At that point, I interrupted and asked Edna to find out what she meant by saying “they came through the woods and took us.” Edna explained to her my concerns and she explained that they lifted them up like dolls and carried them inside the strange tank.
“I was really afraid,” she continued, “but they told me to be calm and they meant me no harm. I remember nothing after that, except we suddenly found ourselves on the side of the road watching the tank lift off the ground and climb to the clouds. We never saw it again. When we got home, we told Alfonzo what we saw but he told us we probably had too much sun and imagined it. I did not imagine it. It is not every day that a gasoline tank with men drop [s] out of the sky.”
I looked at Edna. “Could you ask her to describe the men?” When Edna translated, Angelina looked at me and responded. “They were white, very white. They looked like they had never seen the sun. They were very tall and their suits hurt my body. As I struggled to get away, I grabbed onto the suit and it made needles run through my whole body. I had to give up. I could not stand the pain. If my daughter were here she would tell you the same. They smelled funny too. Their whole tank smelled funny. I think that is the reason that I don’t remember anything. I think the smell knocked me unconscious.” When I asked Edna if she could describe the smell, she told her it was a smell unknown to her, and she had no words to describe it.
“Ask her about their faces,” I said to Edna, “or any other thing she might remember.”
Edna translated. “She said that they wore some kind of covering over their eyes but their faces were white. She remembers nothing else.”
“I saw the same tank,” a woman opposite Angelina spoke up. “I am Gloria. I live in the house two doors down. It has something to do with Q’umarkaj. That’s why they come here. It was the home of the old ones and they come back to take what they left behind. I think they come and take the bones of the old ones home to their place in the sky. People have seen them digging up there. Several times people have come upon open grave sites. My grandfather once told me that he saw them dig up a skeleton, and that it came back to life and walked onto their machine with them and they flew away to the sky.” I looked at Edna and she sensed my question. She asked Gloria to repeat her grandfather’s story, but it remained the same. “I have been seeing giants visit the site since I was a child. They come and look around, dig, and then leave. They must be looking for someone they have not found. Until they find that skeleton, they will keep returning. My grandfather says that when they take the bones back to the sky, the bones come alive again.”
“What does that mean?” I asked Edna.
“She means that the skeletons become alive again. She believes the aliens have the ability to become reborn.”
“Can you describe them?” I asked.
“They are giants. They are twice as tall as Juan.” She pointed to the other room where the short stout Maya man was watching TV with Angelina’s husband. “They wore silver suits. But I never got close enough to describe them other than that. Maybe their relatives helped King Q’uq’umatz build the city and they have come to take him home. Maybe they don’t die like we do on Earth. Maybe they really are the Gods of Heaven.” I thought about Gloria’s comments. Her suggestions for why the space men kept returning to the area was as plausible as any I could imagine.
“The Star Men took me aboard their space ship,” said Rosalie, the youngest woman of the group. “I was about sixteen at the time. I was with my boyfriend, Geraldo, one night. He was walking me home from the plaza. We saw a round craft hovering over the top of the buildings. Suddenly, we found ourselves being pulled upward. I screamed when my feet left the ground, and even though we twisted and struggled, we could not stop the upward movement. Neither of us remembered much. We were separated and although Geraldo tried to come with me he was forced into another area. I lost consciousness. Two weeks later I discovered I was pregnant, or at least I had all the symptoms of pregnancy. I was sick all the time. My belly grew almost every night, but I had never made love to anyone, and yet I was pregnant.”
“How did Geraldo feel about your pregnancy?” I asked.
“Geraldo believed me. He said it was a virgin birth like Mother Mary and that we should marry. He would take care of me and the baby. Two months later the UFOs came again. Suddenly I was no longer pregnant. No one ever knew but Geraldo. Now we think I was carrying a space man’s baby. It scared us a lot. When we went to the plaza we always came home with a group of friends or family. Never alone again.” I watched her rub her stomach as she told her story and saw the tears that formed in her eyes. “I know it was not Geraldo’s baby. I was a virgin. After that night, Geraldo and I got married. We tried to have children but we never did. I think they did something to me.”
