Feb. 20, 1999
San Antonio Palopó, Guatemala
We’ve been leaving San Antonio on weekends to escape the racket coming from loudspeakers mounted on the roofs of the handful of churches in the village.
The brand of Christianity practiced here was brought to Central America twenty years ago by evangelical missionaries who came in the wake of devastating earthquakes. The churches that gained a foothold following that disaster have flourished in these impoverished countries where life is hard and the promises and hope held out by North American missionaries make a big impression. Getting to heaven blends with the hope of going to the United States. Visions of New Jerusalem get mixed up with images of New York. (A few years ago a girl asked me if “Señor Jesus” was born in the U.S.)
Here, in San Antonio, as in villages all over Guatemala, the churches seem to try to outdo each other by broadcasting their music and preaching as loud as electronically possible over their loudspeakers. There are a number of bands who have invested in electric guitars, keyboards, accordions, drums and amplifiers. They play mostly a Christianized version of “Ranchero” music, a style popular in Northern Mexico and in the U.S. along the border. It is a pretty obnoxious style of music to begin with, but played by untalented musicians at high volume over poor quality speakers, it is enough to drive out all sane thought. (But not quite enough to drown out the howling dogs.)
The instruments represent several months wages for the musicians, so I have no idea how they can afford them. I am tempted to wonder why they would put so much money into this, but the answer seems so pathetic…
Even the Catholic church, which has been in Latin America for more than 400 years and has proved itself to be remarkably adaptable over the centuries, has begun to emulate the evangelical churches, using electric bands, spirited lay preachers and, of course, loudspeakers. But tucked away in obscure spots in many Guatemalan villages are vestiges of non-Christian religions.
On a hillside above Chichicastenango there is an ancient stone corn god known as Pascual Abaj. Mayans still seek his favor with ritual sacrifices of chickens and splashes of a potent whisky-like drink called “aguardiente.”
San Simón
Another icon of more recent vintage is a folk-saint named San Simón. There are shrines to San Simón in many villages. The figure of San Simón is usually dressed in a black suit, with a black hat perched cockily on his head. He looks something like a badly dressed 20s gangster. He evidently inherited Pascual Abaj’s taste for aquardiente, and has another bad habit, cigarettes. Both are traditionally offered as sacraments to him.
I had heard there was a shrine to San Simón in San Antonio, but didn’t know much more than that. Then, one morning I was walking past a shop and ran into the owner, named Francisco, who, it turned out, was the caretaker of the local version. I could tell immediately Francisco had been indulging in San Simón’s favorite drink. He seemed eager to show me the usually secret shrine. He took me by the hand and led me to a room under his shop. (Actually, he was probably just hanging onto me for support.) Along one wall, above some make-shift tables were icons and framed illustrations of various well-known Catholic saints, as well as the Virgin Mary and, of course, the crucified Jesus. Over in the corner, in a place of prominence, sat San Simón, who seemed to survey the scene with some amusement.
The Mayan god Pascual Abaj stands in mute inscrutability, symbolic perhaps of the futility of trying to discern the will of the gods. The pain-racked body of Christ on the cross conveys a sense of suffering and defeat, which inspires more guilt and fear than devotion. San Simón, in contrast, is more like a renegade uncle who seems to wink at you and say “C’mon over here. Maybe we can make a deal.”
Francisco coached me in the proper way to approach the saint, which involved stuffing money into the pocket of his crumpled black suit, lighting a cigarette and putting it into his mouth and waving the smoke around his face as much as possible. (“He can’t really smoke” Francisco explained helpfully.)
Maybe it was too early in the day for San Simón to start drinking (unlike his caretaker) but we skipped that part. Since I had presumably made San Simón happy I was allowed to ask for a favor. It might be bad luck if I revealed what I asked for, but it had something to do with loudspeakers…
It is easy for us to think of San Simón as a comic figure and of those who come to him with cigarettes, alcohol and money as primitive and simple-minded. But the sad truth is that whether it is San Simón, Pascual Abaj, the pantheon of Catholic saints or “Señor Jesus”, religion, as it is practiced in the villages of Guatemala is mostly a matter of doing what it takes to win the approval of whatever deity may be able to grant a favor. Here, there is a lot to ask for.