Monday, May 29, 2006
La cabeza perdida
While I was visiting an art museum in Cuernava (the house of an American who collected art from all over the world and donated his house and collection as a museum when he died) I was drawn to the head of a Buddha, one that I recognized from the many I had seen last year in Thailand. Upon reading the caption under the head, I found that it was one of the many missing Buddha heads belonging to one of the many headless Buddha bodies of the ruins in Ayutthaya Thailand. It was interesting after hearing the stories of how so many Thai ruins had been plundered and Buddha statues releived of their heads to be sold to collectors around the world, to actually see one, all the way on the other side of the world.
No se porque...
I have discovered that I have a strange effect on old Mexican men, not one that I would say I enjoy, but one that I seem to have nonetheless.
While waiting for my bus to Puebla in the bus station in Oaxaca, I was approached by the porter who asked me where I was headed. I told him Puebla and he asked where I was coming from. After a brief exchange, he complimented me on my Spanish and pointed me in the direction of the waiting lounge.
A few minutes later, the man reappeared, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that I had begun to read my book, he began talking about his job and where he was from. I politely put down my book and conversed with him for a few minutes. He then excused himself and returned with a bag full of tortas, Mexican sandwiches (which he had made by himself because he was not married), and offered me one. I had already had breakfast, but after he continued to insist, I agreed to take one to have for lunch on the bus. Then regardless of my protestations, he hurried off to buy me a drink to go with the sandwich. Each time he left, I resumed my reading, but he continued to return and pick up the conversation where he had left off. Once it was determined that I was 29 and not married, he began to mention that he would like to see me again and that whenever I came back through Oaxaca I should visit him at his house, all possibilities I politely refused.
Finally, much to my relief, it was time to board the bus and I bid farewell the porter "promising" to write him at the address he had given me (after refusing to give him mine saying truthfully that I had none). Much to my dismay, even after I boarded, he continued to come on to the bus to tell me that I was beautiful and making me promise to write and finally that he loved me and hoped that I would be the mother of his children. I was extremely grateful when the bus pulled away from the station leaving my new admirer behind.
Thinking this a rare occurrence, I thought nothing of the older man who approached me and began talking to me in a museum in Cuernavaca. He mentioned that he was married, but that he wife didn’t like to travel and so he was here on his own for the day. He seemed nice enough and somewhat sad, in the manner of an old retired man who feels his life has passed him by, so of course when he asked me if I would like to have a drink and chat for a while, I agreed.
We left the museum and I followed him to a local outdoor cafe, where he proceeded to tell me about his life and ask me about mine. I thought maybe he was just lonely and would like to talk, so I kept the conversation going by asking him about his work and his hobbies and his family. Finally when the conversation turned to how lucky he was to have met me, how he was in love with me and how much he would like to see me again, I began to mention the "friends" that I was "meeting" in half an hour. He said that it was a "lastima" that I had to go and told me that he would never forget that moment. He asked me to wait just a few more minutes because he wanted to sing me a song, at which he began signing me what sounded like an old Frank Sinatra song, much to my relief - just lough enough for me to hear. When he was finished, I thanked him for his company, told him how nice it was to have met him and took my leave.
While waiting for my bus to Puebla in the bus station in Oaxaca, I was approached by the porter who asked me where I was headed. I told him Puebla and he asked where I was coming from. After a brief exchange, he complimented me on my Spanish and pointed me in the direction of the waiting lounge.
A few minutes later, the man reappeared, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that I had begun to read my book, he began talking about his job and where he was from. I politely put down my book and conversed with him for a few minutes. He then excused himself and returned with a bag full of tortas, Mexican sandwiches (which he had made by himself because he was not married), and offered me one. I had already had breakfast, but after he continued to insist, I agreed to take one to have for lunch on the bus. Then regardless of my protestations, he hurried off to buy me a drink to go with the sandwich. Each time he left, I resumed my reading, but he continued to return and pick up the conversation where he had left off. Once it was determined that I was 29 and not married, he began to mention that he would like to see me again and that whenever I came back through Oaxaca I should visit him at his house, all possibilities I politely refused.
Finally, much to my relief, it was time to board the bus and I bid farewell the porter "promising" to write him at the address he had given me (after refusing to give him mine saying truthfully that I had none). Much to my dismay, even after I boarded, he continued to come on to the bus to tell me that I was beautiful and making me promise to write and finally that he loved me and hoped that I would be the mother of his children. I was extremely grateful when the bus pulled away from the station leaving my new admirer behind.
Thinking this a rare occurrence, I thought nothing of the older man who approached me and began talking to me in a museum in Cuernavaca. He mentioned that he was married, but that he wife didn’t like to travel and so he was here on his own for the day. He seemed nice enough and somewhat sad, in the manner of an old retired man who feels his life has passed him by, so of course when he asked me if I would like to have a drink and chat for a while, I agreed.
We left the museum and I followed him to a local outdoor cafe, where he proceeded to tell me about his life and ask me about mine. I thought maybe he was just lonely and would like to talk, so I kept the conversation going by asking him about his work and his hobbies and his family. Finally when the conversation turned to how lucky he was to have met me, how he was in love with me and how much he would like to see me again, I began to mention the "friends" that I was "meeting" in half an hour. He said that it was a "lastima" that I had to go and told me that he would never forget that moment. He asked me to wait just a few more minutes because he wanted to sing me a song, at which he began signing me what sounded like an old Frank Sinatra song, much to my relief - just lough enough for me to hear. When he was finished, I thanked him for his company, told him how nice it was to have met him and took my leave.
Cuernavaca
I left Oaxaca for Puebla in route to Cuernavaca on the 10:30 bus. The trip to Puebla was peaceful and scenic and I sat back and enjoyed my new cds and watched the Mexican countryside go from lush green farmland to dry, mountainous desert.
