Sirens of Shimul-Ha

Dick Bird

Sirens of Shimul-Ha
by Dick Bird

Twenty feet above the water six men perch along the rail. The river is theirs, the Shumul-ha, now the bridge belongs to them too: a parting gift from Petroleos Mexicanos when their drill-bits failed to bite oil. It was probably cheaper and better public relations to leave the bundles of drilling pipe here, slung over trestles spanning the river, than haul them to another site. The mens teeth are tombstones wreathed in smiles as they warn me of dangers upstream. Sirenas says the guy with a shotgun between his knees, blowing carefully down the twin barrels You wouldnt get me up the river alone without a strong young man at my side To fight them off? No, they could have him and let me get back to the wife. Grown men like you believe in mermaids? Youd believe too if you seen what we seen Youve seen sirenas? Their victims. A lengthy pause while they all observe me, the next potential victim if I persist with my hare-brained scheme of paddling up the river. Like for instance Dionisio last Good Friday, just three weeks ago. That shut me up. I listened. When he didnt come home we thought the evangelicos had got him. Locked up in their church he spat if you can call that tin roofed shack a church over in

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

Dick Bird

Ignacio Allende spitting upstream past his shoulder at the mountain hiding the next village, the river pulling his spit upon itself. But hed gone fishing, see? So it wasnt the evangelicos, it was Sirenas! Seven lusty shouts, including mine. But that doesnt prove Down where the Yash-ha joins this river. Everyones peering through the jungle leaning over the water to spy whatever dangers around the bend. You know where that big waterfall makes a wide deep pool, stops the current, makes a mist? Yes, I had seen this from above Well, that pool teems with fish. So he took his net. But his big mistake he glances around his nodding compadres was being so young and full of himself only married a year just one little son thought hed get away with it I suppose he didnt take anyone with him, went all alone. Another long pause. And didnt come home? Sunlight glides up the shiny gun barrels. Not till three days later, in a coffin. We carried him. And he, Demetrio the smooth-faced youngster on the end gets up and makes a bow is the one that found him. Demetrio opens his mouth to speak but the elder cuts him off. Bobbed up in the pool exactly when Demetrio arrived, not a moment sooner. Three days after he went missing and guess what? The body was still warm. He leans back dangerously over the rail, because having all these buddies makes it safe. Three days and nights! He stretches his jeans tight over his crotch. Three days and nights with those sirenas all any man can take. A deputy elder corroborates: Three nights, thats the rule. No one ever goes longer than that. Then they chuck him out, says another farmer.

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

Dick Bird

Let him come up for air, as if that would help says the graybeard nearest me, and nearest my own age as well. Dont know how you gringos are in that department, the elder says, staring at the crotch of my sweaty shorts but if you think you can go longer than three nights if youre serious about going up this river he pauses for the current to make itself felt, shivering the steel pipes of the bridge Well pull you out of here tomorrow! chortles the graybeard, his advanced age granting immunity from insult. Their laughter follows me down the bank where I slide with the paddle digging mud and the kayak over my shoulder. Seor, stay here! Havent you got children? What are they going to do without you? Same as they always do, I growl In English, strapping on helmet and pulling up the kayak skirt. I no longer care what these high-pitched Maya voices mean, whether hilarity or grief. Born anarchists, these hill farmers. They got rid of their own top-heavy pyramidical civilization twelve hundred years ago. The suns still high but way past noon. Between rounded pastures the river winds through a gentle V. Theres no sign of the mountain where it rises though the road I followed skirted the rocky crags. How far it is upriver to the cave I dont know, or more to the point, how long it will take me to paddle there and back here before dark. Culley Erdman said it was an easy trip, though he hadnt done it. His description of the cave was full of enchantment, but he couldnt pinpoint its position on my map. They took us up by helicopter. By they he meant the American National Geographic Society which sponsored his expedition and his film.

