POPOL-VUH-THE-MAYAN-BOOK-OF-THE-DAWN-OF-LIFE-translated-by-Dennis-Tedlock.pdf

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POPOL VUH: THE MAYAN BOOK OF THE DAWN OF LIFE
translated by Dennis Tedlock with commentary based on the ancient
knowledge of the modern Quiche Maya
PREFACE
Are 4u ua nuta4alibal, nupresenta
chiquiuach ri nantat, comon chuchkajauib
mu4hulic uleu, mu4hulic poklaj, mu4hulic bak.
PREFACE
You cannot erase time.
-ANDRES XILOJ
THE TRANSLATOR of the Popol Vuh, as if possessed by the story the
Popol Vuh tells, must wander in darkness and search long for the clear
light. The task is not a matter of deciphering Maya hieroglyphs, since
the only surviving version of the Popol Vuh is a transcription into
alphabetic writing, but the manuscript nevertheless abounds with
ambiguities and obscurities. My work took me not only into dark
corners of libraries but into the forests and tall cornfields and
smoky houses of highland Guatemala, where the people who speak and
walk and work in the pages of the Popol Vuh, the Quiche Maya, have
hundreds of thousands of descendants. Among them are diviners called
"daykeepers," who know how to interpret illnesses, omens, dreams,
messages given by sensations internal to their own bodies, and the
multiple rhythms of time. It is their business to bring what is dark
into "white clarity," just as the gods of the Popol Vuh first
brought the world itself to light.
The Quiche people speak a Mayan language, say prayers to Mayan
mountains and Mayan ancestors, and keep time according to the Mayan
calendar. They are also interested citizens of the larger contemporary
world, but they find themselves surrounded and attacked by those who
have yet to realize they have something to teach the rest of us. For
them it is not that the time of Mayan civilization has passed, to be
followed by the time of European civilization, but that the two have
begun to run alongside one another. A complete return to conditions
that existed before Europeans first arrived is unthinkable, and so
is a complete abandonment of indigenous traditions in favor of
European ones. What most worries daykeepers about people from
Europe, and specifically about missionaries, is that they confuse
the Earth, whose divinity is equal to that of the celestial God,
with the devil. As daykeepers put it, "He who makes an enemy of the
Earth makes an enemy of his own body."
In the western part of what was once the Quiche kingdom is a town
called Chuua 4,ak or "Before the Building." It is listed in the
Popol Vuh as one of the citadels that were added to the kingdom during
the reign of two great lords named Quicab and Cauizimah. When they
sent "guardians of the land" to occupy newly conquered towns, Before
the Building was assigned to nobles whose descendants still possess
documents that date from the period of the Popol Vuh manuscript. Among
contemporary Guatemalan towns it is without rival in the degree to
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which its ceremonial life is timed according to the Mayan calendar and
mapped according to the relative elevations and directional
positions of outdoor shrines. Once each 260 days, on the day named
Eight Monkey, daykeepers converge from all over the Guatemalan
highlands for the largest of all present-day Mesoamerican ceremonies
that follow the ancient calendar. That Before the Building was already
a religious center before the fall of the Quiche kingdom is
indicated by the Nahua name that Pedro de Alvarado's Mexican-Indian
allies gave it: Momostenango, meaning "Citadel of Shrines." It was
in this town that I began my search for someone who might be able to
light my way through some of the darker passages of the Popol Vuh.
At the same time I began making sound recordings of contemporary
narratives, speeches, and prayers, looking for passages that might
resemble the Popol Vuh.
For fieldworkers in a Citadel of Shrines, visiting sacred places,
listening to prayers and chants, and learning how to reckon time
according to the continuing rhythms of the Mayan calendar can be a
dangerous business. Barbara Tedlock and I almost came to the point
of giving up our various research projects and leaving town when a
daykeeper named Andres Xiloj divined that we had not only annoyed
people at shrines but had entered the presence of these shrines
without even realizing that we must be ritually clean in order to do
so. But it was this same daykeeper, a man who is also the head of
his patrilineage, who took on the task of answering all our
inquiries about the shrines, the people who went there, the
calendar, and the process by which he had divined the nature of our
offense. One day, when we had come to the point of asking for a
detailed description of the training and initiation of daykeepers,
he dropped what seemed to be a broad hint that the best way to find
out the answer to such questions would be to undertake an actual
apprenticeship. After debating the meaning of his remarks all night,
we asked him the next day whether he had meant that he would in fact
be willing to take us on as apprentices, and he said, "Of course."
There followed four and a half months of formal training, timed
according to the Mayan calendar, that left us much more
knowledgeable than we had ever intended to be.
