Teul was from Crique Jute, an even smaller and more isolated village about five miles northeast of Santa Cruz. It was an older village, settled in the thirties by a few families that came from Peten, Guatemala, and from San Antonio. It had grown a little, but not much. I supposed its name suited it as jute is Maya for ‘snail’. Snails lived in the nearby rivers and creeks, several of those waterways actually running through the village itself. I’m not making fun of Crique Jute. It’s just that I have seen and been with my people when we were the strong and fierce people of a great empire, when we ruled this land from our temples. But I didn’t want my mind to go there so I brought my thoughts back to the two soldiers. I gazed at Teul and he grinned back at me. In my jungle, he looked the Warrior, short cut black hair, deep set black eyes holding a deep sense of determination, firm mouth when he was not grinning, a somewhat square face. He had the poise of many of the Warriors I had seen before … the time I was in Ox Witz Ha.
As the three of us were from Toledo and Choco my cousin, we occasionally had chelas or guaro together at one of the bars near to our barracks and I got to know them better over time. They were no way as close to me as Rhys, but the fact that they had forcefully joined me on this journey made me hold them in high regard, both as soldiers and now as friends. To be truthful, it was a good thing they came thereby increasing our strength to a section; truthfully, I really didn’t know what was going to happen. Yet, I was concerned for them. I supposed it was just that I did not want to lose any more men, any more friends, to Sisimito, his Kechelaj Komon, and his Kechelaj Jupuq.
I glanced at Choc. He had the same statue as Choco and Teul, but was probably a little older. I believed that the two soldiers would have the edge over him, being soldiers and in constant training. Yet, Choc was a hunter and tracker and the mountains around Jalacte were his home. He would do just as well as the soldiers on this strange and dangerous journey.
It was 1115 hours and time to leave Miramar. “Okay men. Saddle up. Time to go.” Teul was already digging a hole with his machete to put in the packaging from the meals. We pissed, put on our bergens, picked up our weapons, and had one last look around us, the men from the local area holding their eyes on the southeast as if wanting to have their last contact with their villages.
We marched west until we came to the Rio Blanco, once again, crossed it without incident then turned northwesterly towards Edwards Central. We walked in single file, as I had ordered, along the trail. Like the others, it was overgrown and not in very good condition. Choc was cussing, almost continuously, stumbling on the uneven rutted ground as he chopped at the secondary growth. His stumbling made us aware of where the deeper ruts were so we were better off than he was. The macheting was not very difficult, it was not as if we were cutting through a chaparral.140 A lot of the overgrowth were small bushes and waha as we walked close to the river. Even with the canopy, however, the heat and humidity were oppressive. After a while, a very smelly and sweaty Choc made Choco take over and he took Choco’s third place in the file.
The slope wasn’t steep for we were walking on the western side of the Rio Blanco and continued on that path for about a mile and a half. We then left the river bank, after filling our water bottles and having a snack of one melting milk chocolate bar, and love it or hate it marmite,141 the closest we’d get to chelas on this mission. We tabbed through the foothills and, luckily, the truck pass remained on the higher elevations. That made it more discernible and we continued at a good pace.
Choc was next to Taat and they were looking at, examining the sides of the trail. Once Taat put up his hand, stopping us, as he and Choc went into the jungle. On returning, they both looked at me. “We are going correct,” Taat informed us. “They passed through here.”
We proceeded without any mishaps and reached Edwards Central at 1720 hours. There wasn’t much left of the camp, only a couple rusted and broken drums, three collapsed sheds with some remaining thatch, most of the roofs having already turned to dust. An old fire hearth stood in the middle of one of the collapsed sheds and I immediately remembered Bas and my first encounter with evidence of Sisimito and members of the Kechelaj Komon, the Alaj Chaj-r-ij Wíinik, or Hashishi Pampi as they were otherwise known. That was at Mexican Branch during Expedition Bold and I recalled Bas telling me, “There are teeth marks on the wood. The burnt parts have been eaten off.” I pushed the thoughts from my mind, but they were brought back violently. From deep in the jungle came the crazy call of the kos, Wah-co!-Wah-co!-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
“What’s that?” asked Robertson, with a curious tone.
