That’s Not My Name
El Rostro Maya, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala
I stand equally on the bring of a mountain precipice as I do on the brink of tears.
Day is dawning and a wisp of color penetrates the black of the sky. Beyond the darkness below lie the villages of Lake Atitlán. They are marked by groupings of twinkling lights strung around the sacred waters.
I count them all.
I look to my mountain guide.
“What are their names?” I ask.
I respectfully interrupt as he begins to tell me.
“No, what are their real names?” I implore.
These were names given by the Spanish that were not theirs to give. The tears that ebb are ones of deep sadness, of a grief of terrible hardship done to an unsuspecting and innocent group of people.
The day before I booked this sunrise hike, I listened to the teenage girls animatedly gossip in Kaqchikel, one of the native languages of the Mayans. They effortlessly switched to Spanish when addressing me. My curiosity unraveled and I started wondering about these ancient villages in their virgin purity.
What was this land before it was plundered by Spain?
Who were these people before they were conquered?
My mountain guide cannot tell me their native names but he points to a volcano that looks like the profile of a man and tells me it is not the bastardized Indian Nose but el Rostro Maya.
What is it called in its native tongue? I inquire.
Again, I am disappointed he doesn’t know.
It is not his fault. It is but a mark of the times. Lands that are taken from natives are taken from their traditions and stripped of their identity.
My heart cries of such cruelty but I let my sadness not be in vain. I quiet my mind so I can hear the whispers of the winds. They guide me down the crooked alleys of San Pedro la Laguna and into a market.
I browse the homemade sweets as the man behind the register catches my eye. His presence draws me toward him and we begin conversing. His name is Frank and he enraptures me with his earnest kindness and soft spirituality.
Frank is a renaissance man. He is one of a surviving type of Guatemalans who resists flashy urbanization and wants to preserve culture. He finds beauty not in modernization but in the original integrity of a land and of its people.
Guatemalans once had to adapt to the lifestyle of their conquistadors. They coyly used the Spanish language for official business but whispered their native tongue behind closed doors until it was safe to do so on the streets. They converted into devout Catholics while they hid shrines to workship Maximón, their own deity. Guatemalans appeased the Spaniards by renaming him San Simón, but he never lost his Mayan name nor, more importantly, his Mayan roots.
The last breath of a culture lives in the speaking of its language. It’s because of people like Frank that the Guatemala of old still survives. It is with most honor that I receive his gift to me of his own knowledge of the village names that once were.
Interpretation will always be an inexact science. Translating between languages always fails to perfectly encapsulate the true essence of the name in its original form. My dear friend Frank gave me a part of his heritage and I was humbled by the generosity of this priceless gift. I am still checking sources for accuracy but will, nonetheless, share what sacred knowledge was imparted upon me.
Below I include the Nahuatl names translated into Spanish and my own translation into English. My own translations are never word-for-word but instead are meant to express feeling-for-feeling.
When I speak the names and their meanings aloud, I can feel the soft reverence for nature deep in my bones. Can you?
Tok`or Juyu` (San Pablo la Laguna): adentrado a las montañas o los volcanes - deep within the mountains/volcanoes
Xe kuku ab`aaj (San Juan la Laguna): debajo de la tinaja de piedra - underneath the earthen jar
Tz`unun Ya` (San Pedro la Laguna): Colibri del Lago - the hummingbird of the lake
Tz`ikin Jaay (Santiago Atitlan): La casa del Pajaro - the house of the bird
