by Norman Lewis
Eight miles away, a Catholic mission with which Padre Loéra had some connection had established itself in a Huichol village which it had promptly renamed Santa Clara. We made our way towards it, much slowed down by the desirability of giving suspicious boulders and trees a wide berth, and we reached the village after a trek of about five hours.
Set among dramatic scenery, the mission was staffed by a single priest, Padre Joaquin, with the support of a dozen or so nuns. Life here must have resembled that of an outpost on the American frontier at its wildest in the early part of the last century. Part of the mission had been destroyed by fire in an attack by the Huichols two years before, during which the nuns had kept up, as we learned, brisk and continuous rifle-fire from the narrow windows. The shaman slipped away quietly as soon as the building came in sight. He was known to be strongly opposed to the missionary presence and warned us that it would do our cause no good to be seen with him. However, we had been spotted from afar and Padre Joaquin received us coldly. Nevertheless we were permitted to sleep in an outbuilding, and although we made it clear that we had brought food with us, we were served by silent and unsmiling nuns with bowlfuls of atole—a sweet cornflour gruel—tortillas and a bean-stew; all of it delicious.
It was now early evening, with a resplendent sky full of toucans and parakeets, and soft lemon light. The little Indian girls in the care of the mission had finished their domestic chores and the boys had come down from the forest dragging wood on their sledges for the fires. What astounded me was that the Franciscans had allowed them to dress in Indian style in tunics embroidered with pagan symbols and gods that had assumed cavorting animal form. Some of the boys had brought guitars and Huichol violins, and we were treated to an enthusiastic serenade, which was accompanied by the girls’ pentatonic humming.
The joyful atmosphere at Santa Clara was quite new to me. At best, mission camps—of which I have seen a number—are solemn places from which the elements of pleasure are firmly excluded. Here music and laughter were everywhere to be heard, and although a largely Welsh Baptist upbringing has left me unable to cope with religion in general, I realised how lucky these little Huichols were to have been taken into the care of the Catholics, rather than that of one of the ethnocidal Protestant sects. Only the shaman regarded this situation with gloom, insisting that the policy at Santa Clara was to encourage marriages between pure Indians and mestizos in the knowledge that the offspring of such unions would be brought up in the Christian faith and thus lost to the Indian community.
The night was exceedingly cold and we were awakened at about 3am by the intense surrounding activity. It was the Huichol custom to take a dip at this hour and the women were already in the freezing river. Such dousings, Ramon later informed us, fostered the sexual coldness much appreciated by the Huichols in their womenfolk.
The shaman appeared at dawn surrounded by adult Indians, and, selecting a spot just outside the mission boundary, began the lengthy and complicated ritual involved in helping the sun to rise. This was achieved with the aid of two wands with feathered ends, waved energetically while the shaman prayed in a loud, insistent voice. Slowly the mountain tops lightened, then glowed—a result acclaimed by general murmurs of relief.
Ramon had disquieting news. Four days prior to our arrival a Huichol living in the village’s outskirts had been murdered. He explained that it had been no ordinary killing because of the ritualistic nature of the crime, which involved hanging the victim by a rope in which no knots were used. This showed that the murder was intended as a warning to the community. Such acts of pure terror in which robbery was not involved seemed to strengthen Padre Ernesto’s theory that hired killers had been enlisted by the mining interests.
The shaman, who would clearly have been a prime target in a full-scale terrorist campaign, now seemed eager to leave Santa Clara and recommended a visit to San Andrea, the ceremonial capital of the Huichols where the annual festival was to be held on the coming Sunday. There would be archery, he said, music performed on ancient instruments, dancing, the drinking of great quantities of tesguino—the Huichol ceremonial beer—and even a bull sacrifice, to be paid for by a general contribution of several hours’ work.
