Sky People (21 page)

F
or 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.”

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.

“I am collecting stories about giants, Sky People, and little people,” I explained. “Do you have any stories that you would be willing to share with me?”

He nodded and took another drink of water. “Sí.”

“I may use the stories in a book at some time in the future. Do you mind if I tape your stories?” I asked, showing him my small tape recorder and then demonstrating it to him. He laughed at
the sound of his voice and reached for the tape recorder, turning it over in his hands, and then returned it to me. “It helps me remember every word you say,” I explained. “That way, if I do write a book, I will tell your story accurately.”

“Sí. You may use your machine and you are welcome to write about my story.” He paused, took off his cowboy hat, rested it on one knee, and wiped his brow with a perfectly ironed handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. “The giants have always been here,” he said. “They have always visited these mountains. They are powerful. We never—how do you say, interfere?”

“Yes. Interfere.”

“Sí
. We never interfere with them. We never spend the night on the tips. We always try to get to the valley before dark.”

“Are you saying the giants live on the mountain peaks?” I asked.

“Sí y no
. They come from the stars in their big silver plates and they stay here sometimes for only a night; sometimes for a week or more. They take the women and make them have their babies. They have four fingers and no thumbs. Any man who tries to defend his women is sick for days. They have great powers. They make you hear words, but they never speak. They have weapons that make rocks and things disappear.”

“Are you saying that these giants come from the stars?”

“Sí
. The giants are the Sky Men. They come from the stars.”

“What do they look like, these men from the stars?”

“They are giants. Maybe this tall,” he said, as he stood and raised his arms to measure against the van.

He was describing a creature that was between seven and eight feet tall. “Have you seen these Sky Men?” I asked.

“Oh
sí. Muchas veces
. Oh yes, many times.”

“Can you describe them?
Puede describirlas
?”

“Oh
sí. Llegan bien entrada la noche.”
He said they come late at night. “They come from the sky and they land on the mountains tips [tops]. How you say, mountain tips? I don’t know the word.”

“En la cima de la montana,”
I suggested. “On the mountain tops.”

“Sí, en la cima de la montana
. They come from the stars in machines that make no sound. I have seen their lights many times. I always send my wife and children inside when I see them. I have heard that in the old days, they stole women. They steal children, too. In another village they took a boy and girl last year. They returned them, but the children are not good.”

“What do you mean the children are not good?” I asked.

“They do not want to go outdoors. They don’t talk much. They don’t play with their brothers or sisters or cousins. They changed them.”

“Have you ever seen the giants up close?”

He looked at me as though he did not understand.
“Que tan cerca ha estado con ellos?”
I repeated the question in Spanish: Have you ever seen the giants up close?

He nodded and pointed to himself and then to a bend in the road. I estimated the distance was a hundred feet. “Did they see you?” I asked.

“Oh
sí
, but I run. Run very fast. The giants have shiny suits that—how you say,
brilla a la luz de la luna?”

“Glistens in the moonlight?”

“Sí
. Glistens. That is the word.”

“Can you tell me anything else about the giants from the stars?”

“We never go on the mountains at night. It is impossible to find a man from our village who would spend the night in these mountains. It is not a good place at night.”

“Can you tell me anything about their craft?” I asked. He looked at me bewildered.
“Nave espacial,”
I explained. “Spacecraft.”

He nodded knowingly. “They have bright lights.
Rojo y blanco, muy brillantes luces.”
He described red and white lights that were very bright. “The spacecraft—
nave especial
—is round.
Gigante
. Bigger than my village. It is silver with bright lights.”

“Can you tell me anything else about the sky men?” I asked.

“
Nada
,” he replied as he looked upward at the sky, and explained that the sun was walking to the west and that he must go hunting. He said he would return when the sun sets, and if I was still there, he would take me home to his wife. He said that I could not stay on the mountain at night. He mounted his horse, turned, and saluted me with his cowboy hat. His horse reared in the air and stood on his two hind legs. Chulin shouted,
“Adios
” and then he was gone like the cowboys of the golden-day, Hollywood movies. I stood in awe of this remarkable man who came into my life at the most unexpected time. Without a doubt, he was one of the most interesting persons I had ever met, and yet I realized I would probably never see him again.