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

Dick Bird

I sit for a minute letting the flow of water rock the boat, settling into the seat, wetting the paddle and contemplating, in lieu of prayer, the foolishness of this trip. It took too long to get here for a start. Two hours over the road from Agua Azul. Of course if Id got up early that might have helped. Then the time I wasted looking for a partner. Kayaking solos dangerous on even a river you know, maybe lethal on one you dont. Everyone seems to realize this except me. No doubt about it, the farmers peering over the bridge are laughing. Their heads are knobs on the shadow across the water. I push off the muddy bank in shadow and paddle strongly into the sun. They shout goodbye with a mix of admiration, hilarity and mourning which I answer with a wave of the lifted paddle. Cow pastures on river left and a narrow swath of jungle on the right. I keep to the eddy around the bend, moving fast in slack water, then ferry across to the gravel bar on the far side where I get out and carry the boat to the top of the first rapid. In this manner, eddy-hopping, paddling slack water and portaging rapids, I cover several miles. My plastic kayak is colour-injected pink and white, like a Canadian salmon swimming upstream to spawn then die, I shouldnt have thought of that. Youll never get up to that cavern by boat, said the man who hitched a ride here in my van. Let me take you. The path goes over the mountain there, four hours. But not today. Come Sunday, Ill take you for eighteen pesos. Bring a blanket, food, a light. Well stay the night. If were still in the cave well lie close he shivered and hug each other tight to stay awake. A man must not sleep and dream of sirenas! I edged away from him on the seat. He was leaning out the window joking with other Tzeltal farmers walking on the road, so I wasnt sure how serious he was.

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

Dick Bird

Thats a magic cave, Culley told me in Palenque. At least a couple of hundred feet, totally dark except for the light off the water shining on crystals in the roof. When you shine a lamp what colours! Unbelievable! And the roar of water falling down the chimney! Thats the sumidero, where the river plunges vertically down a tube. We rappelled down on ropes and lowered the boats. Theres a pool at the bottom then its flat calm through the cave and we floated out on a gentle current. You could make it easily upstream its only class two. Youll never make it up against that current, said the man I gave a ride this morning. Culleys story is already stale, hes wrapped up his trip and gone home. Im more inclined to believe the fresher story. Come with me next Sunday. Twenty pesos. Each mention of the dangers raised the price. A magic cave, said Culley. Sure, everything in Maya land is magic. The steep green valleys of Chiapas, one bright spot of mystery in this ice age of reason. I take some time out to surf standing waves. From overhanging trees birds whistle and I whistle up at them. No humans to shake their heads as I laugh out loud. Kids had whispered sirenas before but never grown men. Mermaids yes, they are recognized world-wide. On ocean passages, serenading ships. Luring sailors to their doom. Odysseus in a blindfold tied to the mast. But river maids? How parochial! How typical! On the bridge I had felt like a schoolmaster facing a class of artful dodgers. Squatting on the guardrail over the river so their words came up at me sideways.

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

Dick Bird

Theyve always been anarchists, they overthrew their own cities twelve hundred years ago. They care as little now for the outside world as they did then. And yet closer to home what about the Rhine maidens, the golden ring of the Nibelung? And Lorelei combing her golden hair, luring a fisherman to his death? And Australian aboriginal myths of dancing nymphs behind waterfalls, beckoning young men? Could there be something hidden, if not in rivers, caves and pools in dry-land males wet dreams? The only siren I ever saw was sunbathing on a rock in the Cheakamus river at Whistler. When she heard our paddles she leaned over, resting her chin on a nut-brown arm. We gazed up at her breasts, respectfully doffing our helmets to see them clearer. They were mature for a girl so young and they made her proud, quivering as our appreciation grew. She spoke our language, knew all the right words, though she was obviously a mythic river spirit. She invited us up on her rock to share the sun but we were shy. She seemed innocent. I suppose until you kiss them they all do. We paddled down river through a swirling veil, sunbeams leaping off waves shaped like those breasts. Now hearken: Markus, my partner, was only twenty, the same age as this lad drowned in the Shumul-ha. So I might have escaped with my life while he spawned and died. If its true that on the point of death time stretches to infinity, three nights in a sirens arms might never end. Then Id be the one doomed to keep on paddling, forever seeking what hes found. Im revising the class of this river up from Culleys two to a realistic three. The currents faster, eddies smaller, edges sharper. More rocks, more holes, more foam. More walking on a riverbank than paddling. The valleys tightening, banks narrowing, channel deepening. And the sun has already swung over the river, now the shadow

