A Journey of Encounter with the Rabinal Achi´and Las Guacamayas

Rabinal Achi’ and Las Guacamayas are among the oldest dances in Guatemala, whose origins date back to before the Spanish conquest. Besides their richness in musical and cosmological terms, I am interested in understanding their ability to transform throughout time, while still maintaining sameness. So I set out from Guatemala City on a four-and-a-half hour journey marked by microclimates and contrasts. Gradually, the landscape becomes greener and increasingly rugged—typical of the Guatemalan terrain—with its mountains, hills and ravines, characteristic of tropical dry forest. The climate is warm, with a hot breeze. 

The tropical dry forest accompanies us for half the journey, transforming as we ascend into the cloud forest. This marks the beginning of the Las Verapaces region, named by the Dominican friars who are credited with the “peaceful” conquest of the area, following the failed attempts by Spanish militias to subdue the land of war—Tezulutlán, as it is still referred to by Indigenous peoples—due to the courageous resistance of its inhabitants during the conquest. The landscape shifts to a more intense and varied shade of green, becoming denser and shrouded in mist. The humidity is palpable. The vastness of the mountains overwhelms yet embraces me.

I arrived in Santa Cruz Verapaz, a municipality in the department of Alta Verapaz, founded in 1543. There, I met Alejandro Rax, a young man in his thirties, who is the steward of Las Guacamayas. Rax graciously received me at his home, where I met his grandmother, Señora Ana María Cho de Rax, who, according to Rax, was instrumental in reviving the dance after the prolonged period of silence because of Guatemala’s thirty-six years of war.

Interview with Alejandro Rax, Las Guacamayas Leader

The dance narrates the story of the abduction of Guarchaj, a maiden from the Poqomchi’ community, by K’iche’ Winaq (a K’iche’ prince) from another kingdom (Alejandro Rax emphasizes that this character “was Christianized,” as indicated by the cross on his costume). The narrative details her recovery and the defeat of the invader, aided by the guacamayas, who are the protective nahuales -the energy that rules and protects each person since their birth-, of virgin women. The dance is performed annually during the May 3 festivities of the Holy Cross, although it is also presented at various other celebrations within and outside the municipality.

Preparations begin in April. The first step involves a Maya ceremony at a sacred site—with distant locations typically preferred due to their heightened energy. Unfortunately, many of the deep caves, which are highly energetic sites, are located on private land, restricting access. Following this, a vigil for the masks takes place, during which permission is sought to inhabit the characters, as the masks have been worn by various individuals whose energetic traces remain. A connection with the masks is sought during this ceremony, where offerings of boj (fermented corn drink), cacao, saq’ ik (turkey broth) and puro (tobacco) are made.

The dance begins at dawn on April 30 at the Calvario church, followed by a procession to the chapel of the Cofradía de Santa Elena, the Church of the Holy Cross, and concludes at the chapel of the Cofradía de la Santa Cruz. The dance is performed at each of these sites, regarded as sacred locations where permission is sought to celebrate. On May 1, the dance is presented at the inauguration of the patronal fair, followed by the gathering of images, where the image of the patron saint of San Cristóbal Verapaz, a neighboring municipality, merges with that of the Holy Cross.

 On May 6, the “death of the dance” ceremony takes place as Ma’muun, the leader of the Poqomchi, “kills them all” in an offering to the Holy Cross. He systematically kills the five characters of the dance: Ate’t Muun, the mother of the maiden; Guarchaj, the maiden; K’iche’ Winaq; two guacamayas; and finally, himself. All dancers then remove their costumes.

The dance contains a dramatic script that has been transmitted orally for generations, with no written text in existence. The music features two trumpets: one with a deep tone that signals the seven sections of the dance and another smaller, higher-pitched trumpet that marks the dancers’ timing. The tun—a percussion instrument made from a hollow wooden log—produces two rhythmic patterns, also learned through oral transmission. Rax notes that these rhythms are challenging for young participants to master. Additionally, chinchines (maracas) help maintain the rhythm, as the masks often hinder the dancers’ ability to hear the music clearly. Rax does not rule out the possibility that the dance may have included other instruments in the past, suggesting that “the sound of how it once was might have been lost.”

Rax assumed responsibility for the dance in 2011. He seeks to promote the continuity of the dance to ensure its relevance is not lost. He documents the practice through photography and disseminates these images on social media, thereby inviting and encouraging younger generations to engage with the tradition. Rax notes that many young people today show less interest in participating, as they feel “ashamed, are labeled as witches, or no longer see its significance.” However, generational renewal is essential, as many elder dancers are no longer active.