We therefore set out on another gruelling single-file walk, and some hours later San Andrea came into sight. It comprised fifteen stone-built houses enclosing a square. None of the houses was occupied, the shaman said, and the village served only as a meeting place for Huichol living in remote areas in the sierra, and for discussions of tribal policy, the punishment of law-breakers according to tribal custom, and fiestas of the kind we had come to witness. Of the promised fiesta there was no sign whatever. In the centre of the empty square stood a post to which, said the shaman, deflowerers of virgins were tied to be flogged. Under this the topiri—the village policeman who did the flogging—lay asleep. The shaman woke him and was told that the fiesta had been called off as a result of someone’s unfavourable dream. Ramon asked for the tatuan, (the village headman) and the topiri told him he had gone off to look after his garden. He himself was tired after an unpleasant experience, he said. Being questioned about this, the topiri said that he had only recently been elected to his position, which offered no remuneration while imposing many onerous duties. As was the democratic Huichol custom, he had not been informed of his candidature in advance, and had only been persuaded to accept the nomination after a short spell of imprisonment without food. Huichol justice was immediate and stern, Ramon explained, and then, always eager to promote our journalistic interests, he asked if there were any prisoners available to be photographed. These, apparently, would be kept in stocks in a dark hole somewhere about the place. The topiri told him with obvious regret that there were none. If we came back in a week or two, he said, he might be able to help us.
David Montgomery was now in difficulties. He was extremely agreeable and accommodating, and had a notably equable temperament. He lived happily with his wife and produced photographs of outstanding artistic quality in a studio at the back of Victoria station, where he was assisted by a hard-working staff—all of whom, remarkably enough, were Mormons. From this stress-free environment he had allowed himself suddenly to be snatched away and dumped among the urgencies of the high sierra, where he had rapidly learned that life was held cheap. Now, surprisingly, we were to learn from the topiri that a murder had recently been committed in San Andrea, too. There are long delays between death and burial among the Huichols due to the many preliminaries required for the soul’s successful entry into the after-life. The victim in this case had died from multiple bullet wounds, and had been wrapped in all the finery that could be found and strung up out of the way in as cool a place as possible under the roof rafters of one of the houses, where decomposition had long since set in. I was now obliged to ask David to photograph this scene, and although he made no demur he told me that he had never seen a dead body and was a little afraid that he might faint. I assured him that I would hold him up if this happened, and the photo was taken.
No sooner was this crisis behind us and we had returned to the centre of the village, than we were confronted with the spectacle of a grim-faced mestizo armed with a powerful rifle standing at bay while Indians who had appeared as if from nowhere closed in on him. Several of these held their bows at the ready. There was a general belief, shared emphatically by Ramon Medina, that this was a bandit who had been stalking us and followed us into what had appeared to him a deserted village. The man’s rifle was taken from him, and the topiri, unwinding the sacred cord of office carried round his waist, tied him up. Messengers were sent to fetch the tatuan and the members of his council back from their fields, and a trial began. The intruder could offer no convincing account of his background, recent activities or threatening presence on an Indian reservation. In an attempt to rebut the charge of banditry he removed his shirt to display a wound like a purple mouth in the stomach—produced by the exit of a dumdum bullet—and the tiny white circle in his back where the bullet had
entered. He had suffered this a year before, he said, in an attack from ambush along the trail we had come down, but his argument that no man with such a wound could be other than innocent failed to impress.
A brief and perfunctory trial followed. The shaman called a verdict of guilty, with which the tatuan seemed unable to agree. The shaman had told us that should the case go against the man he was likely to be executed on the spot—shot to death with arrows. I warned David of this possibility, suggesting that the best thing we could do was to walk away from the scene as quickly as possible. But in ten minutes it was all over with the intruder released for lack of sufficient evidence—of which, as I saw it, there was none at all. He was given back his gun but as a concession to the shaman’s objections the bullets were confiscated.
