When the pastor left, Francisco Díaz showed Cam to the chapel. It was a simple building. The walls were made from cornstalks lashed together in rows, and the roof was made of thatched straw. The floor was hardened dirt over which a woven mat had been laid. A row of rough-hewn pews filled the left side of the building. At the far end was a table covered with a cloth. Cam guessed it served as the pulpit.
Soon Francisco Díaz was busy making tortillas and heating chili soup over a smoky fire in the corner. As Cam watched, he became aware that other people were peering at him through the gaps in the cornstalk walls. Slowly he turned to them and smiled. “Please come in,” he said.
Gradually the semidark building filled with Cakchiquel Indians. There were mothers with babies, toothless old men, and young boys and girls. The men sat on the pews while the women and children took their places sitting cross-legged on the floor.
A few minutes later, Silverio Lopez himself entered the chapel. He greeted Cam warmly and then lit a lamp. Seeing all the people who had come to welcome Cam, he decided it was a good time to hold a church service. He led the people in two hymns, sung in Spanish, and then invited Cam to the makeshift pulpit to preach. All this was unexpected to Cam, but he stood and told the group why he had come and quoted several verses from the Bible.
It was late before the last local Christians left the chapel and Cam was finally alone. He lay down on the mat-covered dirt floor and pulled a thin blanket over himself. The floor was hard, but Cam was tired, and within minutes he had fallen into a deep sleep.
The scratching of chickens around his feet awoke him with a start the following morning, and for a moment he had to think hard about where he was. Just then, Francisco Díaz popped his head in the door. “Good morning, don Guillermo. Are you ready for coffee?”
Cam sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Yes, thank you,” he replied. “I’ll be right out.”
As the two men sat with their backs against the cornstalk side of the chapel sipping steaming hot coffee, Cam went over his plan for the day. He would start visiting each house in San Antonia Aguas Calientes, or San Antonio, as the locals shortened it to, offering the people in the houses Bible tracts and the opportunity to buy a Spanish Bible. However, Francisco Díaz forgot to tell Cam it was customary to stand at the gate and yell before entering a person’s yard. After a mangy dog bit him on the leg, Cam quickly learned that custom.
A few people Cam visited bought Bibles from him, but most people were peasants who could not read or write in Spanish, and Cam had no Cakchiquel Bible to give them, since it was not a written language. This discouraged Cam, who wondered how anyone expected him to sell Bibles in Spanish to people who could not read or write the language. For three days he kept at it without making much headway. During the third day he stopped by a beer garden, an open area where men sat drinking alcohol. He asked whether anyone would like to buy a Bible or take a gospel tract. Some of the men just turned away, and a few jeered, but one man caught Cam’s eye. The man walked over to Cam. “Would you like a tract?” Cam asked.
The man shook his head. “No sir,” he replied, his voice slurred with alcohol. “I would take one, but what’s the point? I can’t read it.”
Once again Cam wondered how to get the gospel message across when no one could read a Bible. He left the beer garden and walked on down the street towards another house. Ten minutes later he heard someone running behind him. He turned to see that it was the man who had refused the tract.
“Wait,” yelled the man, waving his arms. “Please sir,” he panted as he came closer. “I remember I have a friend who can read. Sell me one of your Bibles.”
“Certainly,” replied Cam, trying to conceal his excitement. “And why don’t you come to the chapel on Sunday morning? I’ll be speaking and will look out for you. What’s your name?”
“Tiburcio,” replied the man, who was now standing close enough for Cam to smell the liquor on his breath.
“Okay, Tiburcio,” he said, handing over a Bible. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”
Sure enough, on Sunday morning when Cam surveyed the crowd of Cakchiquel Indians who had gathered in the chapel, there was Tiburcio sitting near the back of the room. He looked a little uncomfortable, but at least he had showed up. Cam was delighted.
The service lasted for over an hour, and as he preached, Cam watched the door to make sure Tiburcio did not slip out. When the sermon was over, he asked whether anyone in the room would like to become a Christian. Tiburcio leapt to his feet and hurried to the front. “Yes, I do,” he said in a loud, clear voice.
As they prayed together, tears welled up in Cam’s eyes, blurring his vision. In front of him stood a brand-new Christian, and he had played a part in the man’s conversion. Maybe he wasn’t a failure at sharing his faith after all.
Cam stayed in the valley for two weeks before heading west into the mountains. By then he had become good friends with Francisco Díaz and invited him to go along as guide. Francisco was eager to accompany Cam, but his coffee and corn were ready to harvest, and so several other Cakchiquel Christians filled in as guides for Cam.
It was an interesting two weeks in the mountains, and like the incident with the dog bite, Cam learned many lessons in his travels, most of them the hard way.
On November 1, All Saints’ Day, Cam and his guide Lucas arrived in a village where people were milling around in the church cemetery. “Let’s go over there,” said Cam, fascinated by the sight and thinking of all the tracts he could hand out. As he came closer, he was astonished by what he saw. Plates of food, packets of cigars, and bottles of alcohol had been placed on top of the graves. “What is all that for?” he asked Lucas.
“It is for the spirits of the dead people,” replied his guide matter-of-factly. “Today is the day the people believe their relatives come back from the dead. If the spirit of the dead person does not find gifts on his grave, he will put an evil curse on the family.”
