In the mountains

Once upon a time there was a cleric. His name was Fray Bartomle de las Casas. His life was devoted to protect the indigenous people of the Americas. He served as a bishop of a small, colonial town in a green valley – San Cristobal.

I woke up in the morning. We were still on the overnight bus coming from Mexico City. Cute landscape. Mountains behind slowly disappearing fog. Why are we not driving? Police control. They were walking around the coach. A trunk of our second-class bus occurred to be full of the pirated CDs… The only consequence to us was that we had to wait a while before going further. 

Finally San Cristobal de las Casas. Cobblestone streets, narrow sidewalks, short, colorful stucco houses. Our place was blue. Honestly blue. Like water of Agua-Azul. Hungry after the long trip we started preparing a breakfast. Tortillas straight from a tortilleria. Fresh tomatoes, avocado, cheese… Everything so tasty, so authentic, under open sky. Also honestly blue. 

 

  

 

We started sightseeing from the market. It is the principle market for Indians commuting from mountains. Crafts, textiles, fruit, vegetables, fish, coffee, cacao, herbs… Amber! This is the right place to start learning about Chiapas. Vendors can offer you food and goods available only in this region. You can also take the first glimpse of Native Americans' life exactly here… Then you may explore their culture in one of the nearby villages. We went to San Juan Chamula.

If it hadn’t been for my friend who lives in San Cristobal, I wouldn’t be able to understand some of their customs. However, even Alfredo was helpless when, walking in the Chamula's main square, we became a subject of a discussion of two little village boys. They spoke Mayan. Language is the key ethnic identifier. According to data from 1996 only 63 percent of users of indigenous languages in Chiapas also knew Spanish. 

Chamula is only 8 km away from San Cristo. You can easily get there by a collectivo. The paradox is that the communities closer to the city are more resistant to any change. The most distinctive example of this attitude is probably the church. It is supposed to be a Catholic church. It is supposed to be… Chamulans expelled their last Catholic priest in 1867. In 1968 the last Catholic mass was held here. So what are they doing in this temple? 

They are praying, yes. The worshippers are kneeling, sitting, squatting, laying on the floor. No benches. The floor is covered with fragrant pine needles. Some people are lightening candles and sticking them to the ground. Candles are everywhere… Children are helping elders to put them. You see whole families – grandparents, parents, kids. They are behaving like if they were at home and nobody was watching. Like if they didn’t see all these outsiders steering at them. Some foreigners are sitting right next to them, meditating. The indigenous don’t mind, devoted to spending time with the relatives, to praying. Some are worshipping aloud, chanting, talking to saints. The statues lining the wall are small themselves, but they look much bigger. They have so many layers of clothes on them… Each year, a new group of citizens is chosen to live in the municipal center as caretakers of the saints. They are responsible for dressing the statues. The men, exactly. What as before remains in this community is patrimonialism. The clear division of duties can be observed in other dimensions too. It is a man who usually works in a field, harvesting coffee or cacao. A woman’s job is to stay home and look after children, sheep, cornfields, fire… Embroidering and making handicraft are also common. The people in the village still wear their traditional clothes. Patterns on their costumes represent birds, snakes, saints, frogs... They serve religious-magical functions.

Time stopped here once…

You don’t want to run as well…

You are sitting on the floor, the floor covered with pine needles and already lighted sea of candles. You smell fragrant pine needles. All you can listen is a language you cannot understand. But are you concentrated, clean of superfluous feelings and thoughts, able to meditate? Regarding you are here the first time in your life?

No. Too many phenomena are drawing your attention.

Why is that elderly woman taking a chicken? Why is she taking the chicken and making circles around the child’s head?

Look, she is not the only one who is making this! Now your eyes are looking for a chicken in other clusters. Yeah, almost all of them have a chicken, either dead, alive or hardly alive after pulling out of the bag in which it was brought.  

The worshippers are passing chickens, eggs, they are passing bottles and cans of… Coca-Cola.

What?!

The indigenous believe that Coke’s bubbly aftereffect releases a person’s sins from the body. The carbonation can help you to expel bad spirits. In the form of a burp.

What?!

Well, sometimes they use other sodas…

It is part and parcel of healing process. As well as sacrificing a chicken. The church serves as a place for curing rituals. It functions as a hospital where both spirits and bodies are healed. The government’s medical clinic is used only after Mayan medicinal methods have failed. Who does perform a doctor’s role? Local priests,  ilol, medicine men. Each group of worshippers is led by a so-called traditional doctor. Don’t call them shamans!

We spent most of our time in the church. It is hard to control time while being there.

The sun was setting already when we went out.

Is there any collectivo going to San Cristobal?

You don’t see the crowd anymore. When we arrived there were not too many people either. Now even the indigenous vendors were making their stands, putting everything to bags and going in the direction of their homes. ­­Only ­few street food places were still open.

We didn’t rush; we didn’t even try to look for a bus. We grabbed some street food and we were waiting for… For... ? We were just enjoying the meal, watching the closure of the market while all tourists are gone already and the only people you can see are the locals.

Alfredo asked a random man with a pick-up truck if he was going by any chance to San Cristo. He was. We didn't even have to ask for a ride. He invited us to join without hesitating. Much room in his uncovered truck... Except three of us, there was a chicken, still alive. And a little girl, una chiquita, una niña… She stood in the corner. I just took a glimpse of her cute childish face before she hid herself under a blanket. It was a sudden move, right after she had noticed us. Was she shy? Religious? Scared of foreigners? Maybe simply smart. Evenings in Chiapas are chilly. Probably under the sheet she wasn't as cold as we were exposed to the cool mountain wind in this sidecar. Again on the way to the green valley - San Cristobal.