Jeanne Simonelli, Erin McCulley, and Rachel SimonelliThe sun is penetrating, golden. Our group forms a shy line around
the huge boulder where the Jaguar twins are attempting a difficult as-
cent. Their slapstick antics arise as much from the shape of the rocks
as from the pox, the local cane alcohol that saturates many festivals.
The jaguars are dressed in mustard cotton jumpsuits, spotted, topped
off with ratty aviator helmet headdresses of real jaguar skin. A run-
ning commentary in Tzotzil accompanies their actions, and they reach
the top of the rock in time to see the entire surface set ablaze.
Now they are in real trouble. A quick gust of wind spreads the fire
from the mound of cornstalks at one corner, starting a steady burn on
top of the rock. I think briefly of last spring’s wildfires, easily envision-
ing another round. As we watch the play unfold, men pass through
the crowd pouring jiggers of pox from unmarked bottles.
“I already had one,” I tell them.
“You must have two.”
I take the pox, stare at it for an instant, and chug it. It is nasty. The
students do the same. For today, everybody is over twenty-one.
On the rock, the jaguars are trying to orchestrate their rescue. Our
host for the day, a once blond, Jesus-looking, expatriate–scholar, trans-
lates. The Tzotzil language is jumping up and down with the jaguars,
a wonderful sound, each clipped syllable more animated than the
one before. We watch and listen, concentrating on a long, question-
ing passage that surrounds the word “gringas.” Eyes drop, turn to
slyly look at us. Everybody howls. We howl. Our host offers a quick
translation:
“Is nobody going to help us? Surely someone will help us, or we
will be burned up in these fires? Perhaps all those gringas have come
here to help us?”
So there we are, uninvited guests, included and kidded at the same
time. The anthropological field dilemma. The pox man comes by
again.
“I already had two.”
“You must have three.”
The action is continuing. The bouncing bolomes fix their glance on
our six-foot host. Rapid-fire Tzotzil. I turn for translation: