Meeting Maximón: Guatemala's Decidedly Unsaintly Saint

A deity for those who chase their prayers with liquor

Lake Atitlán (L), Maximón (R)

~ 2014 ~

On a cloudy afternoon during Guatemala's rainy season, my travel partner S.¹ and I set out to find Maximón, a roguish deity known for his love of booze, cigarettes, and sleeping around. Though he has his vices, he’s also known for his ability to help with business issues, marriage, crops, death, and more. There’s something deeply appealing about a saint who knocks back a few shots and then doles out wisdom to those in need. He felt approachable.

Maximón lives in Santiago Atitlán, a town of 50,000 nestled on the shores of Lake Atitlán. From my perch in the town of Panajachel, it would be a half-hour away by boat. I prepared my bag and camera and set off for the dock.

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Now nestled comfortably in a lancha (one of Lake Atitlán’s ever-present water taxis), I watch as the wooden dock I just left disappears. Grey clouds drift across the sky as our wake foams and then dissipates into the green-blue depths of the lake. The driver cuts the engine.

“There used to be a huge park here,” he laments as the boat drifts toward shore. 

I look down to see the sunken interiors of old buildings, their jagged cement tops barely popping above the surface. Water levels here have been steadily rising over the past 50 years.

“Maximón! Maximón! Good price.” the tour guides shout, but S. and I decline and walk past, partly out of pride, partly for the fun of finding Maximón alone. We wander up and down Santiago Atitlán’s alleyways, asking store clerks and random passersby about the whereabouts of the famous deity. An elderly woman with cataract eyes appears out of nowhere, balancing a basket of bananas on her head and a few lonesome teeth in her mouth. We buy some (the bananas, not the teeth).

“Maximón?” we ask in unison.

She answers softly, in Tz’utujil, the local Maya language spoken by most of the older folks here. Greeted by our baffled expressions, she throws up a hand and points behind her.

“Gracias,” again in unison.

We head down the road, past a gaggle of vendors, and right into a dead end. Left. Right. Left. Right. Which way? Two kids are playing in the street. “Maximón?” we ask.

“Come on,” they say in English as we follow them down the road to a nondescript alleyway where a paranoid chicken slowly pecks away at his tin of food and a woman hangs up laundry. We hand the kids a few quetzales and they run off.

They’ve led us to the entrance of a long room where a bored teen takes an entrance fee and a “permission-to-take-photos” fee. Done with the transaction, he returns to his corner chair and the scantily clad supermodels of the local periódico.

We venture inside, greeted by torrents of copal smoke that swirl back and forth in the dimly lit space. Outside, the noisy banter of rowdy drunks sways in and out of earshot. Inside, a family is praying in hushed, somber tones. Outside, people are shouting for drinks. Occasionally, a man stumbles up to the back entrance which separates the two worlds, and orders another bottle of Quetzalteca, the harsh local liquor. At the meeting point of this chaos and serenity sits Maximón.

Outside Maximón's Home (L), Pouring Quetzalteca for Maximón (M), Maximón and Cofradias (R)

One look at Maximon’s face tells you he’s lived a bit, and he’s not a fan of secluded transcendence. Instead, he’s a saint for the people—his face is weathered, his eyes are empathetic, and his mouth is just wide enough for a cigarette. Beneath his wide-brimmed black hat is a garland of clip-on ties and quetzal notes.

Every now and again, Maximón’s helpers adjust his ties, light up another Rubio cigarette for him to puff on, or slide a Quetzalteca shot down his wooden throat. These helpers are part of the cofradias, a respected few who are tasked with caring for Maya and Catholic deities, a tradition brought over from Franciscan missionaries in the sixteenth century. Like many religious icons in Latin America, Maximón is a syncretic deity. He’s a mix of San Simon from the Catholic tradition and earlier Maya deities.

Legend has it that back in the mythopoetic day, Maximón seduced all the local farmer’s wives. Upon returning from the fields and finding out what happened, they chopped off both his arms and legs. Despite this setback, the legless-armless deity was able to turn it around and offer help to those in need… like the man in the chair.

He sits with a downward expression and a cowboy hat draped with a floral cloth. Next to him is his family—an awe-struck boy, a smiling girl, and a stoic mother. Despite the outward chaos, the man seems calm. Enclosed in the partial safety of family and prayers, he asks his muttered questions.

Nearby, kneeling on straw mats, an elderly man recites prayers in Tz'utujil. He straightens out a wax candle stuck to the cement floor. The candles, like life, started out simple and clean, but over time, their tidy little bodies have melted into messy puddles on the floor.

Candles with Maximón (L), Copal Incense (R)

The cackling and babbling of a tour group erupts outside. They’re complaining about the wafting smell of Copal and the dust enveloping the room. We take this as our cue to slip out quietly, following the narrow alleyway out to the cobblestone streets.

As we wander back towards the boat, the enigma of Maximón crystalizes. His home has a unique feel to it that arises from the fact that it was not made to be unique. He’ll never float on some glorious mountaintop or hide in a far-off cave. Instead, he spends his days right where he’s needed most—in a humble room next to a rowdy bar.

Maximón is very much of this world, and the ceremony we just encountered was a jigsaw puzzle of the sacred and profane. Perhaps this is precisely how it should be for a saint who drinks, smokes, and sleeps around; a deity who’s made a mistake or two; a saint who’s been unsaintly.

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1. S. Bedford, author of the hilarious travel memoir It’s Only the Himalayas: And Other Tales of Miscalculation from an Overconfident Backpacker