When we arrived in Puebla, still sans any guide book, I asked the bus driver where I would find a bus to continue on the Cuernavaca and he pointed me in the right direction. I then asked a gas station attendant and two friendly men ferrying some sort of equipment across the highway who directed me to a bus to the bus station. Once on the bus, I asked my seatmate to tell me when to get off, after which I questioned the guys at the bus stop, a man washing his car on the street, a policeman and a taco vender. Finally, thanks to the combined directions and arm gestures of all of the previous men, I found myself at the bus station where I purchased my ticket to Cuernavaca.
Once in Cuernavaca, I headed immediately to the zocalo, which I remembered from my trip there some years before, in search of a cheap hostel. I had read in a guide book in the hostel in Oaxaca that the cheaper rooms were to be found on Matamoros a street near the zocalo, so I asked around until I found myself in that general area. The guidebook I had utilized, not one which catered to the backpacker crowd, had described the hotels in this area as of the type which “rent rooms by the hour.” Thinking the book snobbish; I expected to find simple, clean rooms, simply beneath the editors of that particular guidebook, but what I found, did indeed, appear to be rooms that rented by the hour: small, windowless cells with dirty sheets and scurrying shadows. I looked at three places, before finally settling on a passable one within my price range. Unfortunately, after paying and returning to change for dinner, I noticed that I was to share my room with a family of giant cockroaches. Disgusted, but composed, I returned to the office to ask the man behind the counter if he had anything to kill the “cucarachas,” upon which I was told that they just come in under the door and that there was nothing he could do. He handed me a broom and a rag with which to block the door and sent me on my way. Resigned, conscious of the darkening evening, I swept the roaches out the door and used his rag to block a hole in the way into which the one roach I was unable to sweep out, disappeared. I then blocked the bottom of the door with the bedspread, piled all of my belongings on the bedside table and headed out for dinner, knowing that I was in for a long night because there was no way I was sleeping in that room with the light off!
When we arrived in Puebla, still sans any guide book, I asked the bus driver where I would find a bus to continue on the Cuernavaca and he pointed me in the right direction. I then asked a gas station attendant and two friendly men ferrying some sort of equipment across the highway who directed me to a bus to the bus station. Once on the bus, I asked my seatmate to tell me when to get off, after which I questioned the guys at the bus stop, a man washing his car on the street, a policeman and a taco vender. Finally, thanks to the combined directions and arm gestures of all of the previous men, I found myself at the bus station where I purchased my ticket to Cuernavaca.
Once in Cuernavaca, I headed immediately to the zocalo, which I remembered from my trip there some years before, in search of a cheap hostel. I had read in a guide book in the hostel in Oaxaca that the cheaper rooms were to be found on Matamoros a street near the zocalo, so I asked around until I found myself in that general area. The guidebook I had utilized, not one which catered to the backpacker crowd, had described the hotels in this area as of the type which “rent rooms by the hour.” Thinking the book snobbish; I expected to find simple, clean rooms, simply beneath the editors of that particular guidebook, but what I found, did indeed, appear to be rooms that rented by the hour: small, windowless cells with dirty sheets and scurrying shadows. I looked at three places, before finally settling on a passable one within my price range. Unfortunately, after paying and returning to change for dinner, I noticed that I was to share my room with a family of giant cockroaches. Disgusted, but composed, I returned to the office to ask the man behind the counter if he had anything to kill the “cucarachas,” upon which I was told that they just come in under the door and that there was nothing he could do. He handed me a broom and a rag with which to block the door and sent me on my way. Resigned, conscious of the darkening evening, I swept the roaches out the door and used his rag to block a hole in the way into which the one roach I was unable to sweep out, disappeared. I then blocked the bottom of the door with the bedspread, piled all of my belongings on the bedside table and headed out for dinner, knowing that I was in for a long night because there was no way I was sleeping in that room with the light off!
Oaxaca
My bus trip to Oaxaca was relatively uneventful. I was a little concerned a first that they were going to stop every thirty minutes to let people on and off, each time turning on the lights and announcing, loudly, our destination. I began to grumble internally about the fact that I had paid, more than I thought I should have paid, for a first-class, “direct,” bus and this whole stopping every thirty minutes thing was not really working for my plan for a good night’s sleep, but eventually, they must have completed all of the stops because I was able to get to sleep.
When we arrived at 6:30 in the morning, I found that I was not the only other foreign traveller on the bus and introduced myself to Anna, on her last few days of a 10 month trip around the world from Germany. Interestingly enough, Anna did not have a guide book either and she too was headed to the same hostel that I was headed to. We decided to walk together after learning that there was a teachers´ strike and that taking a cab would be fruitless because the streets around the center of town were all filled with tents and tarps. After ducking and winding our way through the maze of tents, we found our hostel, where we settled in before heading out to explore the city.
Oaxaca, like many other Mexican cities, is one of many colors. On almost every street, each house and abutting business are painted in different, vibrant colors. While Oaxaca houses some beautiful old churches, much of the city seems to be of every day use and was not extraordinarily picturesque. The city center, or zolocalo, which I had heard was quite impressive, was impressive for the moment, filled as it was with hundreds of tents, tarps and signs praising socialism, communism and listing the teachers demands. Of the buildings and other ornaments, there was little to be seen.
The following day, Anna was feeling ill, so I left her to recuperate, while I visited what is said to be the biggest tree in the world, in El Tule, and the Aztec ruins of Mitla, before heading back to Oaxaca.
