Photo courtesy of David Dennis
Life and Death in Chichicastenango
By David Dennis
I plan to die peacefully in my sleep at age 94 just a few minutes before my wife, Linda, passes. Failing that, I want to leave my kids, Jacob and Amaya, a bitchin story to tell.
“We were watching dad surf the wave of his life in Santa Cruz when a Great White snapped down on his leg. He punched and pried, but the shark got the best of him. He winked at us just before his head dipped under the kelp for the last time.”
Or, perhaps:
“Dad snowboarded off a powdery cornice in Lake Tahoe, but his landing triggered an avalanche. We heard him yell ‘Wahoooooo!’ as he sailed off a cliff in a massive pile of snow.”
I just hope it’s not:
“Dad died of a heart attack on the couch while watching Real Housewives of Appalachia. We’re not having an open casket because we couldn’t get the Cheetos stains off his face.”
For all the stories I’ve concocted for my death though, blown up in a Guatemalan cemetery has never made the list. To understand how a Central American graveyard was nearly my final resting place, let me step back a few years and south a few countries.
In the early 90s, after we had finished our Master’s programs at San Diego State University, Linda and I taught English for a year in the northwestern corner of Costa Rica. At the end of our contract, we received a windfall of extra cash. It was news to us at the time, but many Latin American countries require employers to pay an “aguinaldo” or 13th month of pay. The aguinaldo is something like an end of the year bonus that also helps to juice local economies right around Christmas. Broke as we were, when we received our extra $400, we felt like we’d won the lottery. We decided to blow the money on a ten-day stopover in Guatemala before returning home to the U.S. Traveling around a country in the midst of a bloody civil war seemed far more exciting than paying the security deposit on an apartment back in California. We made plans to live on friends’ couches when we returned home and boarded the short flight to Guate. Even with the war, it wasn’t the risk of being shot or blown up that worried us; it was the rumors circulating the country about the intentions of foreigners. Villages across Guatemala were rife with stories of gringos stealing the eyes and organs of children to sell on the black market. And, while there was no evidence that anyone was stealing anything (save corrupt government officials pilfering from the public coffers), we heard that one hapless foreigner who snapped a child’s photo had been attacked and killed by a paranoid village mob.
Even with all the tension in Guatemala, we had a fabulous time. The towering volcanoes were striking, and the indigenous culture was rich and varied. Contrary to my studies of ancient cultures in high school, the Mayan people were, in fact, alive and well and had thousands of years of continuous history living in the region. There are more than 25 Mayan dialects still spoken in Guatemala today. Linda was especially excited about interacting with the Mayans. She’s something of an archeology buff and took great pleasure in informing me whenever there were “real live Mayans” within eye shot. (Years later she did the same thing in Egypt with the Egyptians and in Rome with the Romans. If they ever locate Atlantis and find it inhabited with people, Linda will push aside children and the elderly to be first in line to buy our plane tickets.) Even with Linda pointing at the already distrustful locals, they were polite and friendly, likely more so given that we were clearly not harvesting organs. Brief though it was, our experience endeared us to Guatemala. We returned home to California to begin careers as teachers with every intention to visit Guate again someday. It wasn’t until we were married with two small children that we finally made the trek back to Central America.
It was an experience in rainy Seattle that renewed our excitement about returning to Guatemala. In 2002, after having moved from teaching and into the software industry, my company transferred us from the idyllic beach town of Aptos, California to the Pacific Northwest. We loved everything about Seattle, but the bad weather undermined all of it. The helpful people, the fine restaurants, the snowy peaks and the peaceful Puget Sound have endeared millions to the region, but don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, Seattle sees more rain and overcast skies than is healthy even for mildew. Linda grew up in San Diego and had never been much farther north than San Francisco. I grew up in the Silicon Valley where we only saw rain during the occasional winter storm. For both of us, moving to Redmond, Washington was a big shock. It was so bad, that one of our friends, a transplant herself from sunny Colorado, coined the phrase “cloud shine” to describe the various levels of overcast. “Cloud shine is moderate today.” “Pretty dark cloud shine this afternoon.” “Damn cloud shine, where the f**k is the sun.” We whined incessantly about the weather, but one of the bright spots was connecting with a local organization called the Guatemala Friendship School Foundation. Our work with the GFSF helped us ignore the “seasonal affective disorder” that afflicted us during most of our time living near Seattle.
