We visited a town outside of San Cristobal in the mountains by the name of San Juan Chamula. Words are not worthy of the experience we had there but as I´d like to share it with you, I will try my best to describe the exprerience: It was market day when we arrived. The local women were out and about in their woolen wrap skirts, thick woven belts that keep them standing as upright as royalty, and silk embroidered Huipile blouses, their hair in 2 braids tied with coloured ribbons and tassels. The men in wool ponchos, cowboy hats and boots. All manner of fruits and vegetables were piled in neat pyramids in pots, or piles ready weighed and measured to be sold; woven blankets, embroidered cloth and shirts, all the stalls sheltering under multicoloured beach umbrellas.
We sat on some steps overlooking the plaza and watched an ancient Tzotzil woman sitting quite still, wrapped in a purple woven shawl, only her white hair, and dark glinting eyes visible gazing silently into the distance. At her feet on weathered wooden crates stood rows of plastic orange pots piled with pyramids of fresh new potatoes still covered in soil. The woman sat so still, and seemed so at peace with the world; it struck me that she had found the answer, the Inner Peace we in the Western world are always searching for. She seemed completely empty as if her mind/soul was traveling in some other dimension. She probably sits like that day in day out, only returning to her physical body occasionally to sell a few spuds!
The church on the plaza was a simple white-washed building, the arched entrance decorated in turquoise, yellow and orange designs not dissimilar to some of the embroidered clothes for sale. The entrance door was made of worn wood. Inside the church the the light was dim; the floor was covered with a carpet of pine needles; the air smelt of insense and pine. The walls were lined with glass cabinets inside which stood garisly painted statues of saints, in front of these, and all about the alter were bunches of flowers and thousands of lighted candles.
Here and there on the floor sat groups of indigenous women, and their children. Each group spanned three of four generations. In front of each group rows of white, red, yellow, blue lighted candles were stuck to the floor with wax. Near the candles stood rows of canned and bottled coca-cola or fizzy pop, clear bottles of sugar cane Liquor, clear plastic bags of eggs and a live chicken. We joined a group of women who were beginning their ritual and listened and watched as the ancient Grandmother began to chant, only stopping as each breath wheezed to an end, resuming her chant again with each new breath. She lit the row of candles furthest away from her and chanted, waiting a while; then she lit the next, until all the rows were lit. The heat of all that fire caused the candles to wilt and bend; pools of wax formed between the rows. The Grandmother chanted as she poured liquor between the candles. It bubbled and hissed and merged with the pools of wax as it evaporated. She signalled to her Daughter who pulled a nervous chicken out of a sack. The Grandmother held the chicken by its legs and swung it over the candles. It squawked, and then was abrublty silent as the Grandmother broke its neck with one swift jerk and chicken saliva dripped into the candle flames. Then each family member took a drink of liquor from a glass, the baby of the family sucked liquor from her mother´s finger; they poured liquor into their palms, wahsing thier hands with it and wiping liquor onto their heads. Finally each member of the family drank a shot glass of coca cola!
Outside the church in the village we noticed how all the walls of shops and houses were covered in advertisements for coca-cola. Apparently someone came to the town a long time ago and told them Coca-Cola was a God and they have used it as an offering along with liquor and chickens ever since.