That night I finally realized the appeal of the backpackers’ hostel, complete with shared dormitory, shared kitchen and free movies watched from an array of well worn couches. Because I had already overspent my allocation of cash for the day, I bought a packet of spinach soup from the nearby grocery and had a simple dinner of spinach soup (made significantly tastier by the packet of oriental soup spices left by another traveller before) and joined my fellow travellers on the couch for a movie. Granted not a very “Mexican” experience, but enjoyable nonetheless.
When we arrived at 6:30 in the morning, I found that I was not the only other foreign traveller on the bus and introduced myself to Anna, on her last few days of a 10 month trip around the world from Germany. Interestingly enough, Anna did not have a guide book either and she too was headed to the same hostel that I was headed to. We decided to walk together after learning that there was a teachers´ strike and that taking a cab would be fruitless because the streets around the center of town were all filled with tents and tarps. After ducking and winding our way through the maze of tents, we found our hostel, where we settled in before heading out to explore the city.
Oaxaca, like many other Mexican cities, is one of many colors. On almost every street, each house and abutting business are painted in different, vibrant colors. While Oaxaca houses some beautiful old churches, much of the city seems to be of every day use and was not extraordinarily picturesque. The city center, or zolocalo, which I had heard was quite impressive, was impressive for the moment, filled as it was with hundreds of tents, tarps and signs praising socialism, communism and listing the teachers demands. Of the buildings and other ornaments, there was little to be seen.
The following day, Anna was feeling ill, so I left her to recuperate, while I visited what is said to be the biggest tree in the world, in El Tule, and the Aztec ruins of Mitla, before heading back to Oaxaca.
That night I finally realized the appeal of the backpackers’ hostel, complete with shared dormitory, shared kitchen and free movies watched from an array of well worn couches. Because I had already overspent my allocation of cash for the day, I bought a packet of spinach soup from the nearby grocery and had a simple dinner of spinach soup (made significantly tastier by the packet of oriental soup spices left by another traveller before) and joined my fellow travellers on the couch for a movie. Granted not a very “Mexican” experience, but enjoyable nonetheless.
Mas de Mexico
I left San Cristobal de las Casas early the next morning for Tuxtla Gutierrez, the capital of the state of Chiapas, where I hoped to see my first quetzal.
Happy to be free of tourist shuttles, I found my way to a collectiva stop where shuttles (much like the ones they use for tourists, but filled instead with Mexicans and for a tenth of the price) leave when filled, for various destinations. I settled in with my new book, Aztec, a fictional history of the Aztecs - interesting, but at times disturbingly graphic.
The shuttle dropped me off on the side of the highway nearest to the "embarcaro" for boat trips through the Sumedero Canyon. Since I had arrived alone and the boats only left when full, I decided to have breakfast and asked for an order of juevos ranchos, which turned out to be one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had: two tortillas, topped with fried eggs, tomatoes, onions, jalapeños, avocado and crumbled cheese (sorry, it was so good I had to share). After breakfast, the loading dock began to fill up with people and I purchased a ticket for the first boat.
Throughout the trip, I was constantly thinking of my father and how much he would have loved that boat ride. The canyon was spectacular, reaching over a thousand meters in some places, and the lush foliage on the banks teemed with local birds, pelicans, gulls, herons, and interestingly enough, tons of vultures. At various points throughout the trip, the driver would pull over to point out a basking crocodile or an interesting rock formation.
After the trip, I returned to the road where I caught a bus to Tuxtla and made my way to the bus station to purchase a ticket for Oaxaca for that evening. Having still not yet found a Lonely Planet or any other guide for that matter, I was travelling on notes taken from guides that I had borrowed from others and on the directions given to me by the various people I met on the street.
After finding the bus station, purchasing my ticket for a 7:30 p.m. bus that evening, I caught a cab to the zoo.
In Guatemala, you hear constantly of the quetzal. Not only is the quetzal their national bird, but it is also their national currency and holds a prominent place in much of their indigenous history. Unfortunately, the quetzal is also in danger of extinction and therefore is almost, if not entirely, impossible to find in Guatemala. Hence, I found myself in southern Mexico, making my way to the local zoo, simply because I had heard that they had the elusive quetzal.
Zoomat, the zoo itself, was quite impressive, having recently been redone in a way that allowed the animals to live in impressive enclosures replicating their natural habitats, without, of course, the freedom; although there were some animals that did seem to have the freedom to roam at will. I had asked my taxi driver to come back for me at 5:00 so I had three hours to relax and take my time enjoying the park. There were many parrots and other birds, including two species of toucan (see Kev, that was a toucan!), and lots of other animals that I was recognized, including a few that I did not. When I finally reached the spot where the quetzal was housed, I stopped to chat with him for a bit and tell him how far I’d come to see him. I made sure to get a few photos, but because I had to take them through the bars I’m not sure how well they’ll turn out.
After leaving the zoo, hot and sweaty, I headed back to the bus stop for my overnight ride to Oaxaca feeling sorry for the person who would have to share my row.
http://www.travellog.com/guatemala/quetzal.html
http://www.dimijianimages.com/More-page2/quetzal-full.htm
http://www.montereybay.com/creagrus/ETsumidero.html
Happy to be free of tourist shuttles, I found my way to a collectiva stop where shuttles (much like the ones they use for tourists, but filled instead with Mexicans and for a tenth of the price) leave when filled, for various destinations. I settled in with my new book, Aztec, a fictional history of the Aztecs - interesting, but at times disturbingly graphic.
The shuttle dropped me off on the side of the highway nearest to the "embarcaro" for boat trips through the Sumedero Canyon. Since I had arrived alone and the boats only left when full, I decided to have breakfast and asked for an order of juevos ranchos, which turned out to be one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had: two tortillas, topped with fried eggs, tomatoes, onions, jalapeños, avocado and crumbled cheese (sorry, it was so good I had to share). After breakfast, the loading dock began to fill up with people and I purchased a ticket for the first boat.