After that we set out on the hard slog back to Santa Clara, going as fast as we could because at all costs, Ramon insisted, we must be out of the sierra before dark. Reaching the Nautla Gorge where the Huichol idols are stored in a cave no white is supposed ever to have seen, we threw ourselves down to rest. The mission was only a half-hour’s scramble down the mountainside, and already the sun had fallen behind the peaks.
By this time our relationship with the shaman had grown close and he chose this moment to create us honorary compañeros of the Huichol people, formally inviting us to set out with him on annual pilgrimage which would start in twenty-five days’ time. For the sixth time Ramon would lead his people at the head of four captains, across mountain and desert for twenty days to Rial Catorce in the high desert of San Luis Potosí. We would march rapidly, he said, in single file, carrying nothing but bows, sacred tobacco, holy water and ritual implements, sustained on the journey by the virtue engendered by our own austerities.
Huichols regard peyote as deer that have transformed themselves by magic into sacred cactus, Ramon explained. The peyote would therefore not be simply collected during the pilgrimage, but hunted with bows and arrows, and would be prayed and sung to before being eaten. Then, renewed by the visions we had imbibed and with our faces painted with symbols of victory, we would set out again on the long march back to the Sierra Madre, sure of our reward of a long and good life.
This was the substance translated from the verbal surrealism of what the shaman offered. He took out the ballpoint pen he carried wrapped up with his pistol in his satchel and drew us as stiff little figures strutting happily through a forest of symbols towards Wirikuta, the sacred peyote country at the end of the pilgrimage. Now, in studying these naive sketches, I remembered the shaman’s fame as the artist of the ‘yarn-paintings’, based upon votive offerings made at the Huichol shrines of which Padre Ernesto had collected a number of examples at Zapopán. We nodded, smiled and pretended agreement with the shaman’s advance planning, and followed the adventures of the manikins representing us among the foxes, the giant centipedes and the enchanted deer peopling the deserts of San Luis Potosi we were to cross. If we found it impossible at such short notice to make our arrangements for the coming pilgrimage, the shaman assured us, the invitation could be renewed next year.
We went back to England, and my article on the Huichol Indians appeared in April 1970. As the months passed, something I had almost dismissed from my mind reappeared and began to take on form and credibility and a kind of urgency. The shaman, I now realised, had half-opened a door to the purest of adventures. How could I possibly hold back? I wrote to him at Zapopán, and then care of Dr Ramos. There followed a long silence before the news reached me that Ramon Medina was dead—killed by persons unknown within weeks of our leaving Mexico.
Chapter Thirteen
AMONG THOSE WHOSE INTEREST had been aroused by my article on tribal genocide in Brazil, was Tony Snowdon, who had worked for the Sunday Times as a photographer. Peter Crookston phoned to say that Snowdon would like to know if I was contemplating any more South American journeys, and if so could he come along to take the photographs. The arrangement would be a strictly professional one, and although Snowdon was at that time a member of the Royal family, no problem of protocol would exist.
The approach came at a time when I was planning a visit to Peru. I asked Peter if he thought that this was a country that would suit, and he rang a little later to say that Snowdon appeared delighted with the suggestion. Two days later Peter and I drove to Kensington Palace where Snowdon awaited us, and even at six in the morning I had the impression of a man full of enthusiasm. He said how much he was looking forward to our project and my feeling was that we should get on well together, for I much admired his photographic work, and more still the brilliant and original aviary he had recently designed for the London Zoo.
Peter drove us to Heathrow. It was a Sunday, and on the way Snowdon explained why he had particularly wanted to take this flight. Sunday, he said, was the day when people who were of interest to the press were least likely to travel, and such people, he had observed, did all they could to avoid early-morning starts. He was therefore unlikely to be bothered by reporters. In one respect Snowdon had done well, since the check-in area was virtually deserted. However, his baggage bore labels identifying them as the possession of the Right Honourable the Earl of Snowdon, and these were not likely to be overlooked. In a matter of minutes an excited young woman who was unmistakably a journalist bore down on us. Snowdon seemed to stiffen and change colour.
