Mushroom Man at Moxviquil October 17, 2021
The self-educated American mycologist bends over to inspect a wild specimen of some strange fungus he calls a parasitic lobster mushroom. Its reddish crown is growing over the blue-oxidized remains of the mushroom host, Russula emetica, which, as the name suggests, can be deadly if ingested. But not the lobster mushroom, which looks and tastes like the real thing. It even smells like seafood. These specimens, once washed, are slated to become tacos tonight, on blue-corn tortillas, with yellow habanera salsa. Perdón, but just the thought of this is a bit emetic.
We have not seen anyone in the forest for the past hour, so it is especially jarring to encounter our first person approaching us with a machete in a leather sheath. He seems friendly enough, but he is here to tell us that we must immediately leave this private nature reserve, which we entered illegally, apparently when we crossed the source of the clear creek mysteriously named Ojo de Agua.
My lack of Spanish only helps my claims of ignorance and plausible deniability. “Yes, of course, we can absolutely leave, most immediately. Which way is San Cristobal de las Casas?” The sentry waits until we begin walking down the hill before he turns and disappears again into the trees.
The treasure-hunter is relieved that the machete-man did not ask to look in his bag, which is full of mushrooms, as well as samples of a small leafy plant, about the size of a head of romaine lettuce, with long thin leaves and, remarkably, a tiny root system that receives its water from the air.
He waves one above his head to simulate flight. “Up north they call them air-ferns, but they are Bromeliads. They live free of the earth.” Now the mycologist has become a botanist. At home, he is also a countertop horticulturalist and a stove-top chemist. The shady damp corners of his house are mycelial laboratories. The inquiry never ends. I hope he does not accidentally kill himself with one of his experiments.
The information will not stop flowing—the Bromeliad grows on the branches of mature trees in small clumps that make the host tree seem to have two very different types of leaves. Both creatures chase the sun and the air, but only one is truly free. Unlucky mature trees become overwhelmed by the weight of the parasites, succumbing, falling back to earth, for the mushrooms to grow, and the mushroom-man to select for his plate.
Midway through our natural history tour, I ask him, “Do you worry that your foraging in this forest might not be welcome?” After all, he has already revealed that Bromeliads signal the presence of orchids, some of them rare indeed. It also seems significant that this forest floor is devoid of deadwood, as if someone else is collecting.
He raises a mischievous eye. “Hell, yeah, I worry. I don’t know who the land belongs to. Do you?” This is a rabbit hole of inquiry, I am sure. Maybe it belongs to everybody who works it, as Emiliano Zapata insisted, and maybe this gringo is just working the land honestly, by natural right, with his own bare hands? I am not sure this works in a woods full of men with agendas and machetes. This American guy is more like Alfred Wallace, the amateur naturalist from a friendlier time.
“What have you collected today so far?” I ask, pointing at his bulging orange bag. He takes out specimens of soil-encrusted Turkey Tail, pink flowery Russula, and the prized Old Man of the Woods. He tells me I would be amazed how much one of these babies cost.
“Amaze me,” I implore, but he will not put a price on this mushroom. Others in these woods, however, very well might.
On the descent, we encounter a hole in the earth. Perhaps this is the Ojo everyone has been talking about. Surely the best mushrooms might be found in a hole just such as this one. At least twenty feet across at the top, its slick-scrambling limestone-steps drop away to a mossy floor, with weather-smoothed stone rubble, bat guano, and a small tunnel entrance leading into the abyss. For some, the natural wonder of dark quiet places brings a sense of tranquility. Drip, drip, drip, tranquility, drip. With the dilated eyes of a mad inventor, the young naturalist switches on his headlamp and enters the cave. I crane to look up at the fern-rimmed sky of our only escape route.