An easier day trip out of San Cristobal de las Casas is a visit to one of many small Mayan villages in the hills surrounding the city. Lisa and I found a collectivo amidst a traffic clog near the mercado and slowly made it the few miles into the hills, dumped at the central plaza in San Juan Chamula, populated nearly entirely by Tzotzil Maya. Chamulans are known for their distinctive dress, involving thick black goatskin skirts and ponchos, which almost look to be unfinished gorilla costumes. The plaza itself doubles as the village market, with typical stalls thrown together haphazardly, a trickle of Tzotzil men and women negotiating prices for the black hairy fabrics. It seems to be a mark of social status, and so too young children have matching tiny get-ups of their esteemed moms and dads, maybe hand-me-downs.
Beside the plaza we found the tourist office, under the balcony with a gang of stern cowboy-hatted elders leaning on the balustrade staring across the town. Here, outsiders need to obtain a pass to visit the village church, a very serious affair. No photographs or videos are permitted inside or in the churchyard; offenders, I suppose, may be subjected to beat-downs and humiliations by those cowboy-hatted elders. I didn’t know the churchyard rule, so I have a few snaps, oops, got a few nasty looks, but inside I was sure to pocket the camera and not anger anyone else.
There’s a bouncer at the door checking credentials; a couple of his buddies are hanging around for intimidation purposes, or they’re bored. We stepped inside. The nave is dim, lit only by scant sunlight from the clerestory and hundreds, thousands of candles scattered about. There are no pews. Various wooden shrines sit against the walls, glass-boxed saints adorned with gaudy decor and florescent light; St. John (hence San Juan Chamula), not Jesus, stands at the nave’s focal point. The floor is covered in pine needles, the aroma mixing with burning incense and wax. The air is smoky and mysterious, echoing with the murmurs of prayer and ritual. A duo towards the back, one with a homemade guitar, the other on accordian, play slow, haunting rural melodies, no ending or beginning, tunes perhaps hundreds of years old.
We tiptoed to the front of the nave and sat on the floor out of the way, cautiously observing the rituals. In the simplest form, someone arrives in the church with a fistful of small candles, adheres them to the floor, and kneels before the lights and their chosen afternoon saint. Cheap, quick, easy. Those with some serious prayers to unfold arrive with significantly more candles, larger, of varying colors, as well as a heap of fresh pine needles, purchased at any village market in the area. Row upon row of lit wax will front a pine needle nest of sorts, and a whole family will sit for an hour or more rattling off various slogans and religious catch phrases. Not wanting to be outdone, some will hire Mayan healers and soothsayers to accompany their sessions, when old world rituals (swilling of liquors, passing of the hard-boiled egg, blessing of the sodas, beheading of the chicken, etc.) mix with Catholic prayer. The ultimate prayer package, it seems, involves a whole team of holy men and magic women and hundreds more candles placed at every single shrine in the room and across the nave, with the pine needles and soda and eggs but also with the gentlemen playing music for you and the crazy guy who darts outside every once in a while to set off fireworks. It might cost a small fortune but you will be the envy of the whole office.
We later hired a cab to take us over to an adjacent valley to the village of Zinacantan, the regional flower powerhouse. Their church, also off-limits to photography, is less fascinating but smelled great, thanks to the hundreds of fresh bouquets packing the altars. The town was nearly deserted; we wandered a bit and met little 8-year-old Maria, who has been pulled from school and enlisted by her weaving mother to corral visitors to her home in the hopes of off-loading an abundance of traditional Mayan clothing. Maria’s a doll. We strolled with her a bit and couldn’t resist the offer to visit her home; we have nothing else to do. Maria’s porch was filled with looms and textiles and her extended family: mother, aunties, grandmothers, all helping to string together the wares. Inside, in a dim entry foyer, Lisa thumbed through some fabrics and huipiles but ultimately decided she didn’t need more things to carry home. We said thanks but no thanks and waved adios to Maria, Maria’s mom, Maria’s aunties, Maria’s grandmother, and whoever else was hanging around the porch, and they all resumed their weaving, cursing us in Tzotzil under their breath. Oh well.
Tags: chiapas, mexico, san juan chamula, san lorenzo zinacantan
