Jeanne Simonelli, Erin McCulley, and Rachel Simonelliour program had no overt political intent, the dream is fading. The
soldier turns, ambling slowly back toward the Hummer, trailing his
troops. A final wave. Kate and I breathe another sigh of relief.
Chayote for dinner, white cheese, chicken, and tortillas. By 9 : 00 ,
gringa caterpillars crawl back into swaying cocoons, Nahá dozes; a
solitary monkey climbs down a philodendron rope, curious. Midnight.
A mechanical shriek cuts through the night. I open one eye, pull my-
self out of stuporous slumber, hear motor rumbling, wonder if it’s the
army once again, but there are no lights coming toward us. Air brakes,
another shriek, night bus to Ocosingo. Fall back toward morning.
We’re up, more tortillas, and there are nine gringas with machetes
limply chopping at the high grass around the primary school. We’re
in hiking boots, long pants, long sleeves, doused in deet, warding off
the jungle. We are joined by fourteen Lacandón men, white tunicked,
sandled, keeping a steady work pace for three hours. One of them is
Chan K’in Quinto. Exiled again, he works away from the others, with
a few of the students, digging a trench around the school. He never
falters, never takes a break, chops dirt all morning, deep in concen-
tration. The ditch circles the entire building. In the wet season, it will
keep the water from accumulating, keep the mosquitoes from propa-
gating; keep the waves of malaria from infecting the children.
The head flies off an ancient hoe we are using, and the women stand
there dumbly, looking at the two pieces. Quinto considers it solemnly,
picks up a stick, and cuts a small shim.
“Necesito una piedra,” he says to no one in particular.
One of the students wanders off in search of the rock he is request-
ing, bringing it back to Quinto. He takes the rock, his crumpled face
breaking into a broad smile.
“Muy buena piedra,” he tells her, praising the selection. A couple
of hard blows and the hoe is ready for another few years of service.
Lesson 18 : nothing is disposable.
It’s a hot, clear afternoon, bluer than the stucco on a Maya temple,
and the women turn the weeds into a New England lawn. They line
up, as K’ayum Ma’ax sharpens their machete blades, then try to imi-
tate the kind of swing that takes the grass down to the ground.
Exhausted, we reflect together on yet another day in the field then