“Kos,” I answered, feeling my skin rise with koal seed. He looked at me puzzled. “It’s a falcon, the Laughing Falcon.”
His brow furrowed. “Is something wrong, Sarge?”
I stared at him. He was cognizant that the call had provoked something in me and I wondered if the men were also aware. I couldn’t allow my feelings to show. That would not be good. “Mixba’al,” I said. “Nothing. Let’s continue exploring the camp.”
A’kl and tutz trees surrounded the camp and a few secondary growth trees were growing on the camp site. Choc was gathering dry a’kl leaves, a good substitute for tobacco, good for smoking as long as you didn’t use it regularly or it gave you a persistent cough.
Taat came over to me. “I think we should camp here.”
“We still have about two hours of good sunlight,” I answered. “I don’t want to waste it. Every time we rest, Sisimito and Molly move further from us.”
“The mountains are getting higher, the going will get rougher, and I’m not sure we’ll find a better camp. It is better to stay here. It would be good for us to have some fresh meat to eat tonight, and a good rest.
It was always helpful to have someone giving good advice. Well, maybe most of the time. I had a great sense of urgency and just wanted to push on, to rescue Molly. She was in great danger, even though I knew she was being kept alive. With all that, however, I had to keep focused and treat the mission as I would any other. It was easy to lose direction when driven by personal emotions, by anger and urgency. A soldier could not let that happen.
Illustration 6: Edwards Central Camp.
“Okay, Taat. Let’s camp here. We leave at earliest light.”
It was a pity that there was no river nearby. We could have all used a bath as, already, we were smelling of sweat and the jungle, and our uniforms were dirty. We probably would not have washed our uniforms as it was difficult to dry them because of the high humidity. We could hang them over the fire, but even that didn’t work very often and there was always the danger of the uniform falling into the fire. Then what? We had only the one we wore. I probably would have washed my boxers and dry them over the fire, keep Tóolok clean and happy. Yet, it didn’t really matter if we smelled of sweat or smoke, if we were dirty. We were soldiers in the jungle. We would sweat, we would smell of the jungle, we would stink. The only real purposes for the river in a mission like this one was, firstly, for drinking water, then to clean and refresh the body so that the skin remained intact, and to relax in the water. Washing clothes and smelling sweet was way down the list.
“Men,” I called out. “Briefing.” They all gathered around me. “We will spend the night here. Help Taat in setting up camp then relax as you wish.” I did not have to tell them to be vigilant and keep their rifle and machete close to them. Even Choc had picked up the routine quickly. They were now all soldiers and I would treat them as such. “Choco and Choc. Get us some game meat.”
“Sarge!” they both shouted.
I was tempted to throw myself down and lean against a tree observing, but I decided to help with clearing a central area large enough for all of us to sleep. The fire hearth was by the fallen shed and Rhys was quickly chopping and collecting wood. Taat was setting up the fire hearth, making a spit, anticipating that Choc and Choco would bring some meat. Taat was approaching his cooking duty with gusto. Maybe, it was just that he didn’t tru
st our army cooking where the best thing we cooked was Jungle Chow Mein made from corned beef and Ramin noodles. After a day’s marching, however, nothing tasted better.
Robertson was sitting, writing in the log and looking at maps. I searched through the rubble of the overgrown shed and there were actually a couple stools, a small table and pieces of flat board. I pulled those out and put them near to the fire hearth. Taat smiled, pleased that he had a table to work from.
There was the sudden report of a gunshot and I swung around towards the sound. I froze as I was immediately transported to the summit above the covert, the mountain across from Victoria Peak. Rhys was beside me, a bunch of thick branches in his arms. “It’s okay,” he said. I looked up at him. He threw the logs down near the fire hearth and came back to me. “It’s all right, he repeated, putting a hand on my shoulder. “It’s not the rifle. It’s the gun.” Then he grinned. “Let’s hope they caught whatever they shot at. I’m hungry for meat.”
