I.I.IV.I – San Cristóbal de Las Casas: Day One
SAN CRISTÓBAL DE LAS CASAS
I.I.IV.I – DAY ONE
16/08/22
Another nine hours spent on a bus, and once again, I found myself wandering the streets of yet another gorgeous Mexican city – that of San Cristóbal de las Casas in the state of Chiapas. Perhaps slightly over-touristic, but in hindsight, this city is where I can say I felt the most comfortable and close to the locals in all of Mexico.
For the first time since I had been in Mexico, I found myself sweating buckets. Chiapas, being home to numerous forests and jungles, has a very humid, very tropical climate. Much like the streets of Puebla and Oaxaca, one can expect the same vivid colours and art all over the walls of every single building, albeit here, wrought iron balconies and clay tiled roofs are a distinctive feature.
The uneven pavements taught me (over and over again) that I’d better watch my step rather than the streets I’d be walking on, having found myself plastered to the ground on more times than one. It was tripping down the wall of stairs that leads to the church of San Cristóbalito that taught me the lesson once and for all. Kinda reminded me of when I was twelve – a very awkward stage of puberty during which I seemed to trip down most stairs I’d climb. But hey, you fall, you rise. And that’s how I gotten over it. Having to re-experience that by being thrown in the deep end wasn’t quite to my liking though. Damned stairs!
Zinacantán
With the afternoon all to myself, I ended up going on a tour to Zinacantán; a town in South Chiapas whose population consists of indigenous Tzotzil Mayans. Our guide, an indigenous native herself, had much to say about their culture.
Turns out, Zinacantáns have this severely paternalistic and misogynistic culture in which women are forbidden to show any form of emotion unless it is in the form of their craft; which, to most locals, is exclusive to the art of textiles. They can only speak to people belonging to the same family and they have no right to education and other basic necessities such as healthcare unless it is provided from the town’s shaman. Any deviation from the norm usually results in them being sent to prison for a few days.
My guide, whose name I cannot mention for fear of actual imprisonment, was shunned at the ripe and tender age of twelve when she decided she wanted to do better for herself. Since then, she’s been living in Chiapas and has gotten herself a degree in law and philosophy, paying off her student loans by offering her services as a guide. No scholar or mathematician can ever count the amount of times I called her impressive. Truly an inspiration and a force to be reckoned with; paving a brighter future for the next generation of Zinacantáns, Mexicans and women alike!
We were then welcomed into a traditional Zinacantán home – a bare brick house with a corrugated iron roof and pine bough on the floor. Whilst the word ‘cosy’ isn’t what I’d use to describe the rooms, I do have to admit that there was a certain warmth to it that I didn’t quite expect. On one side of the room lay a shrine of some sorts, with a crucifix at the centre surrounded by a gorgeous flower arrangement, and a set of five animal statuettes below it. On the other were the patriarch and his wife along with their three daughters and the elder – the women keeping to themselves whilst avoiding our glances and stealing smiles between themselves as they worked on their weaving.
Although the family is paid some commission for having tourists roam around their home, I can’t say I didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable intruding upon them. As we were shown around, it felt pretty much like we were inside a live-action diaroma – us tourists on one side and the family on the other, minding their own business. After our guide was done with her explanation, the man of the house gave us the warmest of welcomes and then did his best to sell us some of their textiles.
All the while, we were invited to a different room where the women were busying themselves preparing some tortillas and tea for us to feast on. Having barely had the time to eat, I must’ve wolfed down some ten of them. I swear, the accompanying salsa was to die for! I thanked them over and over – soliciting a smile from the elder at one point!
Chamula
After getting a taste of life in the indigenous village, we moved on to visit the church of San Juan in a nearby town called Chamula. And this church? One word – eerie. Stepping inside, I remember being overcome by this wave of… weirdness? I genuinely don’t have a better word to describe it. I was as enchanted about it all as I was creeped out – the ethereal atmosphere something I had never experienced before. I’d say photos might be able to shed some light on this but even these are forbidden here (though I still managed to sneak a couple of ’em!).
The church features a blend of Mayan and Catholic customs, with pictures of saints being venerated as Mayan gods by its people. Countless differently coloured candles are burning at any moment, flowers of all shades and hues anywhere you look, copal resin incense smoke clouding up the space, the locals kneeling on the ground over dried pine boughs splayed all across the floors. Truly something out of this world.
The natives come to this church to pray in order to rid themselves of all kind of ailments, be it physical, mental or metaphysical. And, the prayers are usually prescribed by the town shaman who guides the locals into what kind of candles are to be used, and, if need be, what kind of animal needs to sacrificed. Guess that explained the old woman carrying a chicken, huh? These rituals would then be followed by drinking Pox; a liquor made of sugar cane which is believed to have healing and spiritual properties.
The guide, exasperated by her own tales and by what she had managed to escape from, also mentioned that various attempts by the government to provide free healthcare have failed miserably as the locals refuse to accept any kind of help that isn’t provided by their medicine man. Thinking about it, I found myself feeling conflicted. Whilst visiting ruins, I always try to imagine how these people used to lead their lives, always feeling this pang of envy and heartbreak that I’ll never get to experience it myself. Then I stumble upon these cultures that are a living example of what we used to be like only to judge them and justify progress.
When it comes to medicine, I’m clearly biased – being a doctor myself. Objectively, western medicine is superior to alternative medicine. Whilst that may be true, both should work hand in hand and that they shouldn’t be mutually exclusive. Also, one cannot expect a certain society who was never exposed to pills and drugs to suddenly start shoving fistfuls of tablets down their throats. So what then, is the solution? Outdated medical practices aside, I think my judgemental attitude had more to do with their sexist customs over anything else.
All in all, getting to experience some of their culture was mind-opening in more ways than one. It had me step out of my comfort zone as I got a first-hand glimpse at their lives as I tried to put myself in their shoes.