Throughout the trip, I was constantly thinking of my father and how much he would have loved that boat ride. The canyon was spectacular, reaching over a thousand meters in some places, and the lush foliage on the banks teemed with local birds, pelicans, gulls, herons, and interestingly enough, tons of vultures. At various points throughout the trip, the driver would pull over to point out a basking crocodile or an interesting rock formation.
After the trip, I returned to the road where I caught a bus to Tuxtla and made my way to the bus station to purchase a ticket for Oaxaca for that evening. Having still not yet found a Lonely Planet or any other guide for that matter, I was travelling on notes taken from guides that I had borrowed from others and on the directions given to me by the various people I met on the street.
After finding the bus station, purchasing my ticket for a 7:30 p.m. bus that evening, I caught a cab to the zoo.
In Guatemala, you hear constantly of the quetzal. Not only is the quetzal their national bird, but it is also their national currency and holds a prominent place in much of their indigenous history. Unfortunately, the quetzal is also in danger of extinction and therefore is almost, if not entirely, impossible to find in Guatemala. Hence, I found myself in southern Mexico, making my way to the local zoo, simply because I had heard that they had the elusive quetzal.
Zoomat, the zoo itself, was quite impressive, having recently been redone in a way that allowed the animals to live in impressive enclosures replicating their natural habitats, without, of course, the freedom; although there were some animals that did seem to have the freedom to roam at will. I had asked my taxi driver to come back for me at 5:00 so I had three hours to relax and take my time enjoying the park. There were many parrots and other birds, including two species of toucan (see Kev, that was a toucan!), and lots of other animals that I was recognized, including a few that I did not. When I finally reached the spot where the quetzal was housed, I stopped to chat with him for a bit and tell him how far I’d come to see him. I made sure to get a few photos, but because I had to take them through the bars I’m not sure how well they’ll turn out.
After leaving the zoo, hot and sweaty, I headed back to the bus stop for my overnight ride to Oaxaca feeling sorry for the person who would have to share my row.
http://www.travellog.com/guatemala/quetzal.html
http://www.dimijianimages.com/More-page2/quetzal-full.htm
http://www.montereybay.com/creagrus/ETsumidero.html
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Una ventana a el Mundo Maya
I set out this morning in search of a "woman with an umbrella" as the Rough Guide described Mercedes, a local woman who gives walking tours, using local transportation and has been known to refuse customers because she "didn´t like their vibe." Mercedes sounded like my kind of woman, so after a delicious breakfast of some kind of sweet bread at the local panaderia (I forgot how much I loved Mexican bakeries), I set out towards the main square. After inquiring at a tourist kiosk after "una mujer con un paraguas," I spotted just such a woman and approached her for information. She immediately handed me a flyer that listed the details of the day´s tour and said that if I wanted to go, I had to pay her right then. My usual suspicions at bay since I had specifically sought her out, I happily agreed to pay, afterwhich the woman stuck a bright red sticker on the front of my shirt that read, "pagado," and told me that the tour would be leaving in 25 mintues. I thanked her and headed off to the bank for some more pesos.
As I was walking towards the bank a man approached me and opened his mouth to speak, shutting it as his eyes encountered the bright red "pagado" on my shirt. "Aye," he said, "Ya estas con Mercedes." He then introduced himself as one of a team of the other local guides that I had read about in the book. He continued talking to me, explaining what I thought was his happiness that, although I had chosen to go with Mercedes over them, that at least I was using a local guide as oppossed to a tour agency. I wholeheartedly agreed and he continued saying something to the effect of "anyone can stand out with a colored umbrella and say, "I´m Mercedes."" Finishing up, he bade me farewell and told me to enjoy me tour. I left him wondering if I had made the right choice, but steadfast in my decision to enjoy the day since the die had already been cast.
When I returned to the spot where the woman was standing with her umbrella, another woman walked up and began speaking in English, exlaiming, "Mercedes! I met you 12 years ago at this same spot. I don´t know if you...," at which she was interrupted by the woman who explained that she was not, in fact, Mercedes, but that Mercedes had retired two years ago and had turned her tours over to her. After the woman thanked her and walked away, I introduced myself and asked the woman her name. She told me that her name was Rosie and that Mercedes had become a Buddist Nun (I knew I would have like Mercedes!) two years before and she had picked up where Mercedes had left off. But, she assured me, the tour was just as good and I would enjoy it immensly. She then motioned to a mini-van idling on the side of the road which, she said, was to be our transport. With a sinking spirit, I made my way over to the van, which already contained five other travelers, and took a seat inside, before we drove away, "Mercedes" and her umbrella, a disappearing spot in the distance. I was determined to make the best out of this tour, as I mentally noted to write to the Rough Guide to tell that that Mercedes had retired and that the "woman with the umbrella" was an imposter front for a commercialized tour company.
When we arrived at the first village, San Juan Chamula, my spirit recieved yet another blow at the site of two huge tour buses purging swarms of Caucasion tourists. To my relief, we past the parking lot and continued along a narrow road, that presumably could not accomodate the massive buses.
When our guide stopped the van, we all got out and he explained to us that we had not stopped at the parking lot because the bigger tours simply brought tourists to the church, zipped in and out, and were gone in less than 20 minutes. Our tour, he explained, was more personal, and we would spend two hours walking around the village and learning about the local customs. Relieved, I dispelled all doubts and prepared to enjoy the tour.
The others on the tour included a couple from Spain, another couple from Mexico City and two girls from Holland. Since the girls from Holland also understood Spanish, we unanimously agreed to have the tour in Spanish, something the guide was pleased to do since he had never done it before.
