Mexico 5 – San Cristobal de Las Casas – The Church at San Juan Chamula – a different sort of service

Sunday is the day of markets in all the local villages and we head to Chamula, on horseback.  When I last came here, as a 12 year old, Chamula was a beautiful white church surrounded by hills and  indigenous people, in what felt like a truly remote, mystical part of Mexico. Now it’s still a beautiful white church but surrounded by a rather hideous modern village. Though the people remain unchanged. They still have their eclectic beliefs, a mixture of Mayan, spiritual shamanism and Christianity. The village is one big market on Sunday, low tables, piles of vegetable on the ground, the men strutting their stuff in Dandy cowboy hats and boots, wearing this tunic which looks like a whole sheep has been thrown across their backs. White for men, tied with a belt around the middle, black hairy skirts for the women. Some of the men carry staffs, these are locally elected to be the local policemen and they literally do take the law unto themselves. We have been warned NOT to take photos in the church as we risk being beaten up AND sent to gaol!  And I can believe it. There is a procession going on in front of the church and numerous homemade firecrackers going off, which frighten us all and prevent us from going inside, so we head back to our scraggy predictable horses, back to San Cristobal, past the fields and the crops. Gabriel is cross all the way home as he gets the slowest horse, so no cantering this time.

We return again to Chamula a month later, this time for a festival here. On a Wednesday after school, we get a taxi from San Cristobal. This time we can get access to the church. It’s exactly as I remember. The smell of heavy perfumed fresh white gladioli lining the sides of the church heated by the sea of candles, the smell is quite intoxicating. Today there  is a Fiesta to San Juan. The mariachis are playing inside, this time serenading the gods, their gods. One of the band members keels over, in intoxication, no one else bothers to help him up, perhaps they haven’t even noticed. There are no signs of any chairs, but there are pine needles strewn across the entire floors and there are candles everywhere, on the floor. We watch a young woman, no more than nineteen, as she enters the church, dressed in a beautifully hand woven purple embroidered skirt and top with shawl. She has a baby tied to her back and a toddler trying to catch up with her. We watch her every move – she kneels on the floor, and adjusts her baby on her back, to allow her to bend over and light dozens of candles, which she sticks with wax to the floor. All lined up in two neat rows. No sooner has she done this, she murmurs her prayers for cures and successful harvests and rains no doubt too, her little toddler watching every move. Then the mariachi band drift past her heading to the front of the church, and all her two dozen candles, which are dangerously close to lighting up the pine needles, go out.  We watch in despair for her, hoping beyond hope this isn’t a bad omen for her as she struggles to re-light them all over again.

Other lines of candles dotted around the church are now abandoned rivers of coloured melting wax, the flames just licking the floor and then once out, they are swept up by a man with a shovel, scraped off the floor and into a bag, waiting for someone else to replace them. We are mesmerised by it all. The church is lined with statues of the saints, relics in glass fronted boxes and covered in flowers.

Back outside, drunken men are stumbling and falling over, some have already given up and are lying face down in the dirt (there’s a lot of explaining to this kids here today).  Intermittently, fire crackers screech up into the sky with that sickening sound, we all cower and cover our ears, watching to see where the hot burning rod will land. These crackers are all home made and there are no health and safety controls here. It’s quite frightening. It’s not uncommon here for kids to lose a finger or a hand in times of revelry. Today We are spared the sight of chickens being sacrificed. Phew!

Outside, an out of tune band strikes up loudly on a colossal stage. Nobody really looks like they are having a good time. No laughter, only a few smiles and just a lot of drunkenness accompanied by weary looking women and young girls, joined in their solidarity, abandoned to their fate. We decide not to stay too long, fearing that things might get too out of hand, and head back to San Cristobal.