CHAPTER XVI. COPAN IN 1885 (CONTINUED). (BY A. P. M.)
In such an out-of-the-way place as Copan the natives seem to think that every foreigner must know something about medicine, and soon after my arrival the maimed and the sick began to pay me visits and pour their tales of suffering into my ears. With the many sick children I often found that good beef-tea and condensed milk and arrowroot from my stores worked wonders, without any call on the medicine chest; but my strongest efforts went towards persuading the mothers to keep their babies clean, for they seemed to think that water was dangerous for them. Unfortunately, I soon gained a distinguished reputation as a surgeon. I say unfortunately, as it raised the hopes of all sufferers, including every incurable cripple, for leagues around, and gave me the unpleasant task of telling them that I was powerless to help them. The case that brought me fame was that of a poor fellow, a blacksmith by trade, living some twelve or fourteen leagues away, who came into camp one morning with his eyes in the most dreadful state of inflammation. He told me that about ten days before, when working at his forge, a hot spark from the metal had flown into his eyes, and that during the following week every one in his village had tried in turn to get the speck out of his eye and that each one had failed. Then he heard of my arrival at the ruins, and had walked over to ask me to help him. It was no use my telling him that I was not a doctor, and that I might very easily destroy the sight of his eye altogether if I were to try any experiments: he only replied that he did not care whether I was or was not a doctor, and that I could not make him much blinder than he was, for he could not see at all with one eye, and very little with the other. I was at my wits’ end to know what to do for him, it seemed cruel to send him away; and my hands were so hot and shaky after working with a crowbar and machete all the morning, that I could not even examine his eye satisfactorily. So I put cold bandages over his eyes, gave him some food, and a seat in the darkest corner of the rancho, and told him to rest after his long walk, whilst I thought the matter over. When the sun had fallen low, Gorgonio led the man to my house in the village, and there we put him on his back, and I examined the eye with a magnifying-glass. I could clearly see a minute, almost transparent particle just on the outer rim of the iris, but the camel’s-hair brush which I passed over it failed to move it. Then I screwed up my courage and got Gorgonio to hold the eye down whilst, looking through the magnifying-glass, I tried to remove the particle with the fine point of a knife. The first attempt failed but did no damage, and on the second trial I got the point of the knife under the particle and it came away. By the next morning the inflammation had very considerably subsided, the sight of the uninjured eye appeared to be almost normal, and that of the injured eye had to some extent recovered. The man was very grateful, and said he was unhappy at having no money to pay me, but that he had strong arms and would stay with me until he had worked off his debt. As I learnt that he had a wife and family dependent on him, I told him to rest during the glare of the day, and then make the best of his way home during the evening and in the early morning, and I have no doubt that he spread my fame abroad on the journey.
A few days later another interesting case came under treatment. I had noticed an anæmic-looking man accompanied by a woman loitering about the village in the morning, and later in the day saw the same man in earnest conversation with Gorgonio at the ruins; but as he did not come to speak to me, and as I knew he did not belong to Copan, I took him to be a traveller whose curiosity had prompted him to leave the road to see what we were doing at the ruins. However, when I returned to the village in the evening the same couple were still hanging about, and Gorgonio came with a mystified air to my hut and said: “Don Alfredo, it isn’t true is it, that a man can have an animal inside him eating him up?” I expressed my doubts as to its probability, when he said: “That is what I have been telling the man who has been about here all day, but he says that he is quite certain that he has an animal inside him eating him up, and that a brujo (witch) put it there, and he knows who the brujo is, and he wants to ask you whether he should kill the brujo, and if he does so whether the animal will go away?” This was my first case of “brujeria,” and the medical notes in ‘Hints to Travellers’ did not give any directions as to treatment, so I sent for the victim of witchcraft and got him to state the case himself. He was rather shy about it, but finally told me what I had already heard from Gorgonio, and I learnt further that the “brujo” was one of his neighbours living in the same village. Then I tried my best, with Gorgonio’s assistance, to persuade the man that he was mistaken, that no brujo could possibly put an animal inside him to eat him up, that no doubt he was out of health, but that “brujeria” had nothing to do with it. We might just as well have talked to one of the stone monuments in the plaza with the hope of making an impression on it; both the man and his wife were fully convinced that their probably harmless neighbour was the cause and origin of the mischief, and their only doubt seemed to be whether his death would ensure the death of the animal. After fruitlessly arguing for an hour, I took Gorgonio aside, and we held a private consultation; then, with as much mystery and solemnity as we could assume, I presented my patient with my far-famed “anti-brujeria pills and powders,” which looked very much like small doses of calomel and compound rhubarb pills, and were to be taken at stated intervals, at certain phases of the moon, in order to keep the animal quiet, while the patient tried by every means in his power to propitiate and live on good terms with the “brujo,” as it was the well-known opinion of the faculty that if the patient killed the “brujo,” the animal always killed the patient. I added that no fees were taken in cases of “brujeria,” not even bundles of cigars or fresh eggs, and that the patient had better return to his village at once and carry out the treatment prescribed. The couple went off apparently fairly satisfied, and I heard no more of them, but I have some hope that the “brujo” escaped death.