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

Dick Bird

creeps up the valleys right side. All the birdsongs over there. In the shadow the forest is silent. But the river is making plenty of noise, butting on rocks, spinning in the air, rattling chunks broken off the cliffs. Getting up this far has taken two hours. Is it worth going on? Of course, paddling down will be much quicker. If I do it while I can still see. And for all I know that cave may be just around the corner. The eddies are too few and far between. The currents too strong, the only way to get up any further is leave the boat and walk. Though even the bank looks impassable now, steep and rocky and broken. I look for a landing on my left on river right, technically speaking where a limestone shelf is riddled with cracks, some you could even call caves. Into one of these I steer the boat. The water is shallow, undisturbed but to be on the safe side I tie the rope to a knob of stone. Take a rest, I pat my kayak, that sleek technological product resting on an ancient gravel bed. Paddle, life-jacket, skirt and helmet I stuff in the cockpit. The cave is tight, I can touch both walls while brushing my head on the roof. A crack lets in light, filtered through a bunch of roots. Wading out in rubber bootees, my bare legs are chilled. I scramble up to the shelf. Bamboo clumps sprout from the cracks. Trees overhang, I cant move without ducking under branches. River-light shimmers on the leaves. Six feet above the torrent, I walk upstream. Where the forest looks more open I jump down among the trees. The roar of the river goes quiet, swallowed by foliage. Theres no path to follow but I know which way to go. Im beginning to realize why this place feels different. Most of Chiapas mountainous, forested is populated, cultivated by the Maya. Wherever Ive walked

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

Dick Bird

Ive seen their paths and clearings, heard their whistles of warning that Im coming. In even the most hidden places Ive seen their coffee bushes, corn patches and bananas. It seems the whole area belongs to them, whoever else happens to own it. But here, along this river, the land feels taboo. I havent seen a human face since I left the bridge. The soil smells good, an amalgam of rich leaf-mould and powdered limestone. It would grow good corn, yet theres no machete mark on any tree. Surely its not too steep, Ive seen corn and potatoes on the cliffs! Speaking of cliffs, Ive just come up against one. I dont see any way around it. To the right it breaks straight into the river, to the left it seems to go on without end. If I want to go up any further Ill have to climb. Clinging by fingers and toes I gaze around. Its a tricky light between river and rock and trees. Shadows, reflections overlap. The stone is fractured, calcium-white where freshly broken and gray ash where its had time to weather. Climbing doesnt feel exactly safe. A glimpse of the river looks even more perilous. A vertical drop into flushing holes. Is there any way I could have passed Culleys cave? He promised me the river below it would be class two. What Im looking at here is class five: a suicide-run for the experts. I shout, to make myself heard over the torrent Culley! Where the bloody hells your cave? I shouldnt have shouted. Im a stranger here, I should have stayed quiet. Now everything around me knows Im here. And I shouted in English, thats worse. Im scared to climb any higher. Above my head I see no end of rock, no end of trees. Is this the end of the trip? Have I got to go back? What am I looking for? A cave like a hollow bone with the river running through it? Colours, crystals in walls and roof? Stalactites, growths of a calcified brain? What am I thinking? The mountains alive? Was alive, is now dead, still organically shaped?

