, picks up his glass, refills it, sips
the liquid, and hands it to me. I drink. It is Coca-Cola, warm and sweet. He
whispers, “Pox,” pronouncing it “posh.” The two men gather the cups, candles,
and incense container, and leave the church through a side entrance. The woman
selling religious items is gone.
I sit alone. I hear the echoes of people
on the street outside. The church is empty. I stay seated. I open my hand. The
rosary is not there. I look around me, up and down the pew. I rush out the side
entrance to see if Epifanio or Pedro has taken my rosary, but they are gone. I
return to the pew. The rosary is there, a tiny heap of wooden beads.