As we walked up the winding street, our guide stopped at various points along the way explaining different Mayan customs and traditions. While we were not allowed to take pictures of the people (because they believe that it robs them of their spirit), we were allowed to take pictures of the town, which unfortunately I cannot share with you at this time..
The first thing that he pointed out were the traditional Mayan adobe houses that appeared every so often between more modern houses of cement block. The adobe houses, he explained were not only economical to build, but were also environmentally friendly, using products from the surrounding areas; energy efficient, their palm roofs and thick mud walls keeping the homes warm in the winter and cool in the summer; and earthquake resistant, extremely important in an area that recives numerous tremmors a year.
He then went on to explain that the people of Chamula ate primarily vegetarian meals which they prepared from their frutiful gardens, although they would eat chicken, pork, beef and fish on occasion for a special event. He expained that their main crops were corn, beans and pumpkins, which they grew all together because of the symbiotic relationship of the crops. The corn provided a stem on which the bean vine could grow while also providing shade for the pumpkins, which provided shade for the roots of the corn as well as valuable nutrients for the soil of all three crops. He then talked about the importance of sheep in Chamula.
Because of the cold climate, wool is used for much of the traditional clothing, making a sheep a valuable comodity. The people also believe that sheep are a gift from their patron saint and instead of using them for food when they die, they bury the sheep in their gardens to help to fertilze their crops.
Walking through the town, one can´t help but notice the abundance of crosses. Although at first appearing to be a devoutly Christian village, our guide explained, that it was quite the opposite. The Mayans had been using the figure of a cross to represent both a spiritual tree found in the lowlands of Mexico and Central America and the four directions of the universe, long before the Spanish introduced Christianity to the area. Each family unit, or group of families – grandparents, parents, children – sharing the same land, has a green cross in their yard, which is considered to be the spirirual entrance for the family unit. Many ceremonies and sacrifies, including marriages, are performed at the cross, which the Mayans believe is a direct connection between themselves and their gods. While the Spanish tried, successfully in many places, to convert the peoples of Mexico and Central and South America to Catholocism, the Mayan people, while appearing to accept the religion, and even accepting it on some levels, mixed thier own traditions with those of the Catholic Church, both pacifing the Spaniards and allowing their own culture traditions to persevere. The one “Catholic” church in the village is a testiment to this reality.
While appearing much like a traditional church from the outside, the church in Chamula, is not at all as it appears. Upon entering the church, one is greeted with the site of thousands of lighted candles forming lines on the floor and adorning the rows of tables to each side of the church. Each wall is liked with figures of Catholic saints in glass cases, dressed in traditional finery with a mirror on a string drapped around their necks (to provide the appearance of a connection with the devout). Groups of indigenous people knelt behind groups of candles, many also with other requirments of a cermony directed by the local curandera, or folk healer: soda, a bottle of can alcohol, a bag of eggs and a live chicken. While we stood by unobtrusively, the people proceeded with their ceremonies, some of which, we were told, although we did not witness, involved the sacrifice of the chickens on the church floor.
The story that I found the most amusing was that of the group of figures of saints who stood to one side of the church near the back, plainly adorned and laking the brightly burning candles that graced the tables of the other figures. We were told that these figures did not belong in this church, but had resided in another church in the cemetery that had burned down over 100 years before. Because these saints did not protect their sancturary, they were being punished and had been for the past 100 years. While the other saints were dressed in fine clothing, these saints were clothed only in plain wraps (even which, we were told, were relatively new additions after having stood without clothing for many years), were not visited by patrons and were left alone in the church during festivals, while the other saints were taking out and paraded about town.
After our visit to the church, we made our way to the cemetery where the ruins of the old church stood. The cemetary was simple and picturesque, with plots of earth adorned with simple wooden crosses (black for the elderly, blue or green for adults, and white for children). What we could not see, our guide explained, was inside the coffins, where each person, upon their death was prepared for the long journey through the underworld, which the Mayans believe everyone takes, before again resuming a life on earth. Each body is dressed and provided with a pocket full of coins to pay for passage through the world of the dead. Each body is given a bag filled with food and drink, for the journey is long, as well as an needle and thread to sew any holes that will invetibley appear in their clothing with the passage of time.
After leaving the cemetary, we set off for the village of Zinacantan, where we visited the home of a local family, the women of which wove textiles to sell in the local markets. We were able to watch the women weave, make corn tortillas (which we sampled with local cheese and avacado. Yummy!) and try a sample of the local cane alcohol that is used both for ceremonies and everyday enjoyment.
As we left the village, I found myself in a zone of contentment, extremely pleased with the day, my travel companions, our guide and the fact that I understood 98% of what was said throughout the tour. I sat back, quite pleased with myself, realizing that my mood might be more from the cane alcohol than simply from my enjoyment of the day, but not caring one bit.
As I was walking towards the bank a man approached me and opened his mouth to speak, shutting it as his eyes encountered the bright red "pagado" on my shirt. "Aye," he said, "Ya estas con Mercedes." He then introduced himself as one of a team of the other local guides that I had read about in the book. He continued talking to me, explaining what I thought was his happiness that, although I had chosen to go with Mercedes over them, that at least I was using a local guide as oppossed to a tour agency. I wholeheartedly agreed and he continued saying something to the effect of "anyone can stand out with a colored umbrella and say, "I´m Mercedes."" Finishing up, he bade me farewell and told me to enjoy me tour. I left him wondering if I had made the right choice, but steadfast in my decision to enjoy the day since the die had already been cast.