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

Dick Bird

The spit in my mouth tastes of limestone. My hand gripping rock looks like limestone. Stone formed from eons of decayed life. Coral and sea-shells, the sea-bed uplifted. I could be clinging to an old coral reef. Clinging like a crab or a starfish. The trees groan, shifting shadow and light. White grains are stuck in the pores of my hand. My skin calcifies before my eyes. Eons are passing. Stone fractures, a worm wriggles out. Gossamer wings, lids over its eyes. Wings quiver, shaken by the roaring river, eyes open like glittering gems. Spray from the waterfall drifts over. The worm, an insect now, takes off and flies. It left a string of eggs on the rock. I watch the eggs fecundate, swell and crack. Worms calcify, decay to the shape of my hand. Stones are dropping through branches and leaves. I hear them falling but not hitting the ground. Feeling more fragile than ever in my life, I move my hands and feet to lower holds. Its almost too dark to see the way down. The soil at the bottom is soft on my feet. Im walking again parallel to the river. The same way I came up, I tell myself because it looks strange. No path, just keep the river on my left. My ears feel calcified, they hardly hear the water. I wish I was back at my van at the bridge. Or if Id brought warm clothes, a sweater or blanket. The jungle has sucked out all the heat as well as light. The tall trees are holding up the dark. I stumble on to the limestone ledge. Climb and fumble through gray bamboo. The river seethes below my feet, glinting starlight on the waves. Feeling off-balance, I examine the crevices for any sign of the cave where I left the boat. Kneel and part the bamboo to peer in cracks. The rock is hollow, though apparently solid its shaken by the force of the river. I see nothing below. To look in the caves Ill have to get down there and wade.

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

10

Dick Bird

Im pretty sure its the third hole up, but just to be sure I look inside the first and second. But the kayak is not in the third, so it must be the fourth. With rising panic I search every hole. The frigid water is the only thing thats real. I turn to look downstream for another ledge. See nothing but shapes of trees. I know Im mistaken. This only seems to be the place I left the boat. You cant trust appearances in the dark. I scramble up on the rock and head downstream. It couldnt have drifted away, I tied a knot. Tied a clove-hitch to a knob of stone. Did I make it tight? Little waves coming in might have loosened it, wetting the limestone too slippery to hold. I have to go back in the woods where the banks entangled. At a hundred yards Im stopped by a vertical rock. I cant really see, but it feels like a cliff. I thrash through bushes to the river. Still no rock looking anything like that ledge. I stand looking at the river a long time. Let my eyes adjust to the tricky light. It all looks familiar, yet altered not only by darkness but the change in perspective. Im looking in the river for an eddy. The current is too strong to paddle against it. But where did I walk? On the other side? It doesnt look passable. Am I too far up? I go back and examine the cliff that blocks the way. I can find no path over or around it. In any case if Id climbed it Id remember. I sit down to think. Im shaking. Its so cold. I try to make my brain be still and think. I do remember scaling a cliff thats behind me now, upstream and climbing down again by the same route. I did not go completely over any hill. Im certain of that. So if not on foot I must have paddled past this point. The ledge with the cave where I left the boat is behind me, in the two hundred yards between the cliffs. Somehow I missed it coming down. Ive got to cover the ground again more carefully, next to the river.

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

11

Dick Bird

I feel cheated out of seeing the sun go down. I must have been in the woods and missed it, the forest already so gloomy. Night has sprung up as a nasty surprise. Cold air flows on the river above water. Its warmer under the trees but I have to examine every meter of the river-bank. If the kayak came out of the cave it might be held in one of these narrow eddies, trailing the rope, by chance getting snagged on a rock. Or it might have plunged all the way down-stream without stopping. I cant look down there, but I can examine every inch of this section where Im stuck. When I see the familiar ledge again I feel so anxious I have to sit and let my heartbeat slow before I search. I know its the same ledge along river right, but Im scared of what I will find, or what I will not find. I know I have searched it once already but I have to approach it as if for the first time, give it a chance to rectify matters, have the kayak back in place. I stare at the holes on the river line and wait for time to pass. The longer I wait, the better chance Ill find it. If it takes all night to find the kayak, Ill be paddling down the river in the morning. By daylight everything will be clear and simple. Rocks that are the same will look the same and those that are not will look different. In daylight Ill know who I am and what I can do. Here in the dark Im not a creature to be trusted. Whatever happens I must not fall asleep. The man said sleep and you dream of sirenas. Hes a local man, he knows. Or they dream of you, and you meet in the dream. I train my eyes on the shifting waves catching and throwing flashes of light, and try to read a pattern in the confusion. I find it: repetition: each wave flashes its signal again and again. I look at the holes in the limestone lapped by water. I cant even count them any more.

