Eternal Spring

Volcan Toliman on Lake Atitlan

Frau Schmidt always arose at seven-thirty. However, before first light her cat Schatzi would watch the open window of their bedroom in hopes of surprising a hummingbird in the nearby flowering bushes. The window was always left open at night because the nighttime temperature in Panajachel, Guatemala, is usually like a balmy spring evening in Frau Schmidt's hometown of Stuttgart in southwest Germany. She hadn’t seen Stuttgart since 1945 when she had fled her war-ravaged native land for refuge in Guatemala.

Schatzi (darling or sweetheart in German) crouched in the window this morning with her white paws over the windowsill and her black and gray hindquarters on top of a bookcase full of ponderous German philosophers. The sunrise was above the mountains on the opposite side of lake Atitlan. The lakeshore was two blocks from Frau Schmidt's neat, white-plaster bungalow. The early morning, tree-dappled sunlight warmed Schatzi, and she was faintly stirred by the beautiful flowers blooming profusely around the yard. However, she mostly watched the hummingbirds flying so tantalizingly close to her post in the window. Bright as the flowers they tended, quicksilver fast, the hummingbirds rarely came close enough to be caught. Most often, Schatzi had to settle for bread and crackers in milk after Frau Schmidt's morning walk. She enjoyed having breakfast with her mistress in their small, cozy kitchen, eating daintily while Frau Schmidt had tea and toast, but she definitely preferred a hummingbird breakfast.

This morning Frau Schmidt arose precisely at seven-thirty, dressed in a light cotton shift and her sensible walking shoes, and left her house for a brisk walk to the lakeshore. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Her face was set in a stern expression. As she approached the lake the three volcanoes -- San Pedro, Toliman, and Atitlan -- became visible except for a smudge of cloud over their conical peaks. A cloud formation sailed serenely over the pale gray-green lake waters.

The quiet beauty of the early morning scene clearly justified Aldous Huxley's appraisal of Lake Atitlan as the most beautiful lake in the world. This was surely The Land of Eternal Spring.

On a dock at the edge of the lake a small Indian boy, perhaps twelve years old, was fishing with a cordel, a line of monofilament wrapped around a beer can. He cast a small, worm-baited hook with his right hand while holding the unravelling cordel in his left. Three small perch hung from a piling on the dock. Frau Schmidt walked to the.end of the dock and watched the boy for a few minutes. She did not speak with him. She had never attempted to learn Cakchiquel, the local Indian dialect. She spoke Spanish begrudgingly and she would never stoop to learning the hissing, clicking Indian tongue. For her, German was the one pure language.

The boy wore a straw hat, a green cotton short-sleeved shirt and bright red and orange patterned pants which came slightly below his knees. The pattern of his clothes identified him as coming from one of the villages across the lake. His parents were probably selling handicrafts or vegetables in the market in town while he caught supper, a responsibility he accepted with grace and maturity. From the age of four he had assumed adult responsibilities. It was the custom of his people.

A noise down the beach caught Frau Schmidt's attention and, looking up, she saw a crowd of Indians gathered in a horseshoe shape further along the rocky shore. The noise came from the crowd and, listening more closely, she thought she could detect a musical pattern. It must be a baptism, she thought. On Sunday, the Indians frequently had colorful religious ceremonies on the beach.

She walked carefully off the rickety dock, and headed up the beach to the crowd. As she drew closer, the musical pattern became more of a keening and the somber adults and playing children conveyed no impression of religious fervor. Three scruffy dogs ran through the crowd. Two ladino (non-Indian) men -- one in civilian clothes wearing a fireman's helmet and the other in swimming trunks -- stood on the beach at the edge of the lake. They stood beside an empty stretcher. A blanket-shrouded form lay beside the stretcher. An Indian woman stood three paces from the horseshoe-shaped crowd, keening a wailing, high-pitched melody.

The Indian woman's wool skirt had vertical stripes about three inches wide of alternating gray and white. She wore a brightly embroidered huipil or blouse, and her head was wrapped in the traditional turban-like cloth which she used to balance the bundles she often carried gracefully on her head. Occasionally a tear trickled down her cheek as she sang her terrible, tragic dirge.

