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Feeding the gods The Mayan Wa’tesink by Michael J. Reinhart The gods are hungry. Copal incense hung heavy in the humid jungle air. The captive warrior, stoic and unflinching, is brought up to the stone alter. Forced down, bare chest up, he looks into the eyes of the Ah Kin as four elders, Chacs, hold the captive’s arms and legs. With the faithful below watching, the Ah Kin raises his jade dagger. Plunging it into the chest, he cuts, then pulls out the still beating heart. The Ah Kin raises the heart up for all to see. The Chacs, and elders below, chant prayers to their gods. The captive’s blood is collected and then brushed onto the new building. The body, along with three others similarly sacrificed, is buried at the four corners of the structure. The Ah Kin, the Chacs and the rest of the men of the village gather in front of the structure to chant prayers to the gods. The spirit of the building must be fed. Nightfall. This Mayan Pueblo of Lanquin in the Alta
Verapaz region of Guatemala has few paved roads. I’m standing by the side
of one, waiting for the four wheel drive pickup to arrive. The only
reliable local transport, the Toyota pick-up is the best means of travel
this far out in the bush. The weather was predicted to be cold and
rainy. Typical. Weathermen rarely get it right. Cloudy, hot and Cresting the mountain, we arrive at the trailhead. The full moon is concealed behind the blanket of clouds above. By headlamps, we unpack our gear and make our way down the muddy trail. I hate this mud. Slippery, clay-like mud. One slides more than walks down this trail. Mists of humidity hang in the air as further testament to the alchemy of a weatherman’s predictions. I hate humidity. I hate the mosquitoes. I love this. Our destination is a remote hilltop school in this
jungle. The local civic leaders are scheduled to arrive tomorrow to
inaugurate a water tank system built for this school by Rotary
International with the assistance of the Peace Corp. But tonight, I, and
Peace Corps volunteer Kera, had the singular invitation to witness a
Wa’tesink. Knowing little of what I would see, I accepted the i The term Wa’tesink is Q’eqchi Mayan and translates to
feed something or someone. I would later learn that the Wa’tesink ritual
is a blessing steeped in ancient Mayan traditions. It is the symbolic
feeding of the spirits of a place. Believing everything possesses a
spirit needing to be fed, the old ones offered the bodies of captured
warriors to appease their gods and bless newly constructed buildings. The
ancient Maya practiced this human sacrifice through decapitation or
through the removal of the beating heart of live victims. This practice
survived up to the time of the Spanish invasion. In these highlands of
Alta Verapaz, a story is told of the Mayan ruler Aj Pop Ba’tz, who later
took the name of Juan Matal’atz after the Spanish conquest. Building a
cathedral for his new religion of Catholicism, he performed the Wa’tesink
by burying human bodies at the four corners of the building. In more
modern times, the ritual eschews human sacrifice in favor of less
fortunate animals. At sometime past eleven, the procession arrives. The Concorde, elders elected by the people of the local Aldea (village), walk confidently down the muddy trail. Ten old men weathered older by years in the fields growing maize and coffee. In front, held high with a single candle’s illumination, is the likeness of St. Augustine, the patron saint of Lanquin. They proceed into one of the classrooms. Upon a table, Mateo, clearly a man of some importance in this group, arranges an impromptu alter upon which St. Augustine is seated. Candles and incense of copal are burning. The elders, now accompanied by a dozen or more younger men sit in front of the alter and begin prayers in Q’eqchi. It sounds like a Catholic mass with everyone praying fervently together. Peering through the open window, I can see various items and liquids being placed before the alter. Blessings of the offerings are prayed for. Into the empty tank, a man drops down. I’m allowed to climb on top of the tank and peer inside. I see he has set a candle on the floor in the center of the tank. A circle of salt is laid around the candle. In each corner, a portion of salt is placed. The interior is then bathed in copal incense. The man is chanting vigorously as he swings the incense burner, careful to get the smoke into all corners of the tank. We lift the elder out of the top of the tank and make our way off and to the ground.