Diviners are, by profession, interpreters of difficult texts. They
can even start from a nonverbal sign, such as an ominous invasion of a
house by a wild animal, and arrive at a "reading," as we would say, or
ubixic, "its saying" or "its announcement," as is said in Quiche. When
they start from a verbal sign such as the name of a day on the Mayan
calendar, they may treat it as if it were a sign from a writing system
rather than a word in itself, arriving at "its saying" by finding a
different word with similar sounds. It should therefore come as no
surprise that a diviner might be willing to take on the task of
reading the Popol Vuh, whose text presents its own intriguing
difficulties of interpretation.
When Andres Xiloj was given a chance to look at the text of the
Popol Vuh, he produced a pair of spectacles and began reading aloud,
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word by word. His previous knowledge of alphabetic reading and writing
was limited to Spanish, but he was able to grasp the orthography of
the Popol Vuh text with very little help. When he was puzzled by
archaic words, I offered definitions drawn from Quiche dictionaries
compiled during the colonial period; in time, of course, he readily
recognized the more frequent archaic forms. He was never content
with merely settling on a Quiche reading of a particular passage and
then offering a simple Spanish translation; instead, he was given to
frequent interpretive asides, some of which took the form of entire
stories. In the present volume the effects of the three-way dialogue
among Andres Xiloj, the Popol Vuh text, and myself are most obvious in
the Glossary and the Notes and Comments, but they are also present
in the Introduction and throughout the translation of the Popol Vuh
itself.
My work in Guatemala took me not only to the town called Before
the Building (Momostenango), but to the ruins of Rotten Cane
(Utatlan), to the mountain called Patohil, to the pile of broken
stones at Petatayub, and to towns such as Santa Cruz Quiche, Spilt
Water (Zacualpa), Above the Nettles (Chichicastenango), Above the
Hot Springs (Totonicapan), Willow Tree (Santa Maria Chiquimula), and
Under Ten Deer (Quezaltenango). To the patron saints and earthly
spirits of all these places I pay my respects, especially to
Santiago and his scribe, San Felipe, at Momostenango; to San Juan
and to the divine Uhaal and Roz Utz stones at Agua Tibia; and above
all to Uhaal Zabal, 4huti Zabal, and Nima Zabal.
Library pilgrimages have taken me to nearby Cambridge,
Massachusetts, to the Tozzer Library at Harvard; to the National
Anthropological Archives at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington,
D.C.; to the Latin American libraries at Tulane in New Orleans and the
University of Texas in Austin; to the special-collections library at
Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah; to the Museo Nacional de
Antropologia in Mexico City; to the Archivo General de Centroamerica
in Guatemala City; and to the Newberry Library in Chicago, where I
saw, felt, smelled, and heard the rustle of the manuscript of the
Popol Vuh.
Such is the magnitude of the present project that it stretched
over nine years; except for one of these years and part of another, it
necessarily took a backseat to the countless complexities of
university life. Most of the Guatemalan fieldwork was carried out
during the summer of 1975 and throughout 1976. Much of my effort to
transform masses of research and multiple trial runs at translation
into a book was made during evenings and weekends at home, and it
was also carried on during all-too-brief retreats to such places as
Tepoztlan, south of Mexico City; Panajachel, on the shore of Lake
Atitlan in Guatemala; and in the woodlands and rocks near Cerrillos,
New Mexico, south of Santa Fe. But even when one is confined to
Massachusetts, there are ways in which the world of the Popol Vuh
makes itself felt. During the months in which I completed the
manuscript for the book you now hold in your hands, I could see
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Venus as the morning star if I looked out the window of my study early
enough.
Thinking back over my work on the Popol Vuh brings a great many
people to mind; I apologize in advance to those who should have been
remembered here but were not. Having learned my lessons about
ancestors from my Quiche master, I will begin with persons who are now
deceased. Robert Wauchope, when I first began my graduate work at
Tulane in 1961, soon became convinced that I should eventually go to
Guatemala to do archaeological fieldwork; he lived long enough to know
that fourteen years later I finally did get to Guatemala, but as an
ethnologist, linguist, and translator rather than an archaeologist. My
first lessons in how to read and interpret manuscript sources from
Spanish America were given to me by France V. Scholes in the
Coronado Library at the University of New Mexico, during the summer of
1964. He and Wauchope enjoyed full careers, but the career of Thelma
Sullivan, the finest of all scholars working with texts in the Nahuatl
language, was cut short; she stood out among Americanists in general
as one of those rare individuals who realize and demonstrate that
precision in translation is not to be confused with mechanical
literalness. Also cut short was the career of Fernando Horcasitas, who
gave a splendid lecture on Nahuatl theater one fine warm evening in
Cuernavaca when Barbara Tedlock and I were waiting for the
Guatemalan border to reopen after the great earthquake of 1976.
