On a trip to the deep south of Kiskeya, I heard of a carved boulder who people said she—the boulder—lived in Guayabal, a remote town at the foothills of the Cordillera Central. As I listened to these words, the boulder took shape in my imagination, and countless curved and straight lines were drawn over it and turned into symbols. This vivid image presaged that I would soon meet her.
As I drove along the southern highway I asked how to get to that distant place. Following directions people had given me, I found myself on a desolate dirt road. The road skirted a canyon which, by its width and depth, hinted that it harbored a full-flowing river. I was struck by how the landscape had suddenly changed and I was now traveling through cacti and all manner of desert vegetation. As I drove, the car tires raised dust clouds which obscured the road and I had to slow down. It was August, the island's hottest month, and the dust clung to the sweat that ran down my temples and soaked my neck.
The boulder stood in the heart of the town, alone and unrelated to anything else—standing sentry, witnessing the provincial life of that place. I walked in front of her, acknowledging her presence. At one point stopped and greeted her, placing my palms on her carved body and closing my eyes in silent prayer. I introduced myself and told her I had come a long way to meet her.
I went to a nearby grocery store to get a bottle of water, white candles, and matches to make an offering—a practice I had learned from the Liboristas in San Juan de la Maguana. I sprinkled the water over the boulder’s body to quench her thirst and felt her spirit light up—this at the mere striking of a match. I did not sprinkle the coffee on her, as they do in San Juan, because it would stain her carvings.
I offered prayers to the Taino spirits who carved it and to the grandmother boulder, who had been chosen as the keeper of ancestral knowledge. I was captivated by its mystery and beauty and looked at its carvings, trying to decipher messages from the past. I am not sure how long I remained in a dream-like state in front of her, but I awoke when someone gently touched my shoulder. It was an elderly lady who shielded herself from the sun with an umbrella. She was curious to know who I was and why I was there.
After I satisfied her curiosity about myself, and the reason for my trip, she invited me to a ceremony in her home coming in three days. Nothing more was spoken; she indicated how to get there and left, turning with a swing that made her dress dance. I understood that I needed to stay and change my plans to return to the capital.
I grabbed my backpack and set out to explore the town, I needed to find a place to stay, though I was consumed thinking about the boulder and what had just occurred. I was eventually told about a woman who rented rooms to merchants traveling through the area and settled in one of them.
I was going to the address the woman had given me when I started to hear music. As I got closer, I could identify the drums and the güira. The house’s door was ajar, and I could see the musicians playing in a corner, while a handful of people danced—with devotion—to the ceremonial music. The woman I had met by the boulder, now dressed in white, greeted me, while gesturing for me to follow her to an altar set up in the living room. She offered me a beeswax candle made by hand and a box of matches, then took me by the arm leading me to a door opening into the backyard.
When I reached the threshold, I was surprised by what was revealed before my eyes. In the center of an impeccably swept dirt backyard stood an imposing boulder of great bulk and stature, resting on a natural stone pedestal. She was surrounded by candles, water, and coffee, staining her body. Elders and adults gathered around her to pray, standing next to the candles they offered to her.
I went down the steps which led to the backyard, all while taking in the scene below. As I got closer, I too lit a candle to join the devotees in prayer to the Cemi—the ancestor spirit represented by the boulder. I stood there in silence embracing the emotion which had overcome me. As I stood, a melody came to me and closing my eyes I began to sing to her. The emotion evolved into a deep feeling of gratitude, and tears began to stream from my eyes.
After a while, I felt an intense gaze on my back and turned my head toward the doorway. There she was, the woman, smiling at me and with a simple gesture she welcomed me to this resilient world of ancestral spirituality.
Sending love your way, my dear community,
Akutu Irka