The GFSF was started by Doug Johnson, a teacher at, Jacob and Amaya’s elementary school in Washington. In 1998, while traveling around Guatemala, he met a teacher named Abraham in the Mayan village of Momostenango, about 3 hours’ drive northeast of the country’s capital, Guatemala City. Abraham had been illiterate until the age of 15 when a local pharmacist took him under his wing and taught him to read and write. Once he was literate himself, Abraham began teaching others in a “pay it forward” agreement he struck with the pharmacist. By the time Doug Johnson wandered into Momostenango, Abraham had been teaching basic literacy to members of the community for more than 20 years without charging so much as a Quetzal. And, for all those years, he had been teaching his classes outside. Exposed to the elements as they were, the classes were usually seasonal. When Abraham shared his dream of building a school that could be used year-round, Doug decided to help. He returned to Washington and shared Abraham’s story with students and parents at the elementary school. The school community organized fund-raisers and used the money to build a school in Momostenango. Parents and students in the U.S. supported the Guatemala Friendship School for more than 15 years until its closure a few years ago. Abraham was the school’s director and head teacher. Two of his own children taught there for many years, as well. When Linda and I heard the story, we were drawn to help just as that initial group of parents and students had been. We soon found ourselves assisting with fundraisers and ultimately serving on the board of directors.
Still, the Seattle weather dogged us. During one particularly horrendous winter, there were 33 days of continuous rain without so much as a peek of sun. We were at our wits end. So, on a quest for sunlight, we planned a triumphant return to Costa Rica and a stopover in our beloved Guatemala. Travelling with a 4 and a 6 year old, we knew we would appear even less like organ harvesters than on our first trip. And, with the civil war finally ended, Guatemala was now a much safer option for family travel. Apart from helping us remember that the Earth did, in fact, revolve around a sun, our trip had enough adventure to fill a book on its own. More than anything though we were humbled and touched by our visit to the Guatemala Friendship School in Momostenango. We stayed with Abraham and his family in a very modest home which shared property with the school building. To say that Linda was beside herself living in the home of real live Mayans would be an understatement. It was as if we had taken up residence in a cultural anthropology museum where the manikins had come to life and were grinding their own corn. Abraham’s family spoke Spanish as a second language, Quiche Maya as a first. They shared everything with us as if we were family and included us in all the daily activities, the highlight of which was making corn tortillas over a wood burning stove before every meal. Even our kids were moved by the experience. The poverty of the family was striking, but their warmth toward us seemed infinite. And, what they were giving back to the community was as selfless as anything I had ever witnessed. We were also overjoyed that their kids and ours became close friends almost immediately. There were no toys, so Linda and I looked on anxiously as they jumped out of trees together and hacked at branches with machetes swung with little regard for the proximity of each other’s heads. Jacob and Amaya were particular enamored with the daily game of setting small piles of leaves on fire in the dry brush between the house and school. Living even for a few days with a poor, Mayan family does wonders to stem the tide of childhood materialism. Now, whenever one of our kids asks for anything that costs more than five dollars, we simply deflect the question and pose one of our own. It’s a parental gift that we have milked for years. Here’s how a typical “life lesson” conversation went at our house while the kids were still young:
Kid, breathing heavily and near tears: “Dad, the 19th generation iPhone just came out, everyone’s getting it. My 18th generation is friggin’ ancient! I need to have the new one. Mine. Mine. Mine. Now. Now. Now.”
Me, scratching my chin and looking subtly toward the sky: “Hmmm. What do you think your friends in Guatemala would like to have today?”
Kid, unknowingly falling into my trap: “Meat? A hand-me-down t-shirt? A used soccer ball?
Me, channeling my best Ward Cleaver: “Exactly. Now, do you really think you need that new iPhone?”
Kid, without a hint of sarcasm: “Wow, dad, I never thought about it like that. I think I’ll donate all of my toys to charity.”
