Jeanne Simonelli, Erin McCulley, and Rachel Simonellireal Chiapas. How green the jungle is this year! Even in the dull driz-
zle, the blossoms are heavy and sumptuous, weighing down tropi-
cal branches. Last spring, a heated El Niño pulled in the rain waters.
Campesinos burned their milpas, turned dry earth, waited for the
storms, the rhythm of centuries, through a too-long spring. The milpa
fires became wild fires, questionable fires, burning into the selva heart.
Thirty percent of Lacandón land burned, mahoganies and cedars, and
in the Maya village of Nahá the children of Chan K’in Viejo, the de-
parted patriarch, waited for the rain, and old Antonio the shaman
stood silent, dreaming under cloudless skies.
“Just a little bit longer now,” Roberto says, bringing the combi
around a long curve down into Nahá.
To the right, the tranquil silver waters of a lake are merging into
the steady drizzle. On the left, blackened and burned tree stumps dot
the hillside, legacy of last spring’s wild fires. The leaves of trees still
left standing are dry and brittle, as though a giant can of Round-up
had been sprayed over the selva, starting a slow death among all liv-
ing things. Given the conflict, it is not out of the realm of possibil-
ity. In the distance, I can see the houses of Nahá, rough-hewn boards,
metal roofs, a few satellite dishes. My heart sinks into a nostalgic vi-
sion of the fabled ethnographic present, the “unchanging” setting of
indigenous life. I’ve been looking at too many of Trudi Blom’s photo-
graphs, shot with satin lenses over the last forty years.
Roberto turns down a narrow lane at the edge of the village, bring-
ing the combi to a halt. I smile weakly, glad to be stopped. Glad we
are all safe. There’d been two more military checkpoints after the
last washout. Two more recitations of the litany of justification and
destination, making it three checkpoints on seventy-five kilometers
of barely traveled road. Opening the door of the combi, I groan, stiff
from hours of vigilance. I turn to Kate. She’s looking at the back wheel
of the other combi, her eyes wide with adrenaline. The tire is flat. To
the rim. Kate reads my obvious question.
“Been like that for the last hour.” The driver had chosen not to
stop. We grab our packs, bundles, leftover Maria cookies and trudge
through the mud toward the campsite. Victor, a young guide who or-
ganizes and runs ecotourism programs for Na Bolom, the research