Searching for the Maximon

Santiago Atitlan lies above a small inlet on Lake Atitlan. Towering above the town are Volcanes Atitlan and Toliman yet it is Atitlan that hovers like a protective guardian to the small town below. All the narrow streets arch upwards, as though reaching towards the volcano, uniting it with every entity of the town. The street running up from the docks is lined with artisan crafts of all sorts. Beautifully woven huipiles have been converted into pillow covers, intricate purses, and bed spreads. Wooden masks and carved pelicans peak out from dark wood working shops. Everywhere small children run asking white tourists if they would like to visit the Maximón.

As is my custom in every small town, I made my pilgrimage up to the local church, Iglesia Parroquial Santiago Apostol. To arrive at the church plaza, I climbed up sets of steep, conical stairs that mirrored the shape of the volcano. The ancient town cross greeted me as my eyes grew level with the plaza. There, behind the stone cross, sat a squat church with a historic belfry tower and convent. Grungy boys called out “Maximón, Maximón!” as I walked towards the heavy wooden door of the church. Inside, I learned the disturbed history of a town brutalized by the civil war. It was here town members slept to protect themselves from rampaging rebels and soldiers. It was here the minister was martyred, leaving behind his heart and blood to protect the town. It was in this town, after a massacre, that the townspeople rose up and led the movement towards peace after thirty years of strife passed through the country. Because of Santiago Atitlan, peace returned to Guatemala.

I moved from the new church with its gilded alter and hair-dresser clothed saints into the patio of the old convent. There, a spectacular lotus-shaped fountain met my eyes. Chiseled into the fountain were four crudely cut crosses. The crosses were so weathered into the rock that I had to pay acute attention to discern their shape.

A young Swedish woman sitting in the patio working on embroidering let me sit and talk with her. We were interrupted by Andrés, a dirty barefooted boy of about six years, asking to take us to see Maximón. We agreed, even at the steep price of Q 20 for him to lead us to Maximón.

We made our way down the conical stairs with other child-guides hollering to take us to the saint, across the plaza, and onto the street. Andrés trotted ahead, leading us to a corroded alley. He tugged on my sleeve, gesturing to a turquoise house saying, “there’s the Maximón.” He slipped down the street ahead of us, stopping only to point out a voodoo doll perched in the window of a house.

We stopped in front of the little, dark house, wondering where Andrés had disappeared to before he immerged to lead us inside. The old man who owned the property announced that we should enter the house for there was Maximón. The oppressive scent of burning tobacco, palo santo, and aguardiente filled our nostrils. We proceeded into a dark, candle and Christmas light-lit room, to be greeted by four figures. On the left, inside a glass-sided coffin, lay Christ, blood trickling down his forehead from his crown of thorns. Above the coffin sat his cross. Two men, members of the cofradía, a Mayan Catholic brotherhood, guarded the Maximón.

In front of them, lit by candle offerings sat Maximón, a fat cigar held tightly between his lips. His head was covered with an old, yellowing cowboy hat. A brightly colored woven fabric kept his back warm while his front was decorated with elaborate silk scarves. Behind Maximón stood a dozen glass flasks filled with aguardiente, sugar cane alcohol. A cup held in his hand revealed the remains of smoked cigarettes, left as an offering to this saint. Another cup showed offerings of Quetzals of various amounts. I dropped a Quetzal into the cup, the clunk of metal on metal unnatural in this solemn atmosphere. I asked the Maximón to keep my family safe, help me finish my research, and keep me occupied Saturday evenings to avoid the Group.

The Maximón enjoys his tobacco and rum, as was revealed by people’s offerings. People in the highlands give him these un-sanctimonious offerings in return for blessing for a successful business, a good harvest, and healthy families. This saint, a combination of the Mayan Rilaj Maam and catholic San Simon, guards the Guatemalan highlands. He is a mixture of Mayan gods, Pedro de Alvarado (the Spanish conquistador who conquered Guatemala), and Judas. It’s a formidable combination.

Every year, the Maximón honors a different family with his presence. The ceremony, held in May, keeps the balance of power healthy in these communities. It also means only locals know how to find him, insuring a modest income for little boys who lead gullible strangers to the Maximón. With that, and the steep Q 10 to take his picture, the cofradía can insure the Maximón’s protection. However, this glimpse into rural, Mayan life was priceless, captivating, and enriching. I now know and have been enlightened to the Maximón’s powerful presence.