There were two other reports in quick succession. Taat grinned. “We’ll have good food tonight.” He looked at me and knew that I was disquieted. “They’re not here, Eutimio. They’re ahead of us and they keep on going.”
“Come, Sarge. Let’s get some more wood,” suggested Rhys.
I bent over to pick up my rifle. “Relax,” said Taat. “There’s no danger here. You don’t need to take your gun with you.”
“She’s a rifle, Taat. She’s not a gun, and a soldier’s rifle is part of a soldier’s body. I take her with me wherever I go. When I’m out on patrol, my rifle is my woman. I sleep with her.”
“Whatever you decide, Eutimio.”
Rhys and I walked a little way from the camp to a tree that had fallen over. It looked burnt, probably hit by lightning. “Sit down, Chiac. Let’s have one of these chiclero’s cigarette.” He picked out two rolling papers from a bunch he had in his pocket, a lighter, and a small plastic bag with crushed a’kl.
“Where did you get that,” I asked.
“Choc gave the a’kl and rolling paper to me. He says it makes the best cigarette I’ll ever smoke. Well, I don’t smoke much, but I’ll see if he’s right.” He rolled two, lit them, then handed me one. I took a deep draw and blew out several rings.
“I love my jungle, Rhys. But it keeps fokin me up.”
“It’s not your jungle, Chiac, that’s fokin you up. Your jungle is as beautiful and, andsacred as ever. It’s the evil that lives there.”
“That evil is part of my jungle, Rhys. It’s just that it has never attacked me and my people before. It was always there, but it stayed away.”
Rhys took a deep draw from the a’kl. “You have to stay focused, Chiac. You are one of our best soldiers; and the section, we’re fokin good also. We’ll do whatever’s necessary to get your woman back, no matter what it costs us.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Rhys. I can barely live with what happened to my section last year. I can’t have another death on my hands, another Bas, another Hulse, Anderson, Taylor, Clarke, Parham.”
Rhys took another deep pull on the a’kl and blew the smoke out nosily. He stared at it “Not bad. Not a bad smoke at all.” He looked up at me. “You are responsible to lead us in and out of this jungle, and to rescue Molly. All of us know that we’re getting into something very difficult, strange, unnatural, even if we don’t know much about what we are getting into.” He raised his eyebrows. “We are soldiers, Chiac. Don’t try to take that away from us. At times, soldiers die. And for God’s sake, stop mothering us.” We heard loud talking from the camp. “I think our hunters have returned. Let’s go see.”
There were one kolol and two k’ambuls lying on the table. As we approached them, Choc was proudly boasting that he shot all three, to which Choco had a smirk on his face.
“Partridge and curassow,” observed Robertson, who had put away his log book and walked over. “How are we going to clean them? We don’t have water to spare.”
“Doesn’t matter,” admonished Taat. “I’ll skin them and gut them then smoke them over the fire. They don’t need any more cleaning than that. We’ll eat good tonight. No more of that army stuff.” Taat went to his cuxtal, took out some herbs and placed them on the table. In a few minutes the birds were skinned, their guts removed and replaced by a mixture of herbs, and they were skewered over the fire on a stick, cooking and producing the most pleasant and mouthwatering aroma.
“We’ll need something to go with the meat,” suggested Rhys, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll find something.”
“Don’t worry about that,” beamed Taat. He went over to his cuxtal again and took out a bundle and laid it on the table. He opened it saying, “Sikpet.”
“What’s that?” asked Robertson, politely.
“I should have thought about not having water to clean the game,” I commented, at the same time wondering what all Taat had in his cuxtal. It became apparent that Teul was also wondering. Of course, his approach was very different from what mine would have been.
“Sikpet? Man! That’s good! You must have a lot of madafok in that cuxtal, Taat,” he exclaimed.
I heard the cry of a paap as Taat turned to face Teul who was innocently grinning, a grin that he maintained as he saw Taat pick up the knife off the table and point it at him. “Don’t you lose your respect for me, ala.142 Even that uniform and that gun won’t protect you if I decide to gut you like I’d do a kitam.”
