San Cristóbal de Las Casas – Day 1: Mayan Rituals
SAN CRISTÓBAL DE LAS CASAS
Day 1: Mayan Rituals
August 16, 2022
Another nine hours spent on a bus, and once again I found myself wandering the streets of yet another gorgeous Mexican town – San Cristóbal de las Casas, in the state of Chiapas. Perhaps slightly over-touristic, though in reality, this town is where I felt the most comfortable and closest to the locals in all of Mexico.
For the first time since I had been in Mexico, I found myself sweating buckets. Chiapas, home to numerous forests and jungles, has a very humid, very tropical climate. The town, nestled in between the mountainous valleys, boasts a colonial layout. Much like the streets of Puebla and Oaxaca, one can expect the same vivid colours and art on the walls of nearly every building; albeit here, wrought-iron balconies and clay-tiled roofs are distinctive features.
The uneven pavements taught me (over and over again) that I’d better watch my step rather than the streets I was walking on, having found myself plastered to the ground more times than I care to admit. 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. It kinda reminded me of when I was twelve – a very awkward stage of puberty during which I seemed to trip down most staircases I climbed. But hey, you fall, you rise. And that’s how I got over it. Having to re-experience that by being thrown in at the deep end wasn’t quite to my liking, though. Damned stairs!
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. Damned stairs!
Zinacantán
With the afternoon all to myself, I ended up going on a tour to Zinacantán– a town in southern 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 a severely paternalistic and misogynistic culture, in which women are forbidden to show any form of emotion unless it is through their craft – typically, the art of textiles. They may only speak to members of their own family, and they have no right to education or other basic necessities such as healthcare unless these are provided by the town’s shaman. Any deviation from the norm usually results in imprisonment 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 has been living in Chiapas and has earned a degree in law and philosophy, paying off her student loans by offering her services as a guide. No scholar or mathematician could ever count the number 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 boughs on the floor. Whilst the word ‘cosy’ isn’t what I’d use to describe the rooms, I must admit there was a certain warmth to it that I didn’t quite expect. On one side of the room lay a shrine of 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, avoiding our glances, and stealing smiles between themselves as they worked on their weaving.
Although the family is paid some commission for allowing tourists to roam around their home, I can’t say I didn’t feel at least a little uncomfortable intruding upon them. As we were shown around, it felt very much like we were inside a live-action diorama – us tourists on one side, 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, then did his best to sell us some of their textiles.
All the while, we were invited into a different room where the women were busying themselves preparing tortillas and tea for us to enjoy. Having barely had the time to eat, I must’ve wolfed down at least ten of them. I swear, the accompanying salsa was to die for! I thanked them over and over – even 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 feeling overcome by a wave of… weirdness? I genuinely don’t have a better word to describe it. I was as enchanted by it all as I was creeped out – the ethereal atmosphere was something I had never experienced before. I’d say photos might 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 Christian saints being venerated as Mayan gods by the locals. Countless differently coloured candles are burning at any given moment, flowers of all shades and hues are scattered everywhere you look, copal resin incense smoke clouds the space, and the locals kneel on the ground over dried pine boughs splayed across the floor. Truly something out of this world.
The natives come to this church to pray in order to rid themselves of all kinds of ailments, be they physical, mental or metaphysical. The prayers are usually ‘prescribed’ by the town shaman, who guides the locals on what kind of candles are to be used and, if necessary, what kind of animal needs to be sacrificed. Guess that explained the old woman carrying a chicken, huh? These rituals are often followed by drinking pox – a liquor made from sugarcane, believed to have healing and spiritual properties.
The guide, exasperated by her own tales and by what she had managed to escape, 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 kinda conflicted. Whilst visiting ancient ruins, I always try to imagine how these people used to live – feeling a pang of envy and heartbreak that I’ll never get to experience it myself. Then, somehow, against all odds, I stumble upon these people – still doing their best to keep their culture alive – only to judge them and justify progress.
When it comes to medicine, I’m clearly biased – being a doctor myself – meaning that my judgement was perhaps a bit too harsh. Objectively, Western medicine is superior to alternative medicine. Whilst that may be true, both should work hand in hand, and they shouldn’t be mutually exclusive. Also, one cannot expect a society that was never exposed to pills and drugs to suddenly start shoving fistfuls of tablets down their throats. Change, I’ve been taught, comes in waves, and cultural evolution happens over time. The introduction of a foreign concept has to be followed by a period of acclimatisation and then a proper means of integration.
All in all, getting to experience some of their culture was eye-opening in more ways than one. It pushed me out of my comfort zone as I caught a first-hand glimpse of their lives and tried to put myself in their shoes, all the while trying to reconcile the fact that progress has to be wanted, not just imposed on people.