And then there is Abelino Zapeta y Zapeta, who in 1979 became the
first Quiche to serve as mayor of Santa Cruz Quiche in centuries. He
offered gracious words of greeting to an international conference on
the Popol Vuh that took place in his town. For the time being it
must also be said that he was the last Quiche to serve as mayor. A
year after the conference, while he was riding home from work on his
bicycle, he was assassinated by gunmen who were seen driving away in
an army jeep. The day may come when the Popol Vuh will be entirely
at home in Santa Cruz Quiche, the town where it was written, but
that day may not be soon.
Turning to those who are still living, and beginning with graduate
school, I first think of Munro S. Edmonson. I have come to disagree
with him about a great many matters affecting the Popol Vuh, as he
well knows, but I have not forgotten his seminar on the Maya at
Tulane, which I took more than twenty years ago. When he offered a
list of possible research topics to the students in that seminar, I
was the one who chose to do a class presentation and term paper on the
Popol Vuh. But my first fieldwork in anthropology took me closer to my
home in New Mexico: I went to the Zuni, who live on the northern
frontier of Mesoamerica. When it came, at long last, to doing field
research among the people whose ancestors wrote the Popol Vuh, it
was Robert M. Carmack, of the State University of New York at
Albany, who introduced Barbara Tedlock and myself to the western
highlands of Guatemala. He did this with a generosity that is rare
among ethnographers- and with a wisdom, still rarer, that led him to
abandon us to our fate once he had gotten us into the field.
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Among the people of Guatemala, I give special thanks to Andres Xiloj
Peruch, who not only traveled with me through the Quiche text of the
Popol Vuh but taught me how to read dreams, omens, and the rhythms
of the Mayan calendar. Thanks also go to his daughter Maria, who has
boundless patience and kindness; to Santiago Guix, who showed the
way down many a path; to Gustavo Lang, who offers a steady hand in any
emergency; to Lucas Pacheco Benitez, who combines a warm heart with an
intimate knowledge of the spiritual properties of stones; to Celso
Akabal, who offers genial toasts at his home near the shrine called
the Great Place of Declaration; to Vicente de Leon Abac, who knows how
the ancient customs originated; to Esteban Ajxub, who eloquently prays
and sings for others; and to Flavio Rojas Lima, who knows how to
make foreigners feel welcome at the Seminario de Integracion Social
Guatemalteca.
In matters of Native American linguistics and poetics, I am
especially thankful for more than fifteen years of unceasing
dialogue with Dell Hymes. Others who come to mind here are Allan
Burns, the first to reveal that conversation is the root of all
Mayan discourse; Lyle Campbell, who went beyond his normal duties in
providing myself and others with an introductory course in Quiche at
the State University of New York at Albany in the fall of 1975 and who
taught me the value of Cakchiquel sources; Ives Goddard, who convinced
me that even the most intractable manuscript materials on Native
American languages may conceal moments of great accuracy; T. J.
Knab, who helped me with Nahuatl loanwords in the Popol Vuh and with
Nahuatl metaphors; and James L. Mondloch, who answered some of my
questions about Quiche syntax.
In matters of ethnography, ethnohistory, and archaeology I think
of Duncan Earle, who revealed that the "mushroom head" of the Popol
Vuh is in fact an herb; Gary Gossen, who knows that in trying to
comprehend the contemporary highland Maya we are dealing with
nothing less than a civilization; Doris Heyden, the first to reveal
the full meaning of the secret cave at Teotihuacan; Alain Ichon, who
excavated the site called Thorny Place in the Popol Vuh; David H.
Kelley, who personally convinced me in far-off Calgary that classic
Maya vase paintings do indeed illustrate scenes from the Popol Vuh; J.
Jorge Klor de Alva, who knows that the "spiritual conquest" of
Mesoamerica has in fact never taken place; Linda Schele, who brought
the hieroglyphic texts of Palenque closer than ever to the Popol Vuh
at the eighth Workshop on Maya Hieroglyphic Writing in Austin; and
Nathaniel Tarn, who in earlier times played the role of anthropologist
among neighbors of the Quiche and later returned as a poet.
Anthony Aveni, John B. Carlson, and Floyd G. Lounsbury have heard
out my ideas concerning the calendrical and astronomical
interpretation of the Popol Vuh. Michael D. Coe, who well knows what a
calabash tree is, not only provided welcome praise for the translation
but generously permitted the use of the vase drawings reproduced here.
Peter T. Furst and Jill Leslie Furst are steady friends who can be
counted upon to do unexpected things, like raising toads, cooking
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