Every evening, when I had my supper, some of the villagers would drop in for a chat, and of course I had to be shown off to every stranger who happened to pass through the village, by whom I was plied with questions such as—“Is it true that you will have to cross the sea to get back to your own country?” “The villagers tell me that you bathe every day: is it not bad for the health?” The Niña Chica was generally show-woman and she took great pride in my performances, and her remarks and comments on these occasions were always delightful.
There had been some difference of opinion amongst the villagers when I first came amongst them as to whether I was a “Christiano” or not; but the matter, I believe, was finally settled in my favour without reference to any ecclesiastical authorities. There was no church in the village, and no school, and the visits of a priest were very few and far between; certainly none came to the village during my stay, and the villagers did not appear to feel the need for one except in the matter of baptism. When a child was born it was hurried off, whatever might be the state of its strength or health or the length of the journey, to be made into a Christian by the nearest priest; after that had been done, no other rites of the Church seemed to be of much account. Each house in the village had its saint, and every now and then the villagers would form a small procession to escort a saint on a round of visits to his neighbours. Niña Chica’s saint was San Antonio, and all the gaudy labels on my tins of food, and all the shreds of coloured paper in which the things had been packed, were carefully preserved by the old lady for the decoration of the corner of her hut, where stood a very dilapidated image enshrined in a cracked glass cupboard. I asked her to tell me something of the saint’s history, but she replied that she knew nothing about it. Then I told her what I knew about his story, but she would not have it that it was that San Antonio at all. “When and where did he live?” I asked. “How should I know?” she answered. “Was he ever alive at all?” “What is the use of asking an old woman like me? I don’t know if he ever lived, but I know that he is a ‘santo.’”
“But, Niña Chica, he is your own particular saint, and you don’t know anything about him at all?”
“Yes, I do,” she replied indignantly; “I know that the cockroaches have eaten the end of his nose!”
Soon after this conversation took place a greater demand than ever was made for the coloured wrappers and labels, and an old photographic tent with a yellow lining was borrowed from me, for the “Novena” of San Antonio was approaching. I had an invitation to attend the prayer meetings, but managed to excuse myself, for the Niña Chica’s house was very small and it was crowded each night as tightly as it could be packed, and for half an hour the congregation shouted chants and hymns in unmelodious voices. On the last night I had watched the company arrive and had then turned into my own hut to eat my supper, and was wondering why the singing did not begin, when I heard the sound of much loud talking, and on going out to see what was the matter, found the whole congregation outside the house discussing the situation. At that moment a messenger came running in and cried, “It is no use, Don Pedro says his toothache is so bad, he can’t possibly come!” The Niña Chica was in despair, and came over to tell me all about it, and then I learnt that Don Pedro was the only man in the village who could read, so that there was no one now to conduct the service. “You bring me the book,” I said, “and I will see what can be done.” She flew off, and soon returned with a very dirty little paper-covered book containing the services for the Novena, but on turning over the leaves I found that half the service for the last night had been torn out. I broke this gently to the Niña Chica, and expected another wail of despair, but she chirped up and said, “Never mind, Don Alfredo, you read as much as there is and then nudge my arm, for I know lots of things to sing.” I begged for a few minutes’ delay that I might first read through the service to myself, and I cannot say that I found it edifying, nor do I think that it could have conveyed much meaning to the native mind. However, I went over to the crowded hut, and there in the corner was the noseless St. Anthony in his glass-faced case, surrounded by candles and flowers and a choice selection of labels of somebody’s soup and somebody else’s salmon, and shreds of coloured paper, all arranged under the yellow-lined canopy made of my photographic tent, and I must own that the general effect was brilliant and successful.