When I returned to the spot where the woman was standing with her umbrella, another woman walked up and began speaking in English, exlaiming, "Mercedes! I met you 12 years ago at this same spot. I don´t know if you...," at which she was interrupted by the woman who explained that she was not, in fact, Mercedes, but that Mercedes had retired two years ago and had turned her tours over to her. After the woman thanked her and walked away, I introduced myself and asked the woman her name. She told me that her name was Rosie and that Mercedes had become a Buddist Nun (I knew I would have like Mercedes!) two years before and she had picked up where Mercedes had left off. But, she assured me, the tour was just as good and I would enjoy it immensly. She then motioned to a mini-van idling on the side of the road which, she said, was to be our transport. With a sinking spirit, I made my way over to the van, which already contained five other travelers, and took a seat inside, before we drove away, "Mercedes" and her umbrella, a disappearing spot in the distance. I was determined to make the best out of this tour, as I mentally noted to write to the Rough Guide to tell that that Mercedes had retired and that the "woman with the umbrella" was an imposter front for a commercialized tour company.
When we arrived at the first village, San Juan Chamula, my spirit recieved yet another blow at the site of two huge tour buses purging swarms of Caucasion tourists. To my relief, we past the parking lot and continued along a narrow road, that presumably could not accomodate the massive buses.
When our guide stopped the van, we all got out and he explained to us that we had not stopped at the parking lot because the bigger tours simply brought tourists to the church, zipped in and out, and were gone in less than 20 minutes. Our tour, he explained, was more personal, and we would spend two hours walking around the village and learning about the local customs. Relieved, I dispelled all doubts and prepared to enjoy the tour.
The others on the tour included a couple from Spain, another couple from Mexico City and two girls from Holland. Since the girls from Holland also understood Spanish, we unanimously agreed to have the tour in Spanish, something the guide was pleased to do since he had never done it before.
As we walked up the winding street, our guide stopped at various points along the way explaining different Mayan customs and traditions. While we were not allowed to take pictures of the people (because they believe that it robs them of their spirit), we were allowed to take pictures of the town, which unfortunately I cannot share with you at this time..
The first thing that he pointed out were the traditional Mayan adobe houses that appeared every so often between more modern houses of cement block. The adobe houses, he explained were not only economical to build, but were also environmentally friendly, using products from the surrounding areas; energy efficient, their palm roofs and thick mud walls keeping the homes warm in the winter and cool in the summer; and earthquake resistant, extremely important in an area that recives numerous tremmors a year.
He then went on to explain that the people of Chamula ate primarily vegetarian meals which they prepared from their frutiful gardens, although they would eat chicken, pork, beef and fish on occasion for a special event. He expained that their main crops were corn, beans and pumpkins, which they grew all together because of the symbiotic relationship of the crops. The corn provided a stem on which the bean vine could grow while also providing shade for the pumpkins, which provided shade for the roots of the corn as well as valuable nutrients for the soil of all three crops. He then talked about the importance of sheep in Chamula.
Because of the cold climate, wool is used for much of the traditional clothing, making a sheep a valuable comodity. The people also believe that sheep are a gift from their patron saint and instead of using them for food when they die, they bury the sheep in their gardens to help to fertilze their crops.
Walking through the town, one can´t help but notice the abundance of crosses. Although at first appearing to be a devoutly Christian village, our guide explained, that it was quite the opposite. The Mayans had been using the figure of a cross to represent both a spiritual tree found in the lowlands of Mexico and Central America and the four directions of the universe, long before the Spanish introduced Christianity to the area. Each family unit, or group of families – grandparents, parents, children – sharing the same land, has a green cross in their yard, which is considered to be the spirirual entrance for the family unit. Many ceremonies and sacrifies, including marriages, are performed at the cross, which the Mayans believe is a direct connection between themselves and their gods. While the Spanish tried, successfully in many places, to convert the peoples of Mexico and Central and South America to Catholocism, the Mayan people, while appearing to accept the religion, and even accepting it on some levels, mixed thier own traditions with those of the Catholic Church, both pacifing the Spaniards and allowing their own culture traditions to persevere. The one “Catholic” church in the village is a testiment to this reality.
While appearing much like a traditional church from the outside, the church in Chamula, is not at all as it appears. Upon entering the church, one is greeted with the site of thousands of lighted candles forming lines on the floor and adorning the rows of tables to each side of the church. Each wall is liked with figures of Catholic saints in glass cases, dressed in traditional finery with a mirror on a string drapped around their necks (to provide the appearance of a connection with the devout). Groups of indigenous people knelt behind groups of candles, many also with other requirments of a cermony directed by the local curandera, or folk healer: soda, a bottle of can alcohol, a bag of eggs and a live chicken. While we stood by unobtrusively, the people proceeded with their ceremonies, some of which, we were told, although we did not witness, involved the sacrifice of the chickens on the church floor.
The story that I found the most amusing was that of the group of figures of saints who stood to one side of the church near the back, plainly adorned and laking the brightly burning candles that graced the tables of the other figures. We were told that these figures did not belong in this church, but had resided in another church in the cemetery that had burned down over 100 years before. Because these saints did not protect their sancturary, they were being punished and had been for the past 100 years. While the other saints were dressed in fine clothing, these saints were clothed only in plain wraps (even which, we were told, were relatively new additions after having stood without clothing for many years), were not visited by patrons and were left alone in the church during festivals, while the other saints were taking out and paraded about town.
After our visit to the church, we made our way to the cemetery where the ruins of the old church stood. The cemetary was simple and picturesque, with plots of earth adorned with simple wooden crosses (black for the elderly, blue or green for adults, and white for children). What we could not see, our guide explained, was inside the coffins, where each person, upon their death was prepared for the long journey through the underworld, which the Mayans believe everyone takes, before again resuming a life on earth. Each body is dressed and provided with a pocket full of coins to pay for passage through the world of the dead. Each body is given a bag filled with food and drink, for the journey is long, as well as an needle and thread to sew any holes that will invetibley appear in their clothing with the passage of time.