Cam sighed deeply. Guatemala was so steeped in superstition. He longed for people to read the Bible for themselves so they could discover the truth and free themselves from such burdensome practices.
In the mountain town of Chimaltenango, Cam and Lucas ran into real trouble. A band of local men surrounded them yelling, “Evangelistas!” and “Leave, you cursed Protestants!” The men carried sticks and grew angrier by the minute. Cam was praying hard under his breath when a contingent of soldiers arrived and broke up the mob. The soldiers escorted Cam and Lucas to the town hall, where the two men found temporary shelter.
Once the town hall doors were locked safely shut behind them, Cam wondered what he should do next. A group of very hostile people was outside, and only a few local officials were inside with him. With a flash of insight Cam knew exactly what he should do. “I would like to talk to the mayor,” he said in his best Spanish.
Five minutes later, Cam and Lucas were sitting in the mayor’s office. Cam noticed that the mayor looked nervous, but instead of complaining to him about the rough treatment he had received in his town, Cam began to tell him about the Bibles he wanted to sell there and the ways in which that could help the people of the town.
The mayor was impressed—and relieved. He arranged an official welcome for the two men. After the welcome, the mob that had been out to get the missionaries quickly evaporated, and many people took gospel tracts or bought Bibles.
As Cameron Townsend left Chimaltenango, he thought about his experience there and he made himself a promise: He would always try to gain the cooperation of the local authorities before going into a town, not after he’d already made enemies. Cam felt sure this was a key to working among the Cakchiquel Indians. What he did not know was that it would be a key that would open other doors and more opportunities than he could ever have dreamed possible.
Chapter 6
A Sudden Burst of Clarity
As planned, Cam met Robby in Santiago, and the two of them traveled back to Guatemala City for Thanksgiving. Cam was excited to hear all about Robby’s experiences during the previous month. It was good to be talking to someone in English again. However, their time together was tinged with sadness. Waiting at Central American Mission headquarters was a letter to Cam from his mother. He eagerly opened it, only to find it contained the sad news that his close friend Carroll Byram had been killed on a battlefield in France. It seemed unbelievable to Cam that someone as lively and full of promise as Carroll could be dead, but the ongoing war was claiming the lives of a large number of young American men. Cam was sobered by how close he had come to being one of them.
Three days after arriving in Guatemala City, it was time for Cam and Robby to return to their work. This time they agreed to meet for Christmas. Cam was looking forward to the next month. Now that his coffee and corn were harvested, Francisco Díaz had agreed to accompany Cam as his guide.
When Cam arrived in Escuintla, a small town south of Guatemala City, Francisco Díaz was waiting for him as arranged. That night Francisco caught Cam up on all the news from the village. He told Cam how the men from the beer garden had poured liquor all over Tiburcio after he told them he had become a Christian. Tiburcio had also been slashed with a machete for proclaiming his faith in and around the village, but it had not stopped him from doing so. And since he was no longer spending his money on alcohol, Tiburcio had been able to pay back some of his debts. He also was working much harder now, and his boss had promoted him to foreman.
Cam was delighted with the news. That night he wrote in his journal, “It showed me that God could use even a poor instrument like myself when willing to be led….”
The following morning Cam and Francisco headed southwest towards the border of El Salvador. They stopped at over thirty villages as they went and talked to countless people. At least, Francisco Díaz did. Few of the Cakchiquel Indians in the area spoke Spanish, making it difficult for Cam to have a conversation with any of them. The people also had no use for the Spanish Bibles Cam had with him. Indeed, one Indian man became indignant when Cam offered him a tract in Spanish. “Do you have one in Cakchiquel?” he asked.
“There are none. I’m sorry,” replied Cam.
“Well,” retorted the man, “if your God is so great, why can’t he speak my language?”
Cam had no answer for him. He admired the Christians in the area learning Spanish just so they could read the Bible, but there were only a few of them. It was a difficult task learning to speak and read in another language, especially when there were no schools or teachers to help.
Cam ended up selling most of his Bibles to Ladinos. Ladino was the name for the Guatemalan people who were part Indian and part Spanish. Ladinos held the power in the country. They were well educated and owned huge finca (ranches) in the country. They were also the main businesspeople of the country. Generally, Ladinos looked down on Indian people. They saw the Indians as backward and unable to learn. But as Cam observed Francisco Díaz, he became convinced that the Cakchiquel Indians were as smart as anyone else. What they lacked were opportunities and a written language.
Throughout the month as Cam and Francisco trekked through the lush coffee plantations of southern Guatemala, the words of the indignant Indian man haunted Cam. Why didn’t God speak Cakchiquel?
By December 23, 1917, Francisco Díaz had returned home for Christmas, and Cam had made his way back to Guatemala City to meet up with Robby. Cam and Robby had been invited to spend Christmas at the home of a Presbyterian missionary. It had been less than three months since they had arrived in Guatemala, but it felt like they had been in the country a lifetime, and they had much to talk about. They spent several hours sharing their observations of the main problems affecting the lives of the people they had visited. They decided that perhaps the biggest problem facing the Indians was the mozo system.
