Advertisement
Published: January 29th 2017
Edit Blog Post
Red wall and woman
A traditional Mayan woman walking in Antigua ANTIGUA: A TALE OF TWO CULTURES
by Dennis Cunningham
Antigua, Guatemala
Brilliant white cathedrals rise in Antigua, ancient and skeletal, standing fractured and broken against an electric blue sky. Inside, their dinosaur bones are frozen in mid tumble, column leaning against wall. I can almost feel the fierce rumbles of earthquake and hear the magnificent domes collapsing high above me. I can imagine frescoes shattering, Saints and Virgins falling to the tiled floors. Apse and transept, nave and chapel, that once so classically defined these colonial cathedrals, are today bathed in intense mountain light that pours not through stained glass, but through the remaining arched openings high above me, open to the sky. Birds come and go like tiny parishioners and dance at my feet. Outside, huge black volcanoes surround Antigua like sentinels.
If the ruins of the Cathedral de Santiago are a study in monochrome and impermanence, I need only to step outside onto the cobbled streets to find a unique display of mettle and perseverance. Here is to find a riot of color and sturdiness that predates any Jesuit or Dominican, or any conquistador for that matter.
Here dozens of brightly clad
Facade and mountain
Cathedral de Santiago and the Volcan de Agua Mayan women stroll through the Parque Central. Like arbitrary brush-strokes of red, they make paseos around the gurgling fountain, carrying bundles of cloth on their backs or balanced on their heads. Handsome two story government offices border Antigua’s central park, their repeating classic arches and columns cast shadows across the exterior passages. I see a sturdy woman holding a stunning ochre colored tablecloth draped over her forearm. The Guatemalan national bird, the Quetzal, is woven through in repeating pairs.
Young Mayan girls sell sweets from round shallow woven baskets. Their skin is copper and smooth, not yet leathered and furrowed that like that of the older women. I am approached often to buy, but it is a pleasant exchange, one that exudes a kind of respect. Perhaps it stems from the ancient Mayan precept of Lak’Ech, summed up in the first line of a collaborative poem by Luis Valdez and the late Professor Domingo Martinez Paredes of Mexico: “You are my other me.” The poem reflects the Mayan definition of the human being, huinik’lil, or “vibrant being,” which exists individually, but also as part of a universal vibration.
The Maya somehow seem to exude
Dome
Post earthquake ruins of Cathedral de Santiago in the Parque Central, Antigua this feeling. Their culture and philosophy has existed for almost 4000 years, and it has seen some dramatic highs and lows. It is no doubt that they have felt the countless rumblings of the earth beneath their sandaled feet, for Guatemala is no stranger to the sudden shuddering of tectonic plates.
Antigua itself was once the colonial capital, but after the widespread earthquake destruction in 1776, the capital was moved to the current site in Guatemala City. But this tragic geologic tension was also the cause of a wonderful metamorphosis, specifically the creation of the metamorphic stone of jadeite, or green jade. Mayan kings were buried in elaborate jade masks, and heavily adorned with jade jewelry. Pre-Columbian jade carvings by the Maya are some of the most intricate and beautiful of all pre-Columbian art. The Jade Museum in Antigua has an impressive collection of contemporary jade carvings and jewelry, all made on site in their “factory,” as well as an informative small museum dealing with Mayan culture and cosmology. I was taken their first by Elizabeth Bell, the owner of Antigua Tours, as part of a very informative walking tour. Elizabeth has lived in Antigua for almost 50 years,
Columns and shadows
A municipal building on the Parque Central exhibits the historical Europen influence in Antigua having arrived there at the age of 14 with her expatriate father. She is a scholar and serious researcher of Mesoamerican culture, and gives an inside view into current Guatemalan life, politics and culture, as well as its history.
A few blocks away I wander into the Casa Santo Domingo, an impressive resurrected monastery that had collapsed and crumbled when temblors separated brick from mortar. After the laborious removal tons of ancient rubble, the owners have transformed it into an impressive five-star hotel. However, for me, the jewel within the cloistered walls is not the hotel but the museum housed in the crypts below ground. It is a unique display of Mayan art and sculptures, cleverly displayed side-by-side against contemporary art. Here the curator has cleverly said that this “primitive” art stands on its own merits, needs no help from its defenders, and that the ancient Maya should humble any master of renaissance or contemporary art.
When I emerge from the dark monastery crypt and step onto the bright cobbled streets of Antigua I at once see the face of a man I had just seen a moment ago captured in clay thousands of years ago. I am
Three women
Maya women in the Parque Central suddenly dizzy with the recognition of the timelessness of art; the identical features, the high cheekbones, the classic shape of the nose, the broad face. I am reminded of the Mayan cyclical nature of time, their resilience, their ability to maintain their philosophy and culture amidst the European onslaught.
The following morning, spurred on by this juxtaposition of culture and time, I rise early and walk in the rising light to the central market. It is Thursday, market day in Antigua, the day on which hundreds of Mayan men and women come to town to sell their fruits and vegetables. As the sky brightens and the silhouettes of looming volcanoes appear, I enter the yet dark market as men haul large handcarts bursting with green leaves, sacks of red chilies, a side of beef. Vendors peel back green tarps revealing rows of shoes, dozens of hanging machetes, a spray of vibrant piñatas.
I wander, turning right at an intersection where I hear a sharp slapping sound, a woman fashioning corn tortillas by hand; left where a man is squeezing fresh orange juice. I amble, taking indiscriminate turns, this way and that, as shafts of sunlight begin to leak
The corner
Typical Antigua street scene through the porous roof, spotlighting pyramids of tomatoes and piles of chamomile. The faces inside are more European than indigenous. There is the organic smell of the barnyard, the pungent odor of smoke.
“What do you call this fruit?” I ask, looking down at the display of glistening purple berries I have never seen before.
“Mora,” says the man whose skin is as dark as roasted coffee.
In the distance, down an impossibly narrow aisle between vendors selling all things Guatemalan, I see the brightness of the outside world pour in. As I draw closer I hear a growing cacophony of voices, the rumble of trucks, the shouts of women.
“Papaya, papaya, dos por cinco!”
Tamales, tamales, tamales!”
I enter a riot of activity and voice that I could not have ever imagined. Hundreds Mayan women, clad in their bright blouses, frilly aprons, red and black skirts, sit on blankets behind electric displays of glistening green and red chilies, polished crimson tomatoes, bouquets of flowers. Some peel and open tamales, steam escaping into the cold morning air. I tower above everyone, like some giant among Lilliputians, but they seem to pay me little attention.
The Toyota
Early morning vendors at the market in Antigua I hear a language that is totally unfamiliar to me, choppy and guttural. I am told that there are twenty-one Mayan dialects spoken in Guatemala, and certainly a number are being spoken here. I barely fit between the displays, turning sideways to let people through. I am smiling like some buffoon, barely able to contain my feeling of luck and wonder.
The sun has risen higher in the sky, warming the mountain air. I am reluctant to leave, but the smell of tamales has me yearning for coffee and breakfast. I would walk back to the Parque Central, and the wonderful array of coffee shops and restaurants, if I knew in which direction to walk.
I stop a leathered man in a handsome straw cowboy hat.
“Which direction is town center?” I ask.
“What are you looking for?”
“The Parque Central,” I tell him.
He makes a chopping motion with his hand, pointing toward a looming volcano.
I wander over Antigua’s cobbles, the din fading behind me.
There is so much more to see.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.087s; Tpl: 0.013s; cc: 16; qc: 24; dbt: 0.0359s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
D MJ Binkley
Dave and Merry Jo Binkley
On the road
I love scenes like this....life happening.