After leaving the cemetary, we set off for the village of Zinacantan, where we visited the home of a local family, the women of which wove textiles to sell in the local markets. We were able to watch the women weave, make corn tortillas (which we sampled with local cheese and avacado. Yummy!) and try a sample of the local cane alcohol that is used both for ceremonies and everyday enjoyment.
As we left the village, I found myself in a zone of contentment, extremely pleased with the day, my travel companions, our guide and the fact that I understood 98% of what was said throughout the tour. I sat back, quite pleased with myself, realizing that my mood might be more from the cane alcohol than simply from my enjoyment of the day, but not caring one bit.
¡Viva Mexico!
I have only been in Mexico for a little over a day and am already so glad that I came!
After an early start yesterday morning, I arrived via shuttle in San Cristobal de las Casas. The ride was plesant, but because it was "privado" we were denied the great cultural comradary formed by cramming 50 people in a van built for 25 and I felt sad each time we passed a local on the road waving for us to stop and pick them up.
San Cristobal is a relatively small, colonial style city that, at first, reminded me a lot of Antigua. I headed straight for the Magic Hostel where I had read that I could get an affordable dorm bed (less than $5 as oppossed to a private room for $15!) and happily settled in before setting off to find a book store where I could buy a Mexican Lonely Planet (having conveniently put off buying one until I was actually inside the coutry..). Unfortunately, the bookstore was closed on Mondays and so I headed back to the hostel to plan my trip using an old copy of the Mexican Rough Guide.
After an hour or so on reading up on potential destinations, including a boat ride through Sumidero Canyon and a visit to Malinalco, which sounds absolutely beautiful and is also the site of an Aztec temple in which they made human sacrifices, I headed out for a dinner of tortilla soup and a documentary on the Zapitistas, a revolutionary army based in Chiapas which has been fighting for the rights of the indeginous people of Mexico for years.
After an early start yesterday morning, I arrived via shuttle in San Cristobal de las Casas. The ride was plesant, but because it was "privado" we were denied the great cultural comradary formed by cramming 50 people in a van built for 25 and I felt sad each time we passed a local on the road waving for us to stop and pick them up.
San Cristobal is a relatively small, colonial style city that, at first, reminded me a lot of Antigua. I headed straight for the Magic Hostel where I had read that I could get an affordable dorm bed (less than $5 as oppossed to a private room for $15!) and happily settled in before setting off to find a book store where I could buy a Mexican Lonely Planet (having conveniently put off buying one until I was actually inside the coutry..). Unfortunately, the bookstore was closed on Mondays and so I headed back to the hostel to plan my trip using an old copy of the Mexican Rough Guide.
After an hour or so on reading up on potential destinations, including a boat ride through Sumidero Canyon and a visit to Malinalco, which sounds absolutely beautiful and is also the site of an Aztec temple in which they made human sacrifices, I headed out for a dinner of tortilla soup and a documentary on the Zapitistas, a revolutionary army based in Chiapas which has been fighting for the rights of the indeginous people of Mexico for years.
Lago Atitlan
Since I´ve been in guatemala, I have been to Lago Atitlan four times and for good reason. The lake is absolutely beautiful, massive and surrounded by lush green moutains. It is said to be an old volcano crater, but one can hardly imagine a volcano of such size when gazing out over the lake to the imperceptable shores in the distance. The lake is surrounded by pueblos named after various saints: San Marcos, San Pedro, San Lucas, etc., which, although they border the same waters, are quite different in culture, dress and even lauguage.
The first town I visited and consequently fell in love with is San Marcos, a maze of six foot high hedges dividing meditation centers from holistic health centers and leading to numerious hotels and restaurants offering economic rooms and delicious food, allowing you to stay for days relishing in the tranquility without spending all of your money. I did not partake in any of the courses, but I did spend days simply enjoying the peaceful serenity that pervades the village, enhanced by the constant chorus of birds, and broken only at night by the overwhelming chorus of local dogs (leading one of my friends to dub the village "San Barcos"). The only thing I could say that I do not like about San Marcos is that it is somewhat of an artificial environment, with many foreigned owned businesses. The actual village of San Marcos sits higher on the mountainside and seems to be realitively devoid of tourists and happily so.
San Pedro, on the other hand, while it has its touristy area, is a village in which you can fully experience (as much as a foreigner can fully experience) village life. The village is a maze of steep, cobblestone streets, lined with local shops and front doors leading into traditional block homes. Further into the village, some of the homes are made of wood surrounded by yards of hard mud. The woman in San Pedro all wear traditional dress and the lone few who do not, look extremely out of place. The men wear mostly western clothing, but a good number of the older men where traditional dress as well, which consists of brightly colored patterned shirts with white pants that come down to mid-calf, adorned with a rainbow pattern of flowers or dancing figures around the cuffs, and white sombreros.
During my time in San Pedro, I also visited Santiago Atitlan and San Juan to climb, el nariz del indio, but not long enough to get a real feel for them. I found a site with great pictures of the whole area from someone else´s travel log...
The first town I visited and consequently fell in love with is San Marcos, a maze of six foot high hedges dividing meditation centers from holistic health centers and leading to numerious hotels and restaurants offering economic rooms and delicious food, allowing you to stay for days relishing in the tranquility without spending all of your money. I did not partake in any of the courses, but I did spend days simply enjoying the peaceful serenity that pervades the village, enhanced by the constant chorus of birds, and broken only at night by the overwhelming chorus of local dogs (leading one of my friends to dub the village "San Barcos"). The only thing I could say that I do not like about San Marcos is that it is somewhat of an artificial environment, with many foreigned owned businesses. The actual village of San Marcos sits higher on the mountainside and seems to be realitively devoid of tourists and happily so.