Okay, not exactly, but a chat along those lines kept the kids from asking again for another day or two until I finally retreated to the old fall back, “Get a job, and you can buy it yourself.” Ironically, of course, the only permanent jobs my kids could have found when they were pre-teens would have been in a country like Guatemala. And, with child labor rates as they were, they’d have been lucky to afford the box that houses an iPhone. So, dad won either way.
There hasn’t been a day that’s passed since we first visited the family in Guatemala that I haven’t thought about them. It helps me keep my own wants in perspective. Over the years, we returned to work at the school a few times, spending time with our friends there and exploring a new area of Guatemala. It was on one of those trips that I was nearly blown up in a cemetery. Of course, a graveyard is a pretty efficient place to die. You’re already at a final resting place. Just invite some friends to say a few words, and you’re done. That brilliant insight didn’t dawn on me until much later though. At the time, I was lucky not to have soiled myself. Here’s how it went down.
Photo Courtesy of David Dennis
After another of our life affirming visits with Abraham and his family, we decided to stop off for a couple of days in the town of Chichicastenango. Chichi, as it’s colloquially know, is a bustling town where much of the economic activity centers around one of the largest open air markets in Latin America. Need a live pig to go with your hammock? How about a discount on a taxidermied toad if you buy a pineapple? Chichi’s market has it all. I shot hundreds of photographs in the market and, once the kids had sufficiently honed their Spanish haggling skills by purchasing an “authentic” Mayan dog leash and some friendship bracelets, we set off to explore the sites around the town. According to the guidebooks, though, a number of the more interesting spots were also of interest to pickpockets or worse., so we hired a guide.
Our chaperone, Maria, was a round and jovial woman with the personality of a beloved aunt. And that’s exactly what she was. Soon after we visited the town’s cathedral, where a female shaman was performing a trance-like ritual, we were joined by Maria’s niece, Olivia, on her way home from school. Olivia was a beautiful young girl, no more than 9 or 10 years old. She was quiet, polite and dressed in a stunning, embroidered hupil, the brightly colored traditional dress of Mayan girls and women. Olivia was incredibly patient as I snapped photo after photo of her. It seemed that the rumors about organ harvesting had long since subsided as there was nary a hint of aggravated villagers threatening to tear me limb from limb. As patient as she was, though, Olivia had a look of melancholy that never left her face.
Aunt Maria led all of us up a large, forested hill toward a sacred site known as Pascual Abaj (Sacrifice Stone). There were neither pickpockets nor thieves, only the peaceful chirp of birds and the light rustle of a breeze through the pine trees. The harmony was occasionally interrupted though by loud explosions echoing up from the town below. Latin American towns have more “saint’s day” celebrations than there were actual saints. And dead saints apparently appreciate explosions as most Latin American celebrants rely on them for their festivities.
After a strenuous climb we reached the top of the hill. There were stone crosses, piles of black rocks, smoldering ashes and offerings of candles, flower petals and bottles of alcohol. If dead saints like explosions, then spirits must like, well, spirits. I’ve never seen an altar south of Los Angeles that didn’t include at least one bottle of cheap booze. I snapped pictures from all angles, most featuring the downhearted Olivia, before I noticed the view of Chichi hundreds of feet below. I looked out over a beautiful panorama of the town and its large, colorful cemetery. I could make out crypts and gravestones of various sizes painted with bright shades of blue, yellow, purple, green and pink. Given that I enjoy conjuring up creative stories for my own death, it should come as no surprise that I am fascinated by graveyards. As we began our hike back down the hill, I played with the settings on my camera to prepare for the graveyard shots, tripping on roots and stones as I fumbled. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the bottom, Linda and the kids were too hot and tired for more adventure. Not one to leave my family wandering alone in a strange town peppered with drunken saint’s day celebrants, I put on my daddy-husband martyr face and offered to head back to the hotel with them. I was ecstatic when Linda said should would take the kids back to the hotel in a tuk-tuk, the bright red, three-wheeled motorcycle contraptions used as taxis in Central American countries. Maria agreed to stay with me a little longer, and I grew more excited as she, Olivia and I walked together the few blocks to the graveyard. The explosions we’d heard earlier were becoming louder and more frequent as we hiked.