‘Norman,’ he said, ‘could you possibly induce her to go away?’ This, with what diplomacy I could muster, I declined to do. It was an embarrassing moment, and the first of a number of such confrontations.
At the check-in consternation reigned. We were down as travelling tourist class, as all Sunday Times journalists did, but our explanation failed to convince. Agitated conversations took place out of our hearing, before a senior staff member returned and said, ‘It seems that the tourist class is full up, sir. In the circumstances could you possibly agree to up-grading? There will of course be no charge.’ Snowdon fought a losing battle for the right to travel tourist before giving in. We took our first-class tickets, and then, as a foretaste of what was to come, were told that we would be boarding before the rest of the passengers and that ‘the limousine’ was ready to take us to the plane.
At Caracas a fuelling stop released us for a stroll in a first-class lounge decked out with tropical flowers with flies stuck to their stamens, and smelling slightly of decay. A bar was attended by a man dressed like a Venezuelan cowboy. They were serving snacks but as no English was spoken, Snowdon asked if I would order a lightly done fried egg for him. This I did, and he praised its flavour. Did I think he would have the opportunity to learn Spanish on the trip? he wondered, and I thought there would be hardly the time. He was eagerly looking forward to Peru, and had studied in advance the artistic accomplishments of the Incas, in particular their textiles which he hoped we would have time to see. I assured him that we would. Was I interested in textiles? he asked. I said I was, but I knew little about them, being stronger on ceramics. There was endless scope for study in both fields in Peru; but more than the arts it was the life of the Peruvian people that interested me. I hoped we would have time to visit parts of the country which had been bypassed by modern times and where many of the interesting customs of the past had survived. He agreed with me and said that if necessary we would make time.
We touched down at about 10 at night. I was surprised to find that, despite its proximity to the equator, Lima was both cool and misty. We took a taxi through empty streets to the hotel, which was grand in the old-fashioned style, and where we were received with dignity, but no special interest. The rooms reserved for us were well furnished in a heavy old-fashioned style. Each contained a large marble statuette of a lady who might have been Greek in the act of disrobing, and there was also a large painting of the divine eye spreading its protective rays. Snowdon had enquired at the desk if there were messages for us, and there were none. We could be certain that the telephone would not ring. The battle for anonymity had, it seemed, been won.
I was a
wakened by Snowdon rather earlier than I had hoped, and I was beginning to realise that he was the possessor of great physical energy, and quite clearly immune to jet-lag. At breakfast he was bubbling over with good cheer, and impressed and delighted by the decorative background of fruit, which was stacked up like an award-winning entry of a tropical harvest festival. We made plans for the forthcoming journey and I suggested a start might be made by an investigation of the Cuyocoyo area in the high Andes to the north-east of Lake Titicaca. It was the homeland of the Aymara Indians whose grandiose civilisation preceded that of the Incas. They had been enslaved over four centuries and were still fantastically exploited. I had been told that in remote mountain villages they were still compelled to carry priests in chairs and were publicly scourged for persisting in their ancient worship of Pachamama the mother-goddess, and Tio, the Devil, who is also—appropriately—god of the tin mines. Snowdon, full of agreement, and in no way discouraged by recent news of the emergence in the area of a guerrilla resistance known as the Shining Path, thought this was an excellent plan. Were the guerrillas likely to give us any trouble? he wondered. I thought not. My impression was that they had no quarrel with foreigners. And did I think that they could tell a journalist from England from Peruvian exploiters? I simply didn’t know, but suggested that we might go there and take advice from the locals, and be guided by what they suggested, and that, too, he thought was an excellent idea.
By this time there had been few breakfasters and no-one had taken the slightest notice of us, but now suddenly I was aware that Snowdon was showing signs of unease, and this clearly was due to the presence of a man carrying a camera with a long lens who had drifted into sight at the far end of the room.