0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6
Field of Dreams; Fields of Reality
institute, museum, and guesthouse started by Trudi and Franz Blom,
is there to greet us. He leads us into a field in which a forest of me-
ticulously placed flowerpots are standing like tombstones. There are
ten thousand of them, line after line after line, filled with dirt, empty.
Nothing green showing. The students are curious.
“It’s a reforestation project,” Victor says. “They haven’t sent the
seed. We’ve been waiting... months.”
I look at the rows and see basketball courts, vacant clinics, speed
bumps, empty flowerpots, the legacy of pre-election governmental pa-
tronage that excludes anything living.
Victor is the current incarnation of Trudi Blom’s commitment to
“help” the Lacandón. Trudi died in 1996 at the age of 94 , just a week
before the Zapatistas marched out of the jungle; a year to the day be-
fore her friend, Lacandón wisdom holder Chan K’in Viejo, stopped
dreaming at 105.
Our camp is located at the outskirts of Nahá, away from the clus-
ter of houses that is the tiny village. There is nothing else out this way
except the house of Chan K’in Quinto, one of the twenty-five remain-
ing children of the elder Chan K’in. Deformed, suffering from hard-
to-control epilepsy, he lives with his sister Koh Juanita in an old and
crowded cut-board house, exiled to the edges, just as we anthropol-
ogists are.
In the campamiento, lunch has been simmering over an open fire
for three hours; but it is almost time for supper. We are exhausted,
in need of intense reflection concerning our day, happy to be beneath
the thick canopy of dripping jungle, caressed by mist. That night, I
crawl into my quetzal-colored hammock, tuck the blankets around
me, pull the bridal veil mosquito netting over my head, fold my arms
across my breast and sleep a peace-filled sleep, unbroken till morn-
ing. There are no images, no vestiges of threat or fear or hidden strug-
gle in the lands around us, no dreams or nightmares, just the gentle
tapping of steady rain on a metal roof, unfettered slumber in the cra-
dle of creation. Most of the students sleep equally well. The field re-
mains a dream.
We wake early; it’s still raining. We reschedule a hike that was to
teach us about flora and fauna and look for alternative programming.