“Edna, would you ask her if she has any recollection of going onboard a spacecraft the night she lost her baby?” I waited as Edna translated my question.
“I saw the spacecraft in the distance,” she said. “But I do not remember being taken again. Geraldo saw it, too. He was with me.”
“I did not have problems having children,” Carla said, easing the sadness that had descended upon the group, “but they kidnapped me and took me onboard their spacecraft. It happened when I was just newly married. I had walked to town to sell eggs at the market. On my way home it was getting dark, and I saw this ball of light streak across the sky. It frightened me, and I began to run. Suddenly the light circled me, and I could not escape. The light pulled me onboard their craft. I could see my village clearly. I could see my house and garden. I knew my husband would be worried, and I told them they must let me go or my husband would be worried and angry. They just stared at me curiously. Somehow, I understood that if I cooperated they would let me go home. They were monstrous creatures. I let them do their will. They took my blood and samples of my skin and they opened my legs.” She paused and spoke to Angelina in a subdued voice. It was apparent that she was embarrassed by the ordeal. Later Angelina explained that she believed that they had made her pregnant, too. The next day she felt life inside her, and yet she had had her menstrual cycle only days before and knew she was not pregnant. Two months later, she recalled being taken again, and when she woke, she knew her belly was empty.
“I was not abducted,” Carla, the last of the group to speak, said. “I saw them, though. I was gathering wood one morning, and I came upon a craft like Angelina described. It looked like a gas tank. It was big. I thought it strange that this object was in the woods, and, as I got closer, I saw it lift off the ground and disappear into the sky. I did not see anyone—only the long silver tank. It was huge.”
As the evening wore on, the women added no more details to their stories. They admitted that they rarely shared their stories with others for fear that they may be isolated within their communities. “Our people are superstitious,” Angelina said. “They have little contact with the outside world. Only the market and then they do not talk to strangers. They still believe that a camera steals their souls and refuse to be photographed by tourists, so you must understand where they are coming from.”
“I do appreciate their willingness to talk to me,” I said. “Please thank them for me. I really appreciate their honesty.”
As I started to leave, I asked the women if there was anything I could do for them. Rosalie asked me if I had lipstick. “I have always wanted lipstick,” she said. I opened my bag and deposited lipsticks, sewing kits, fingernail polish, and small mirrors on the table in front of them. Each woman took what they wanted, and, although I offered to leave the unclaimed items, they told Mateo that I had been more than generous and that I should take the remaining items and gift them to others who had stories to tell. As each woman stood to shake my hand, I gave each one of them the equivalent of $50 American dollars. One woman embraced me and cried. The others explained they would use the money for dentists, doctors, or shoes.
On our way back to the hotel, Mateo commented that I had been very generous. “Whe
n I travel, I always bring boxes of items that I know women like. I keep them in my bag in case such an event occurs.”
“It is still very generous. I have met researchers who never consider the time that people spend with them. The researchers consider their time valuable, but not the village people’s time.”
“The truth is, those items and the money are just tokens of appreciation. The women who told their stories are the generous ones.”
“You are right, Señora.” We drove the rest of the way to the hotel in silence and had dinner, and as we were planning to meet for breakfast the next morning, Emiliano, the driver I had contracted to drive me across the Mexican border and to San Cristóbal de las Casas, appeared at our table and introduced himself. There was a sadness in leaving Mateo. Over the prior two weeks, we had become more than client and guide; we had become friends who shared some incredible experiences. We agreed to keep in touch.
It has been ten years since I first met Mateo and we have kept that promise over the years. On two occasions, I have returned to Guatemala to visit him and his family. Although he is no longer in the tourist business, he often calls me to tell me another story he has heard about the Sky People.