We ambled through the gates of the cemetery as the sun was setting behind the hill from which we had just descended. The scene was stunning, dead people notwithstanding. Thousands of colorful gravestones poked up from the weedy dirt at all angles, punctuating the ground around the ornate crypts of the wealthier “residents.” We stopped near the center of the graveyard, and I crouched low to snap a picture of the nearest headstone. Through my lens I read on the bright blue cross that the man had died on November 2, an important day in much of Latin America that marks the Day of the Dead celebration. This is a special and happy time when families honor the lives of their deceased loved ones with offerings of booze and food. It also happens to be the birthday of my father. Thankfully, my dad is alive and well, and we continue to celebrate the day of his birth as millions of others are celebrating the lives of their dead. Sadly, Olivia’s own father had been celebrated that year for the first time. Maria pointed to another blue cross nearby and told me that her brother was buried there. He had died a few months earlier of liver failure after struggling with alcoholism for much of his life. Olivia was vacant as she looked at the grave, and I now saw her in a different light. It was as if a part of her had died along with her father. Undoubtedly her melancholy was a reflection of that terrible loss. As I was thinking about my own father and Olivia’s, a puff of smoke caught my eye, and I wandered toward it. Maria and Olivia traipsed along behind me.
Shaman. Photo courtesy of David Dennis.
Stepping around a large crypt, I wished that Linda and the kids had decided to come. They would have been fascinated. Linda as an armchair anthropologist and the kids, well, mostly because of the large fire burning across what smelled like a splash of gasoline. For me, though, I’d stumbled across a photographer’s dream. The elderly Mayan shaman we’d seen back at the church was chanting in a local dialect between puffs on an enormous, loosely rolled cigar. She was dressed in a brightly colored headscarf and embroidered huipil. She seemed to be in a trance as she swayed and moved in circles next to the fire, occasionally spitting toward the dirt. Puff, puff, spin, chant, chant, sway, spit, puff. Huddled on a tomb a few yards away were a Mayan couple and their two small children. The shaman was performing the ritual for them, likely on behalf of a dead relative. I was fascinated and desperately wanted to start shooting. But I had no idea if I would be committing some egregious act of cultural insensitivity by snapping the shutter. On the political incorrectness scale, this seemed to rank somewhere between photographing children’s eyes for later harvesting and running naked through a Catholic church service. Apart from the cultural implications, I didn’t want to risk the woman spitting a curse my way. I’m not exactly a spiritual person, but I figured a Mayan spell handed down across thousands of years would surely suck, and I might not be leaving the cemetery alive. As it turned out, I almost didn’t.
My heart rate was peaking from all the excitement, and I wanted the pictures badly. I turned to Maria and asked if it would be acceptable to snap some shots. She shrugged, traded a few words with the shaman, and returned with good news. For the price of a few dollars, the woman had agreed. I quickly handed over the money, careful to avoid the saliva and cigar cinders, and began shooting. I glanced at the family on the crypt, still worried that I was interrupting something hallowed. The father just waved and smiled. Apparently, a gringo tourist with a camera interrupting a sacred ritual would not hinder the passage to the afterworld of their dead relative’s soul…or something.
I started shooting. Click, click, snap, spit, puff, spit, chant, snap, click. I quickly chimped a few of the pictures on the screen and could see that these would be the best shots of the trip. I put the camera back to my eye, but the woman suddenly stopped chanting, puffing and spitting. Instead, she picked up a metal rod and used it to stoke the fire. More photo gold. I moved in closer. Click. Click. Snap. I shuffled closer still. Snap. Snap. I heard Maria shout “cuidado,” but I ignored her and continued shooting. I had recently turned 40, and it had been at least two or three years since I needed to be warned about getting too close to a fire. I stepped closer, crouching down to get a better angle. Click. Snap. Click. Click. BOOM! The fire exploded throwing a mass of ashes and debris into the air. My first instinct was to drop my camera and run screaming like a small girl toward the nearest exit, but l held it together for the sake of my pride. My heart was racing, but somehow I managed to snap a few more shaky shots. I stepped back, caught my breath and chuckled nervously. I turned to Maria and asked her as calmly as I could muster what had just happened. She explained that shamans in Guatemala often use cans of green chilies in their ritual fires. When the cans heat up, they explode. I thought back to the explosions I had heard around Chichi that day. Apparently, this had been a rare, saintless day. The town’s shamans had simply been exploding cans of chilies around the town. Luckily, the tin shrapnel that had burst from the fire had missed me. I wondered whether the amenable family had simply been hoping for some extra entertainment when they allowed me to shoot their ritual. An exploded gringo would have made quite a story.