The last of the prayers dies down. The elders remain gathered in the classroom. Tables are brought in and Kera and I are invited to sit at the center table. More Caldo, tortillas and Pooch are brought in and the whole Concorde is served. We eat as the formalities of the ritual give way to easy smiles. My digital camera, with its instant images, is a big hit as everyone wants their picture taken. Normally stoic in front of the camera, the men sport broad smiles and joke about who looks best in the photographs. Everyone finishes their portions. It's bad luck not to. In a few hours, the civil dedication will begin. The elders and others disappear back into the jungle. I find a soft table in an open classroom and lay down to catch a few hours sleep. The copal incense still hangs heavy in this humid jungle air. I hope the gods have had their fill tonight.
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humid, the insects rejoice in a feeding frenzy on any exposed flesh.
Pulling up, the bed of the truck is filled with amplifiers, speakers and
other gear for the next day’s dedication ceremony. Searching for a
comfortable place to stand, I wedge my feet in tight and grab the iron
frame used to support a canvas cover in more inclement weather. Filled
beyond capacity with electronic and human cargo, off we go. Down the
other paved road, past the dirt floored cantina blaring music, we cross
over a slippery wooden bridge. The road turns to dirt and we make our way
up the steep single lane road. Our driver, all of sixteen years of age,
skillfully drives up this mountain road with the reckless abandon born of
a lack of understanding of his, and our, mortality. The rush of air feels
cool and the hungry insects are left far behind providing relief from the
stifling jungle air. 
nvitation
with much anticipation. Sitting under the bare light on the porch of the
school, insects buzz and bats dive into the light to feed. The air hangs
heavy and thick. We wait for the ritual to begin. 
An
hour later, the rights have been made and the elders stop to rest. One of
them, machete in hand, walks out to the concrete water tank and digs four
holes at each corner and then a single hole in front. He then digs one
hole in the middle of the school grounds and four holes at the four
corners of the boundary of the school. The digging complete, the Concorde
and other men come out to the water tank. Lighted candles in hand, there
is much discussion among the old men. Finally, they gather at one of the
four corners of the water tank. Mateo and another elder carefully place
parts of a chicken, maize, tortillas, cocoa, and a fermented drink called
Boj’ into the hole. All chant prayers as this offering is then buried and
a lighted candle placed on top. This is repeated at each corner of the
water tank and then at each of the remaining holes dug throughout the
school grounds. Another elder, swinging an incense caldron, bathes each
corner with the blessed vapors. Next, each corner is then splashed with
something which looks remarkably like blood, using the leaves of a palm. 
In
front of the water tank, a large container is placed with fist sized copal
balls inside. These are lit and erupt in a perfumed blaze. The elders
form a semi-circle around the burning copal. Each kneels and holds a lit
candle. The prayers begin in earnest. At one point, all stand. Facing
each of the four cardinal points, the group offers prayers North, East,
South and West. Retiring back to the classroom, they continue their
prayers in front of the alter. Praying and chanting as vigorously as when
they started hours before, they continue for the next hour. 
While
the elders pray in the classroom, I’m invited to the kitchen. The women
are busy preparing the traditional dish of Caldo de Pollo (Chicken in
broth) and Pooch (a corn tamale). Mayan women are shy and conservative in
public, but here in the kitchen, they smile and laugh freely as they
gossip. The kitchen, a dirt floored, corrugated tin building sports an
open flame upon which a large cooking pot rests on the traditional three
rocks. Ventilation is poor. I don’t understand why there are no chimneys
or other means to vent the smoke from any kitchens I’ve seen here. In one
corner, a man chops chicken using a machete. The women form an assembly
line making tortillas. Laughing and talking into the early morning hours,
the women brew the Caldo
de Pollo and make delicious home made tortillas and Pooch. As guests, we
are asked to sit and eat.