Chapter 23
The Star Men of the Guatemalan Jungle
For centuries there have been legends of giants in the jungles of Guatemala. Creation stories reveal the first race on Earth were giants. There have been early accounts of giants among the indigenous populations of Mesoamerica. For example, Antonio Pigafetta, Ferdinand Magellan’s assistant, detailed various encounters with giants in Magellan’s Voyage: A Narrative of the First Circumnavigation. He wrote of encountering giants who were so tall that the sailors traveling with Magellan only came up to their waist. Throughout their encounters, the giants repeatedly pointed to the sky and wanted to know if Magellan came from there, indicating, perhaps, that they were accustomed to visitors from the stars.
In this chapter, an elder from a small, isolated, indigenous village told the story of giant Star Men who frequented the jungle and abducted women and children. His story put another spin on the giants from the sky.
“According to the villagers, Stephens and Catherwood hacked their way through the jungle near this very road,” my driver, Emiliano, said, as we drove toward the Mexican border.
“I read that it was a harrowing trip,” I said.
“When I was a boy, my grandmother told me that giants roamed these mountains. Their companions were white jaguars.” He paused and slowed the van as he maneuvered a hairpin curve on the steep, mountainous Guatemalan road heading toward the Mexican border. “Some say the giants could wrench off the head of a man, swallow it, and spit out his soul like watermelon seeds. When that happened, you were doomed to wander the earth forever. Even today huge bones are found all over the jungle. The farmers believe they belong to the giants.”
“Do you think they could be mastodon bones? An archaeologist told me that mastodons have been found in Guatemala.”
“A French archaeologist at Utatlán claimed the large bones were from a mastodon,” he said, “but the people around here ignore him. They know the giants are real. They’ve seen them with their own eyes.”
“Do you mean the giants still live in the jungle?” I asked.
“They’re still here. From time to time people see them. They come to the villages—to steal women and make them have their babies. Then they go away, and we do not see them for a long time.”
“These are myths, correct?” We slowed for a small village. We were so high in the mountains that we were driving in and out of the clouds.
“No Señora Doctora. No story. The real thing.” Suddenly children appear and ran toward the van chanting: “Emiliano, Emiliano.” He slowed and handed them hard candy and coins out the window of the van.
“Do you know those children?” I asked.
“Oh sí. My family lives in the valley below.” Pulling to the side of the road, Emiliano continued. “You cannot see my village from here, but it is the place I was born, and the place I will die.” I peered out the side of the van but the jungle below was too dense to see anything. “There is no highway to my village. No electricity. No television. People travel by horse or walk. That is the reason I keep my van in the city. My brother lives there. Otherwise I would be unable to work as a tour guide.” As I peered over the side of the road, Emiliano released his seat belt and announced, “Señora Doctora, you will excuse me. I must go to my village. I left my guide’s license at my house. I will not be able to escort you into Mexico without it.” He turned off the engine and opened the door.
“How long will you be gone?” I asked, as I came around to his side of the vehicle.
“Not long. Maybe a half hour or so.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t have your license with you when you agreed to take me to Mexico?” I asked.
“Señora, I needed the job. I will be back in a few minutes. I will leave the keys with you. Do not worry. No one travels this road.”
“I don’t feel comfortable staying here alone. Maybe I should go with you,” I said.
“No, Señora. It is too difficult. The descent is treacherous. Once you descend into the valley, it is a hard climb back up to the highway. You will be fine. Few travelers pass this way.” He retrieved a machete from behind the driver’s seat and closed the door. “It will not take long. You will wait for me.” He handed me the keys and disappeared over the side of the road before I had a chance to launch further objections. I stood there in silence questioning my choice of Emiliano. He did not appear professional like the other drivers I had contracted. He could more easily pass for a rebel than a tour guide. His black hair was disheveled, his white shirt was unkempt, and his navy blue pants were worn with a white sheen from too many washings. I suspected he was telling me the truth. He needed the job. If his village was anything like those we had passed, the people lived in poverty.