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

12

Dick Bird

I know this is the place I left my boat. Either it removed itself, or someone took it. The Maya are a tricky people but none of them live around here. And why? Because theyre afraid? Its time to get up and go in the water and look carefully, thoroughly, in each and every crack. But I still dont move. A couple of years ago in Agua Azul we hauled in a drowned man on a rope. My son was with me, five years old. Even he does not believe in mermaids. Nobody even mentioned mermaids. The Maya men who found him said nothing in Spanish and very little in Tzeltal. The gringos were all satisfied that the man bobbed up in the pool because his guts fermented and the gas brought him up. The body was certainly inflated, it didnt look human. It was three days since hed drowned. Three nights with the sirenas, the farmers said on the Pemex bridge. Thats why I laughed. I knew they were joking. Here, pitched against the rivers monologue, my laughter sounds deranged. I get up and step in icy water. This time, without fail, Ill find the boat. I search in the limestone ledge from end to end. At the upper end, without stopping, I turn and search every crack again down to the bottom. Then I crawl up and lie on the stone shelf. Im hearing voices in the river. A choir of voices, high and low, chattering and singing. A lot of it sounds like laughter, feminine laughter at the foolishness of man. Lying on stone is a poor way to get warm. Before I freeze to stone myself I get up and explore for the third or fourth time the upper surface of this honeycombed ledge. A smooth surface broken by bamboo growing in cracks. As I have said already. Im doomed to repeat myself all night.

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

13

Dick Bird

At the farther end Im seeing ants crawl everywhere, on bamboo leaves, on my hands and legs, on the surface of the river, in the sky. I catch myself short of falling in. Water, thats the trouble, I havent drunk since morning, Im dehydrated. I drink from a pool in a corner of rock. Just before my lips touch water, I see myself as a void against the stars. The water is sweet. It reminds me of England, where I was a child. It reminds me of why I hardly ever drink plain water in America. Because this is what water should taste like, sweet with limestone, good for the teeth and good for the brain. Id better drink more while Ive got the chance. Feeling better, feeling capable, I crawl back on the shelf. Go straight to the bamboo tuft above the third crevice counting upstream. Im willing my boat to be under there. I grip the bamboo tight to focus my prayer. Then the floor under me gives way and I fall through the crack. Im stuck at the waist. My legs must be bleeding, something crawls or trickles down my skin. Its a burning sensation. Some of the bamboo has slid down with me, the feathery tops in my face. For a while I dont move. When I start to struggle I slip further down. My legs are kicking in emptiness. To pass the time I listen to voices in the river. Louder and closer. Now Im trapped theyre closing in. What do they want of me, an old man? Stuck in a cleft of rock by the groin, the image of impotence! You never can tell with women, my dad used to say. The weirdest things will amuse them. Now Im going to find out. The struggle finally wears me out. I relax, go inert, and slide through. In a shower of dirt and roots I land on the kayak, roll off and sprawl in shallow water. The narrow space amplifies the rivers laughter. Who took it? Nobody took it. I hid it too damn well.

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Sirens of Shimul-Ha

14

Dick Bird

While I pull on the skirt and helmet and life-vest my eyes get accustomed to the dark. When I paddle the kayak out through the slot the river is a dazzling flood of light. Every wave stands out clearly, every rock and hole. As I move downstream this feels like the fastest river Ive paddled in my life. The rapids grow gentler and further apart. I keep to the middle, in the main current. Overhanging trees step back and away, letting stars shine free. I ignore the land on each side, all in shadow, and focus on river and stars. When I smell the cows I know Im nearly there. So its no surprise, but a huge relief, when after a calmer stretch I see the bridge. A straight edge ruling off the stars, after the rounded, shifting shapes upstream. Its another realm, of civilization, reminding me to start living by the rules. I was afraid the Tzeltal farmers might be waiting. But theyve gone, theres no one on the bridge. Good, Ive heard enough laughter for one day.

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