To the woman's right stood a man wearing a rough gray woolen sweater and blue pants. He stared somberly over the heads of the attending crowd and once dabbed at his eyes, averting his face as he did so. To the woman's left stood another woman with her arms crossed, staring solemnly straight ahead. The two women were dressed identically. This trio drew close together but never touched. The haunting melody was sometimes broken by sobs, quickly stifled. The keening woman hunched into herself, aware only of her personal grief. Her attendants gave their presence without intruding in her pain.

Frau Schmidt turned and walked onto a dock which afforded a better view inside the perimeter of the horseshoe. The daily lives of her Indian neighbors often intrigued her. This appeared to be a particularly interesting tragedy, definitely worth more investigation. As the Indian children ran and played, their elders either stared at the shrouded form or whispered among themselves. Their faces were careful masks, revealing nothing yet speaking eloquently of centuries of peasant suffering accepted submissively. Two small boys fished from the dock, oblivious to the excitement around them.

Doctor Lopez's neat Toyota drew smoothly up to the edge of the beach and Manolo, the doctor's young assistant, sprang out of the driver's seat to open the-doctor's door and escort him with obsequious pride to the shore. The doctor brushed through the crowd, knelt beside the blanket-shrouded form, and unceremoniously drew back the blanket to reveal a young man of about sixteen whose skin was an unnatural pearly gray. The boy's legs were drawn up in a fetal position and his hands were held in front of him in a solemn, prayer-like pose. Except for a small bloody gash on his right temple, there were no marks on the body. Strands of seaweed were woven through his black hair and a long tendril was wrapped loosely around his right arm. The body was quite rigid and Doctor Lopez had some difficulty moving it to a better position for his examination. With Manolo's help, he rolled it on its side and commenced a thumping, kneading inspection.

The grisly scene didn't disturb Frau Schmidt. She was no stranger to violent death. As the doctor began his examination she turned again to the grief-stricken woman and her companions. The singing woman, evidently the boy's mother, sobbed quietly. The man next to her, perhaps her husband, had turned towards the lake and was gazing over the now emerald-green waters toward Volcan Toliman, now wreathed in wispy white clouds. The three volcanoes, guardians of the lake, loomed majestically over the tiny scene of human tragedy.

Frau Schmidt easily reconstructed the accident. The boy had probably been fishing. He had slipped on the dock, hit his head, and fallen into the deep lake. Even if he had been conscious he might have drowned because the local Indians rarely learned to swim. It was astonishing to live next to such a body of water and not learn to swim, but that was the Indio way. The boy paid for it with his life. Often the Indian superstitions led them into disaster. Frau Schmidt considered this to be one more proof of the basic inferiority of the Mayan race. She was forever perplexed at the contradiction of their magnificent past accomplishments and present degradation.

As she left the dock to return home she was approached by an Indian woman selling woven handicrafts. The work was exquisite, intricate patterns of animals and geometric shapes in lively colors arranged in alternating rows. The woman had created this artwork with a primitive backstrap loom while sitting outside the doorway of her mud-floored village hovel. The design was unique, an amalgamation of figures passed to her from her mother and ancestors from hundreds of years past, arranged in patterns never to be repeated exactly by her or any other of her fellow village artisans. When the Indian woman declined to bargain down from her asking price, Frau Schmidt refused to buy the piece, and she resumed walking briskly home past the trim, well-tended, Teutonic cottages and bungalows of her many expatriate German neighbors. She was concerned that Schatzi might become impatient for her breakfast.

Mayan Woman at Backstrap Loom, Diego Rivera

Meanwhile Schatzi laid in a flower bed in the back of the yard -- a yard that was cut with German precision by the Mayan gardener, using a machete, on his hands and knees. Schatzi waited and watched butterflies and hummingbirds. She remained alert against the threat of the dog that had been harassing her lately, but she mostly waited for her mistress's return. As Frau Schmidt opened the bungalow gate, Schatzi stood up and stretched languorously, then began walking slowly toward the bungalow, skirting the thorny rose bushes and brushing by the blood-red geraniums, the raw tip of her dog-shortened tail weaving sinuously behind her.

Bread and crackers once again, she thought. Perhaps humming-bird tomorrow.

To read a poem related to this story, click here