Western Highlands is laid out beneath us like a map.
Raphael points out Antigua, a romantic colonial city of
tumbledown cathedrals and cobblestone lanes, glittering
below us; and, behind a cluster of peaks, the half-moon of
the freshwater Lake Atitlán. There are neat patchworks of
coffee plantations, too; miles of misty ridges and valleys,
dotted with indigenous villages; and then, at the edge of
all this, the Pacific Ocean, stretching to meet the sky. “It’s
even better from the top,” Raphael says, nodding to the
final, near-vertical slope.
When we finally reach the summit — a heady 13,000ft
high — and circumnavigate Acatenango’s wide caldera, we
can see our place at the centre of a corridor of volcanoes.
They stretch away from us, ancient and indifferent, in each
direction. “They all have stories, they all have characters,”
Raphael says, rapturously. On one side, Fuego (the Spanish
word for ‘fire’) puffs away, blowing ash clouds into the
morning blue like a committed pipe smoker. On the other
is the fearsome isosceles of Agua (‘water’). In the middle,
atop Acatenango, there’s us: tiny mortals who’ve dared
to climb onto the shoulders of a titan, caught between
the elements.
The house of masks
The spectacular geography of Guatemala’s Western
Highlands is matched by its cultural importance.
Under Spanish rule, with little to plunder, this remote,
mountainous region remained a backwater, and the
traditions of the Maya were able to flourish — eventually
binding with those of the Catholic church. Today, the area
is considered a stronghold of indigenous culture.
“You see, we have two types of Maya culture — that in
the stones, in archaeological sites like Tikal or Uxactún
in the Petén lowlands to the north. And then there’s this:
living culture,” Rambo says in a reverential whisper, as a
troupe of costumed dancers fill the courtyard.
We’ve come to the house of Diego Ignacio, a renowned
mask carver and shaman in the market town of
Chichicastenango. Diego died four years ago, leaving his
widow, Juanita, and their adult children to continue the
family business in his name, which includes performing
cultural dances. Rambo is a close family friend; he’d saved
Diego’s life during the civil war, and is godfather to many
of the children playing at our feet. “I’ve spent many nights
in this house. Many memories,” Rambo says sadly.
The Dance of the Deer begins. Decked out in brocaded
finery and painted animal masks, five dancers hop
and weave between each other. The music is reedy and
rhythmic; to one side, men beat drums, shake maracas
and play the mournful, oboe-like chirimía. “This is
traditionally performed on 21 December to celebrate the
winter solstice and the feast day of Saint Thomas. The
Highlands have so many traditions you just don’t see in
the cities,” Rambo says.
When the dancers have bowed and our applause has
finished, Diego’s son, Miguel, takes us on a tour of the
property. First, there’s the 200-year-old temazcal, a type
of sauna used to treat spiritual and physical ailments
through massage and communion with ancestral
spirits. Inside the low, brick dome there’s fragrant pine
on the floor and lingering heat from a recent ceremony.
Here, Miguel blesses me with rose water and “brushes
negativity” from my head and shoulders with a garland
of herbs.
Next is the morería (mask workshop). The walls
and ceiling are lined with carved lions’ heads, large-
beaked birds, gargoyle faces and other, indeterminable
creatures — all sold to passing travellers or hired out for
local ceremonies. A large framed photo of Diego rests
on an altar among Catholic Madonnas, Maya carvings
and a Stetson-wearing effigy of the local trickster spirit
Maximón. “Diego would be sitting there, with his leather
apron, whittling masks,” Rambo says, his mind caught in
an eddy of the past.
For a country still healing from war, Guatemala is
surprisingly attached to grenade-like fireworks and
crackers that sound like rifle fire. The rockets start going
off at first light. When Rambo and Raphael meet me
at breakfast, they seem thrilled to have had their sleep
interrupted: “This means the Maya brotherhoods are
honouring a feast day,” Rambo says. “Hopefully we’ll
catch a parade.”
We’ve arrived in Chichicastenango in the run-up to All
Souls’ Day (2 November), a celebration more commonly
known here as the Day of the Dead. Crowds are moving
towards the cemetery with candy-coloured paint and
bundles of golden marigolds to spruce up the family plot.
Moving against them is a long procession of costumed
Maya holymen carrying instruments, fireworks and
feathered floats bearing Catholic icons. Adding to the
mayhem: it’s also market day. The cobbled streets are a
riot of colour and movement, packed with makeshift
stalls hawking fruit, antiques and the hand-stitched
huipil blouses favoured by indigenous women.For a country still healing from war, Guatemala is surprisingly
attached to grenade-like fireworks and crackers that sound
like rifle fire. The rockets (bombas) start going off at first light.
When Rambo and Raphael meet me at breakfast, they seem
thrilled to have had their sleep interruptedFROM TOP: The mask
workshop of Diego
Ignacio’s family,
Chichicastenango;
Juanita, shaman Diego
Ignacio’s wife, lights a
blessing bonfire atop
the sacred hill of Pascual
Abaj, Chichicastenango76 nationalgeographic.co.uk/travel
GUATEMALA