I walked to the edge of the road where he disappeared and cautiously surveyed the harsh world around me. Below was a foliage-covered valley that spread out endlessly toward the horizon. The sun was venturing toward the south, swallowing the mist as the temperatures steadily climbed. All around, the drone of insects crested and receded as rhythmically as ocean waves. I understood how stories of giants could have been created in such an environment, and for a moment I imagined them lurking in the jungle.
I returned to the van, retrieved my journal, settled into a shady spot, and started to write. I had written no more than a half page when the familiar jungle sounds were interrupted by the indistinguishable sound of a horse’s hooves on the road surface. I peeked out from behind my secluded spot and saw an elderly Maya male riding in my direction. He had a cartridge belt strapped across his shoulder, and a rifle balanced across his saddle horn. Two long leather straps held a machete down low by his side and ready for access. “Hola, Señor,” I said.
“Hola,” he said as he raised his hand in greeting. He dismounted and released his horse, which breathed painstakingly in the heat. I retrieved a bottle of cold water from the cooler and offered it to him.
“Usted habla espanol?” I asked. Do you speak Spanish?
“Sí,” he replied. He told me his first language was Quichean-Mamean. I recognized it as the Mayan dialect that Emiliano spoke. Despite our linguistic differences, we used a combination of Spanish, hand signals, and English to communicate. He confirmed there was a village in the valley below, and confided that Emiliano was a distant cousin. As we chatted, I learned that his name was Chulin Pop. “It is a Maya name. No Spanish blood,” he said. He told me that when he was twenty and a good-looking man, he crossed the border into Mexico and traveled to the USA, but that he did not like it there. He was too lonesome; “solo, solo,” he said, shaking his head. “My cousin worked there, and I went there to work with him. It was much easier in those days to travel north. I never did find my cousin. I came home and never left my village again. That was forty-five years ago.”
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I looked at him and imagined him a handsome man, but age and hard work had taken their toll. He was thin, almost gaunt, with skin the color of burnished leather. He wore a white cowboy hat, which set off the bronze of his skin. A sweat stain circled the head band. Although his pants and shirt were shabby, he wore a pair of cowboy boots with polished silver conchos. When I called him a caballero, the word in Spanish meaning a gentleman or, more literally, a gentleman on a horse, he smiled a wide grin. His front teeth were missing. He told me he called his horse “Cisco Kid” after the popular black and white 1950s American TV show.
“I watched The Cisco Kid on TV, too,” I said.
“Ah Pauncho,” he said, mimicking the popular Mexican-American TV cowboy.
“Ahhh Cisco,” I replied, mimicking the reply of Cisco’s sidekick. He rocked back and forth laughing.
I told him I was happy that he stopped. “I was a little nervous. My driver told me giants live in the jungle. Do you know those legends, too?” I asked. As I searched for another way to ask the question, I saw his body stiffen.
“Una serpiente!” He abruptly pulled me to my feet, dragging me away from the van. He pointed toward to the edge of the highway where a red, yellow, and black coral snake slithered away just inches from where we sat. I watched the snake glide into the dense jungle foliage. Chulin touched my arm reassuringly and pointed to my cowboy boots and smiled. He explained that I only needed to watch for the snakes on the ground. The ones in the trees were not so dangerous. Somehow, this information did not comfort me. I leaned against the van, bowed my head, wiped the sweat from my face with the tail of my t-shirt, and forced myself to breathe slowly and calmly.
As I struggled to think of more words of gratitude that this Maya elder might understand, he walked over to his horse and removed a strange, unfamiliar fruit from his saddlebag. He cut it in thirds, shared a piece with Cisco Kid, and offered a third to me. He explained that in the old days, the elders used this fruit in their ceremonies. “Proteccion,” he said pointing to the fruit. I ate the bitter fruit while at the same time thinking I could use a little protection. Afterward, we sat in the shade of the van and sipped bottles of cold water.
Sky People Page 16
