One of the most persistent and stubborn questions Maya anthropologists have encountered asks, how exactly did the Maya civilization decline into disappearance? Certain aspects of the answer are decipherable; guns, germs and steel that were brought over by European conquistadors were certainly a contributing factor to the decline of all Native American populations, in North, South, and Central America. But what else? How did the ancient Maya civilization, which lasted more than a millennium and a half, fall to ruin?
I’ve been thinking about this question a lot while I’m here in Antigua, Guatemala. I thought about it before we came, and I somehow can’t get it out of my mind. Seeing the modern day Maya occupy every street corner and meander through the square is a constant reminder that though the civilization itself is gone, the Maya people are still alive and active today. However, after visiting our first site of Maya ruins, Iximche, this morning, I again found myself pondering the same question: how did the ancient Maya fall?
In a city surrounded by natural beauty, it’s easy to see why the natural world played (plays) such a big role in the lives of the Maya; it infiltrated nearly every aspect of their societies. Last weekend, we took a trip to hike the volcano Pacaya, where we trekked through lush forest up a path littered with volcanic pumice in all shades, from bright red to deep black. Our guide, Cesar, tried to convince me to eat one. I politely declined. When we arrived at the top of the mountain, the forest had receded in exchange for vibrant green grasses and bushes dotted with colorful fruits and flowers. The cracks in the side of the volcano emitted a barely noticeable amount of heat, and massive piles of rocks made great vantage points from which to see the whole mountainside. Upon our descent, Pacaya surprised everyone by spitting out tufts of smoke, red clouds and the occasional bit of rock and lava. We all felt pretty small compared to the massive volcano, and we were pleased that Pacaya deemed us worthy enough visitors to put on a little show just for us!
Afterwards, we headed to the beaches of Monterrico, where the sand is volcanic black and the waves were twice our size. Again, we felt small compared to nature. Or at least I did, when the waves picked me off my feet that were firmly planted on the sand bar, spun me around and spit me back on shore. I felt like a too small dog toy being chewed by a dog that needed something bigger to play with. Regardless, the water was clear and the beach was beautiful, and we had a fantastic time playing with the Pacific.
That weekend, it was easy to get caught up in the natural beauty of the Maya environment. The beach, the mountain, and the forest were all friendly to us, and we were lucky to have clear skies and moderate weather. I felt like the country was showing off, as if to say, “See? Do you now understand why the people here love the land? Aren’t I pretty, and don’t I have such pleasant, moderate behavior? You should stick around, and if you don’t, you should make sure other people get to see how lovely I am before I’m gone.”
Then, as if to do a complete 180, Fuego erupted the very next morning, desolating towns and taking dozens of lives. Fuego threw some ash into the streets of Antigua, but no major damage was felt in our temporary home. Still, something felt inconsistent about the eruption. The natural environment of Guatemala showed us the most beautiful and peaceful weekend; this felt like a betrayal, or the breaking of a promise. Nature turned on the people that showed it abundant respect. What message was nature meaning to communicate?
Shawn William Miller’s book, “An Environmental History of Latin America,” put the events of this weekend in simple, clear terms; “Sometimes nature conquers, and the story offers no morality play, no declension narrative. For all we know, [Native American people] were America’s most ecologically sensible, harmonious, and friendly culture. In the end, nature did not care,” (Miller, 48). Nature isn’t here for us, and it wasn’t here for the Maya. It does exactly what it wants to do, without regard for how we might feel about it. The colossal force the natural world possesses is unfathomable, and occurrences like the eruption of Fuego are only glimpses into the power the natural environment has over our fate. The Maya, just like the rest of us, have been able to fashion nature as a tool for our use, but at the end of the day, we are nothing more than another mammal lucky enough to survive nature’s mood swings.
Seeing the natural beauty of Guatemala directly contrasted to the natural wrath of Guatemala was jarring, to say the least. One could even call it scary. Nature flipped like a switch this weekend, exhibiting her highest and lowest points in the matter of a few hours. This weekend, I returned again to the disappearance of the Maya, and wondered if they spent every day fearfully waiting for nature to flip her switch like she did this weekend, hoping that their sacrifices to the gods would be enough to spare them from their inevitable fate for a little while longer. They might’ve thought their pyramids were strong enough, that their food resources were ample enough, that their religious practices were humble enough. In the end, it seems that they found what I found, and what Miller had the courage to say out loud; that nature just does not care. Despite this cryptic message I understood this weekend, I cannot help but admire nature for its passive indifference to the beauty and civilization we are able to create. For every pyramid we build, nature can grow a mountain bigger. For every stelae constructed, nature can grow a tree taller. Nature is, undoubtedly, a more beautiful and powerful force than we are, and her apathy towards humans makes me revere her all the more.