Of course, Teul couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “It’s a rifle, Taat. It’s not a gun. Please don’t call my rifle a madafok gun.”
I saw Taat grip his knife. I knew that Taat wouldn’t hurt Teul. At least, I didn’t think he would, but I thought it best to intervene.
“Teul!”
“Sarge!”
“Get the fok out of here, Teul. Go shit. Go jig … whack-off. Anything. Just get the fok out-a-here. I’m giving you some WOL. Just get out-a-here.”
“Sarge!” he shouted then took off running towards the truck pass. To my amazement, he started laughing so loudly that not one paap, but every paap in the Maya Mountains began crying out to him with their atrocious Piam! Piam! Piam! Piam! “For you, Taat,” he yelled as he continued howling with amusement making a high handless somersault.
“Something is wrong with that soldier,” said Robertson, gravely.
“Ala!” said Taat, emphatically. “Yes, something is wrong with him. He needs to grow up to be a real soldier. Maybe this trip will make one out of him.” Then, to my further amazement, Taat smiled. “Anyway, Robertson, now that we’ve gotten rid of that boy, whenever we Ke’kchi go hunting for a few days, we always take sikpet.”
“But what is it?” repeated Robertson.
“It’s a special type of kua, tortilla, made for hunters. It lasts three to four days,” Taat answered.
“Hmm,” murmured Robertson. “And WOL, Sarge? There’s AWOL, but I’ve never heard of WOL. Is it something of the local military?”
“No Medic,” interjected Choco. “It is WOL. I’m sure Sarge would give you some WOL if you ask him.” The men began to chuckle.
“Fiddlesticks! Go ahead and have your fun, but just tell me what it is.”
“Sure Medic,” responded Choco. “WOL is Whack-Off-Leave. You probably need some by now. Don’t be ashamed, Medic. We all take WOL, even the Sarge. You can’t do anything else in the jungle.”
The men were no longer chuckling but laughing and I found myself joining in especially when Robertson’s face became crimson beneath his tan. When things had settled, I clapped my hands. “Okay men. There isn’t much more for us to do, the area is clear, so relax as you wish … within reason … knowing where we are and what we face. Conserve your water.”
“That’s a good idea. The maps do not show a river until we reach Union Camp,” advised Robertson, concern in his voice, the crimson on his face having disappeared.
“We should come across creeks. There’s lots of water in these mountains,” I assured him. �
��We’ll conserve, nevertheless.”
We, minus Teul, went to our bergens, took off our boots and combats, pulled on our camouflage shorts or boxers, laughing and talking, rifles and machetes always nearby. Robertson had settled right in and I was happy for that. It meant that some of my fears about his ability to adjust to my way of doing things would go away. I could depend on him. The men were walking barefooted and I was concerned about them walking like that. I always remember Anderson telling us, “Look after your feet.” I reviewed the ground and we had done a good job with clearing the camp, but I couldn’t take any chances. “Get on your flip-flops. You know the protocol.” The men immediately did as I ordered and soon we were standing or sitting in a circle, Teul included, sharing and building our camaraderie while the birds, our meal, were being smoked above a healthy fire.
“Choc, give me some cho-otz,”143 said Teul.
“Cho-otz?” queried Robertson.
“Cho-otz is the Mopan word for a’kl. I am Mopan, Medic. It’s called Trumpet Tree in English.” Teul turned to Choc. “I bet you didn’t know it is also called po-hór in Ke’kchi.”
“Of course, I did.”
“You didn’t a madafok.”
I ignored the banter, but had noted that both Choco and Teul had given Robertson his functional name within the group. That was important for it meant that the section was coming together. I really needed that to hap-
pen, and quickly. We all took some a’kl, or cho-otz, or po-hór, rolled our cigarettes and started smoking.
“Well, Choc,” I said. It seems that you are now responsible for our supply of a’kl.”
Sisimito II--Xibalba Page 10