San Pedro, on the other hand, while it has its touristy area, is a village in which you can fully experience (as much as a foreigner can fully experience) village life. The village is a maze of steep, cobblestone streets, lined with local shops and front doors leading into traditional block homes. Further into the village, some of the homes are made of wood surrounded by yards of hard mud. The woman in San Pedro all wear traditional dress and the lone few who do not, look extremely out of place. The men wear mostly western clothing, but a good number of the older men where traditional dress as well, which consists of brightly colored patterned shirts with white pants that come down to mid-calf, adorned with a rainbow pattern of flowers or dancing figures around the cuffs, and white sombreros.
During my time in San Pedro, I also visited Santiago Atitlan and San Juan to climb, el nariz del indio, but not long enough to get a real feel for them. I found a site with great pictures of the whole area from someone else´s travel log...
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Before I run off and forget...
So long since my local political education in Xela, so many beers and beaches and westernized towns, I have forgotten that I had not just come here to learn to speak the language, but that I had come to learn more about this small country just three hours south by plane, that so many of us know so little about. In the past few days, I've been re-educating myself, and in doing so have rememered why it is I am here, why I need to return home, and why I hope to learn more about the fight against the terrorism that has been waged by the United States Government for countless years in countries of which so many of us have never even heard.
It started with a movie, Imagining Argentina, that like few before, made me stop and re-evaluate my life, the importance of global awareness, and all that we take for granted in our every day lives. It continued with a trip to a local bookstore to peruse a collection of articles documenting the atrocities that the Guatemalan governement has, and continues to, commit, and the role that the US Government played in these horrors (at a time when I could have been much more aware).
Perhaps the following articles, will also enlighten some of you as to the hypocracy of our "fighting for freedom" in other countries, as they did me.
Reagan & Guatemala’s Death Files
Why Won't Bush Condemn Rios Montt, the 'Central American Saddam Hussein'?
Jennifer K. Harbury Knows American Torture Starts at the Top, and It Has for Decades
The School of the Americas
Human Rights Watch
What we can do
It started with a movie, Imagining Argentina, that like few before, made me stop and re-evaluate my life, the importance of global awareness, and all that we take for granted in our every day lives. It continued with a trip to a local bookstore to peruse a collection of articles documenting the atrocities that the Guatemalan governement has, and continues to, commit, and the role that the US Government played in these horrors (at a time when I could have been much more aware).
Perhaps the following articles, will also enlighten some of you as to the hypocracy of our "fighting for freedom" in other countries, as they did me.
Reagan & Guatemala’s Death Files
Why Won't Bush Condemn Rios Montt, the 'Central American Saddam Hussein'?
Jennifer K. Harbury Knows American Torture Starts at the Top, and It Has for Decades
The School of the Americas
Human Rights Watch
What we can do
Friday, May 19, 2006
San Pedro
I arrived at my new school and met with one of the teachers who led me to what was to be my home for the next few weeks. In my new temporary home, I met Maria and her three daughters, Ana Maria, 9, Norma, 8 and Angela, 1. That evening I met their father, Miguel. I immediately felt comfortable in their presence and found that the more I spent with them, the more I enjoyed them. Because I was now comfortable understanding and speaking Spanish, I was able to get to know their individual personalities and as well to express my own.
I spent a few evenings teaching the older girls, along with their 7-year-old cousin, Estella, some new words and phrases in English. They impressed me with their cleverness and willingness to learn. Norma, the most colorful of the three, made me laugh out loud when she told me forcefully, “Spanish es facil, English no es facil! En Spanish “sol” es “sol,” pero en Ingles “sun” is not “san (how it would be pronounced in Spanish), but “son!”
While I thoroughly enjoyed my family, my teacher was another story. I had planned to study for three weeks or even four, but as the afternoons dragged on, with out structure, without a plan, much like a repeating cycle of bad dates where neither one wants to be there and neither has much to say to the other, I began to revise my future plans. There were times when I did enjoy my teacher and when we had things to talk about, but there were also many times when I began to question his use of the title “teacher.” Sad about leaving my new family after such a short time, I nevertheless began to formulate a plan of escape, feeling that another two weeks in this school, although might not kill me, would definitely do nothing to improve my mastery of the Spanish language.
Hence my new plan: Sunday, I will be taking a shuttle from Panajachel to San Christobal de las Cases, Mexico. From there, I plan to visit Oaxaca, Cuernavaca, Taxco and perhaps a lazy Mexican beach somewhere where I can practice my Spanish over a margarita in the shade.
I spent a few evenings teaching the older girls, along with their 7-year-old cousin, Estella, some new words and phrases in English. They impressed me with their cleverness and willingness to learn. Norma, the most colorful of the three, made me laugh out loud when she told me forcefully, “Spanish es facil, English no es facil! En Spanish “sol” es “sol,” pero en Ingles “sun” is not “san (how it would be pronounced in Spanish), but “son!”
While I thoroughly enjoyed my family, my teacher was another story. I had planned to study for three weeks or even four, but as the afternoons dragged on, with out structure, without a plan, much like a repeating cycle of bad dates where neither one wants to be there and neither has much to say to the other, I began to revise my future plans. There were times when I did enjoy my teacher and when we had things to talk about, but there were also many times when I began to question his use of the title “teacher.” Sad about leaving my new family after such a short time, I nevertheless began to formulate a plan of escape, feeling that another two weeks in this school, although might not kill me, would definitely do nothing to improve my mastery of the Spanish language.
Hence my new plan: Sunday, I will be taking a shuttle from Panajachel to San Christobal de las Cases, Mexico. From there, I plan to visit Oaxaca, Cuernavaca, Taxco and perhaps a lazy Mexican beach somewhere where I can practice my Spanish over a margarita in the shade.
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