I could still feel the adrenaline as we walked out of the cemetery gates a few minutes later. I paid Maria for her time, slipped Olivia some bills of her own and climbed into a tuk-tuk. As we drove back to my hotel, I thought about the tale my kids would have been able to tell at my funeral.
“Dad was doing what he loved; travelling with his family, learning about new cultures and taking pictures. Sadly though, he was killed in a Guatemalan cemetery by an exploding can of green chilies detonated by a cigar-smoking Mayan woman performing a shamanic ritual.”
And, while that might be as interesting a story of death as I have ever heard, I was quite happy that I would be sharing it myself with Jacob and Amaya along with a stunning set of photos.
Had I actually died that evening in the graveyard, I wonder if the local hospital would have harvested my eyes and organs. After years of fear about tourists doing just that to local children, it would have been an ironic end for me. Perhaps my organs could have been used to save a father so that a little girl like Olivia would be able to grow up happily with stories of life rather than death. Arrogant tales of snowboards and avalanches or surfing and sharks have nothing on a story like that…one that I would be proud to have my children tell at my funeral.
THE END
Traveler’s Tip:
There is a range of opinions about whether tourists should pay people to take their pictures. One school of thought is that it simply encourages extorting ever increasing cash payments from future tourists. Another is that the subjects are providing a service and should be paid accordingly. Personally I see nothing wrong with paying someone for a photo, but only if the person asks to be paid. In some countries or regions, I have found that people never ask for money and may even be slightly offended by my offer of cash. In other places, people are quite greedy about the transaction. Although not always the case, the more touristy the location, the more you can expect to be asked to kick down some bills. In Cairo, even the local policemen are looking for a handout when you snap a photo. The fact that some ride around on camels and thus make for great subjects creates an interesting ethical dilemma. And, yes, I did pay the Cairo cop. In Shanghai, however, I walked the city for hours one Sunday snapping pictures of local residents without being asked for a single Yuan.
I often take pictures of street vendors or people engaged in other forms of commerce. In those cases, I make sure to buy some of their wares, pay with a few extra bills and tell the person to “keep the change.” That may not be a great idea when shooting prostitutes or drug dealers, though, so let your moral compass be your guide. Also, I often offer to send prints of the portraits I shoot. If you do that, be sure to follow up on your offer. While you can’t guarantee that the photos will make it through the mail service, at least send them. You can order very inexpensive 4×6 prints at your local drug store or big box market. For a family with little means to afford the luxury of photography, a few prints of their children can mean a great deal. A photographer who doesn’t keep his word may make such subjects less willing to pose for other shutterbugs in the future, so send the pics.
Even in places where people are shy with tourists, I’ve developed some interesting approaches to break the ice. One tactic involves asking permission to take a photo of a person’s farm animal or pet. I snap a few shots of the rooster, pig or puppy then show the owner the picture on the back of the camera. This usually warms the person enough to let me to shoot some portraits of him or her, too. And, when I show the subject those shots, other people usually crowd around to look. I then shoot them, as well. Using this approach, it’s not uncommon for a photo opportunity to evolve in just a few minutes from one of rejection to one where I am stuck taking portraits of person after person for half an hour or more. Of course, I’m always respectful if someone is adamant about not having a picture taken. I can usually tell by the person’s facial expression, body language or fist raised toward my nose. More often than not, though, an initial “no” actually means “I really want you to take my picture, but I’m embarrassed.” My collection of people pictures continues to grow, and many of those shots started with a “no.” Make sure you understand something about the cultural norms of the region in which you’re shooting, though. In Muslim countries, for instance, snapping a picture of a female without the permission of the father or husband can land you in a world of trouble, just as shooting a picture of a child in the U.S. without a parent’s permission can unleash a posse of screaming soccer moms.
David Dennis is a philanthropic photographer, co-founder of Ventana Surfboards and Supplies and a Director of Product Management at Microsoft. He lives on the Westside of Santa Cruz with his wife and two kids.
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