Cynicism, Reverence, and An Old Cigarette in the Jungle

by Dustin Floyd (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Mexico

“I’m going to make an offering to the spirits of this place,” our guide told us. The retort flew through my brain so quickly that it took a moment to properly register: What a big, fat, giant load. Raised in a fundamentalist Christian sect, I was taught to be critical of all beliefs except my own. As an adult, I learned to scrutinize even those, leaving me an avowed skeptic - and an enthusiastic traveler. Now free of my insular religious upbringing, I was exploring places I’d never previously considered. It’s why my wife and I were standing in the Mexican jungle with Salim, a local guide who had led us down into a rocky, densely-forested basin called Altavista. The jungle canopy towered 20 meters above, with vines criss-crossing the forest of thick columns around us. Parasitic ficus dripped roots down the trunks of other trees, buttressing them against the river bank. The channel was wide, but the water flowed slowly, never pooling more than knee-deep. In part because of the dense canopy above, the forest floor was relatively clear of vegetation, exposing a landscape of sharp volcanic boulders. The star attractions of Altavista are these rocks - or rather, what’s on the rocks. Indigenous peoples sculpted a series of petroglyphs into them, possibly as long as 2,000 years ago. There are 56 identifiable carvings in the valley, symbolizing crops, weather, people, and everyday objects. They might have been created to have some kind of spiritual significance, but no one seems to know for sure. Scholars know very little about the culture that created them. Regardless, the modern Wixáritari people do find religious meaning in the petroglyphs, and in the valley itself. We didn’t see anyone else along the river during our visit, but there were signs of their offerings: votive jar candles, piles of seeds, and small bits of food packed inside colorful bags and tied with string. Salim was not Wixáritari, but on discovering our first petroglyph, he declared his intention to make an offering anyway. I swallowed my skepticism and watched silently as he slowly pulled the cigarette from his jeans pocket, unwrapped it, reverently pinched the loose tobacco from the paper, and placed it in the depression on the rock. He stepped back, frowned mildly, and then scanned the jungle floor around us. Reaching down, he pulled up a few dry seed pods and deposited them on top of the tobacco. Now satisfied, Salim used a disposable lighter to ignite his offering, and he closed his eyes. As I watched the flame die back, leaving a small column of blue smoke rising from the stone, I felt the hairs on my neck rise. The jungle suddenly seemed quieter and smaller, like a part of the background had suddenly disappeared. My cynical brain immediately started protesting: There are no such things as spirits! This whole ritual is silly! Nothing in the environment has changed - your lizard brain is just playing tricks on you! I accepted all of this to be true. I could also see that Salim probably didn’t believe in spirits any more than I did. But that didn’t change the fact that this place was special, and that his simple observance of respect - a few moments of reverence with some fallen nuts and an old cigarette - had changed the way I was experiencing the place. The people who lived here and created the rock art we were seeing were long forgotten, but in some small way - maybe - I was just a little bit closer to seeing the forest like they did. Salim opened his eyes. “Are you ready to see more?” “Just a moment,” I said. I closed my eyes, turned down the cynical voice in my head, and sat in silence.