Last night we went to an interesting movie at a tiny theater in town. It was called Zapatistas: Crónica de una Rebelión (with English subtitles.) Depressing, inspiring, informative. I hadn’t realized that the main square of San Cristóbal was where the Zapatistas initially congregated when they poured into town from the hills. I see the city in a new light now. There’s another interesting movie showing a few nights from now, but we’ll be gone by then. I’ll list it here so I can watch when I get home: A Place Called Chiapas, produced by Nettie Wild.
Around 11:00 pm we heard loud music start up: guitars, brass, voices. At the end of the block we could just make out a cluster of musicians singing up to a second-story window. Sarah said serenading is not uncommon in Mexico. I can’t decide if I’d think it was cool it if someone were to express their love that way, or if I’d just be annoyed to be woken up. Only time will tell.
The shower drain is clogged, so as soon as I turn the water on it quickly oozes up over my feet, across the concrete floor and out under the metal door into the courtyard. This morning after I dried myself off I opened the door and bumped right into the two housekeepers stationed on either side of the door, like a couple of hyenas, except armed with squeegees and mops. They went to work the second I passed.
Today we took a small tour, led by an arrogant young man with captivating green eyes, of two nearby Maya pueblos. Afterward, Sarah and I talked about how awkward we’d felt, as though we’d been on a trip to the zoo to see exotic animals. Nonetheless, it was valuable.
My favorite part was the church in San Juan Chamula which, like some in Guatemala, combines symbols of Catholicism with traditional Maya animism. The marble floor was strewn with pine needles which nearly led to my demise — or at least major embarrassment — on several occasions; it was like walking on ice. The vast room was hazy from the smoke of a million candles stuck in neat lines to the floor and in front of various saints perched against the walls. Some of these doll-sized holy people were holding doll-sized trays with pairs of eyes in various shades.
As we stood there we heard music approaching: accordion, ukulele, guitars and a kind of stringed instrument I’d never seen before. About thirty people filed in through the single, low wooden door, led by the musical men who moved to the left of the church, and followed by women and children, with a few infants firmly dangling from exposed breasts, who massed toward the right. Up front, several women knelt. Through the candle smoke they waved vocally unhappy roosters.
At the second village we stopped into a women’s cooperative in San Lorenzo Zinacantí¡n where I wanted to buy one of the pretty embroidered tapestries but where I, once again, got too overwhelmed by the competitive bargaining process.
This is a Maya wedding dress. They wanted me to put it on by I wouldn’t.
There were some appealing kids there. The first picture is of residents of this house. The next two photos are of the sisters riding in our van. As you can see, one was having an emotional meltdown.
In the house there was a Maya shrine with diverse embellishments.
In the back of the house in a lightless, dirt-floored, smoky room was the kitchen were a woman cooked tortillas over a wood fire and offered them to us. It was my first crack at eating food of uncertain health standards, but I was hungry and it smelled good. She’d laid out all kinds of goodies to put inside: beans, guacamole, powdered pumpkin seeds, that special kind of Mexican cheese, and more.
The herds of sheep passing through villages wear muzzles. I heard that’s to protect them and each other from picking up diseases from other passing herds. The muzzles are made out of the bottom half of plastic, one-liter soft drink bottles.