Rax showed me the area in his home dedicated to the musical instruments used in the dance: various tunes of different sizes and ages, antique horns, chinchines, drums, and chirimías, as well as the masks and costumes worn during the performances. This collection was situated alongside a small religious altar.

Following the visit, I traveled to Rabinal, a municipality in Baja Verapaz, located two hours away by car. The journey took us from the cloud forest down into the lowlands of the central region, where we encountered areas of dry subtropical forest interspersed with patches of humid subtropical forest, marked by steep slopes and deep ravines. The poorly maintained road led us through a winding route until we reached a small valley surrounded by hills. Rabinal is one of the oldest municipalities in the Las Verapaces region, founded in 1537 by Fray Bartolomé de las Casas and Pedro de Angulo.

In Rabinal, I interviewed Juan Manuel Coloch, the steward of the Rabinal Achi’ dance-drama, one of the oldest in the country and recognized as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO. The Rabinal Achi’ takes place annually on January 25 as part of the festivities honoring Saint Paul, the patron saint of Rabinal. Coloch told me that the dance-drama was likely performed on different dates in the past. However, since the Spanish conquest—referred to by Coloch as an invasion and massacre—the Rabinal Achi’ has persisted as part of the town’s patron saint celebrations. Nevertheless, the Rabinal Achi’ represents more than a tribute to a Catholic saint; it dramatizes a territorial conflict between communities.

Interview with José Manuel Coloch, Rabinal Achi Leader

The dance-drama depicts the internal struggle between the Rabinaleb’ people and other groups over territorial boundaries. A key narrative element highlighted by Coloch is the arrest and oral trial of Prince K’iche’ Achi’, who sought to expand his territory into Rabinaleb’ lands. The performance also reflects a tradition of respecting prisoners’ rights, as the captive is granted the fulfillment of his final wishes.

Coloch reflects that the dance-drama was more “majestic and spiritual” in the past. Preparation for the performance involved not only spiritual ceremonies but also required participants to abstain from sexual activity for forty days prior to the presentation. Coloch recounts how in the past, the parliament of the drama was learned and transmitted orally, and even when a written version came to existence in 1862, transcribed and published by Charles-Étienne Brasseur de Bourbourg, the performers did not know how to read or write in Spanish, thus, a reader was designated responsible for reading the text and the actors would repeat it. Musicians relied -and rely still- entirely on their hearing; they learn by practicing through listening and observing.

According to Coloch, today’s environment is marked by “too much noise” and an oversaturation of media, which has influenced both the transformation of the Rabinal Achi’ and the way it is received by audiences. The dancers were traditionally elders, many of whom have now passed away, making generational renewal both essential and challenging.

Juan Manuel Coloch emphasizes that the Rabinal Achi’ is more than just a dance-drama; it serves as a repository of ancestral Maya knowledge, comparable to sacred texts such as the Popol Vuh and the Chilam Balam. He highlights, among other aspects, references within the performance to the 260-day lunar cycle and the 360-day solar calendar, as well as information on mathematics, science, and ancestral practices. “There is a vast amount of knowledge that we are only beginning to uncover,” Coloch notes, underscoring that there is still much to learn from the Rabinal Achí.

In addition to the richness of the dance-drama itself, Coloch expresses concern about the need to dignify the dancers. “People treat us as if we are no longer here. We go to schools to say, ‘We are here, we are alive.’” Structural racism, both from the state and society, remains a pressing issue. This racism is evident in actions such as the state’s use of bureaucratic mechanisms to block electoral participation, as seen in the case of Telma Cabrera—a Maya Mam community leader and activist whose presidential candidacy was denied in the 2023 elections. Coloch also highlights the ongoing challenges in the fight for bilingual education that gives equal value to the languages and cultures of Indigenous peoples alongside Spanish and English. He argues that the reluctance of Indigenous communities to teach Maya languages is rooted in the physical and psychological suffering their ancestors endured in the past.

I returned from my country enriched by the embrace of its mountains, ravines, and valleys, but above all by the words and practices of individuals deeply committed to their communities and peoples, such as Alejandro Rax and Juan Manuel Coloch. I carry with me many new questions and a sense of humility in the face of the long histories of ancestral peoples, whose journeys are intertwined with my own. I am also convinced of the need for socially and ethically engaged humanities and social sciences, committed to the creation of knowledge that is not extractive but collaborative.