One spring in the early 80s, my friend Marge and I headed
for NaBalom, an old hacienda that had been made into a bed and breakfast. It
was run for anthropologists and others like Marge who were interested in the
culture and people of Chiapas, the southernmost state of Mexico, bordering on
Guatemala. There the Lacandoans, remnants of a Mayan tribe, had been living in
the jungles, apparently unknown to the Spanish or the Mexicans until Trudy
Blum, a Swiss photographer-journalist, and Frans Blum, a Danish anthropologist,
introduced them to the world. Frans and Trudi married and bought an old
hacienda which they refurbished. When Frans died, Trudy continued their work,
befriending and employing the Lacandoans on the hacienda and providing a place
where other anthropologists could continue studies of these people who had been
thrust suddenly into the 20th century.
We arrived at the door of NaBalom, hot and tired after a
long crowded trip, just as other guests were finishing lunch. Happily, we were
fed well despite our tardiness. Trudy was sometimes a tyrant and generally
insisted upon strict punctuality at meals. At times when international guests
were there, she presided in three languages, sometimes simply shouting “Shut up!”
when she wanted to make an announcement. At our arrival, she was giving
information about transportation to a nearby town which was having an Easter
week celebration the next day.
After feeling somewhat cowed by Trudy’s manner and
outbursts, we looked around the grounds a bit, visiting the extensive
jungle-like gardens until the rain sent us up to our room. The altitude made
the 15 or 20 steps upstairs a chore, but we were rewarded by the sight of our
cozy room. Beside the corner fireplace stocked with wood, the room was filled
with small treasures, bits of pottery, Trudy’s fine photographs of the
Lacandoans, as well as feather ornaments and colorful hand-woven bedspreads.
Trudy might have eccentric manners, but she was clearly an accomplished woman
of taste. We hung our clothes in the hand-carved armoire, looked over the
English and Spanish books in the bookcase and rested until dinner. While we
were resting, the lights went out—not an uncommon event at Na Balom—and later
we ate a good dinner by candlelight, along with the group then in residence.
The next morning, we awoke at six to the sound of jungle
birds and firecrackers: it was Viernes
Santo, Good Friday, and we were going to Chomula, the nearby village Trudy
had suggested. There, she said, we would
see how the holiest time in the Catholic calendar is celebrated when the
Indians superimpose their own rituals on the Christian tradition, a celebration
not officially allowed by the Church of Rome, but tolerated as a way of
bringing souls to God.
To get to Chomula, we had to be at the Plaza in San
Cristobol by seven a.m. to catch a ride on the bed of a pickup. Watching a
knowledgeable couple we met at breakfast, we found that the best place was
nearest the cab, so we moved up, barely finding room for our feet as the truck
got more and more crowded with new passengers. A boy with three large jars
pushed on when it seemed we were already overloaded. A woman with a runny-nosed
baby heavily bundled in woolens in the increasing heat stood next to me,
balancing herself and her baby as we bounced over the rough country road. After
an hour or so, we climbed a short way and at the crest of the hill, we were
startled to see a wooden cross on which a white chicken was crudely nailed.
Beyond that was the small village, the city hall, the church and a few other
buildings. We got out and sat down in the shade of an instant café put up for
the Sunday crowd, canvas roof, dirt floor, wooden tables and folding metal
chairs.
The celebration taking place involved the drinking of a
great deal of something called “posh”
which was brought there in large pots and drunk from reclaimed bottles. Indian
women with baskets of candles and bay leaves sat on the church steps. We asked
some men at the city hall if we were allowed in the church. When they suggested
a price, we paid, though we were fairly sure they had just invented this
entrance fee. These men were wearing tall pointed hats like those worn by the
KKK. They looked like they were accustomed to running things. We were
uncomfortable and somewhat intimidated, being too foreign, too blonde, and too
aware that strangers a few years past had made off with valuable silver relics
from the church, leaving a trail of suspicion and hostility behind. After paying, we went into the church.
There the scene was almost claustrophobic—pine boughs
everywhere, covering the windows, the altar and the floor beneath, scenting the
heavy air with the smell of Christmas overridden with the pungency of bay
leaves. Indian women were squatting on the floor pouring out a milky liquid
floated with rose petals, filling their own bottles from a large jug from which
small babies, as well as men, women, and children drank. This was not the “posh” which was making the men outside
drunk, but harmless rose water, as I later discovered. If or how it related to
the ceremony I never learned.
In the front of the church, men were carrying baskets of bay
leaves and candles on their shoulders, and although the noise and confusion
seemed chaotic to us, a ceremony was unfolding. At the signal of a horn like a chofur, a large cloth embroidered with
roses was lifted high to cover the figure of the Crucified Jesus. Behind the
cloth, unseen by us, men worked to take him down from the cross. Then from
outside, a great cry was heard and many people ran out the doors. The shouts
accompanied the cutting down of the figure of Judas who had been hung from the
steeple. This Judas was not the biblical apostle, but a European conquistador,
who was rushed to the center of the plaza and furiously torn apart. This, I
thought, was the subject people getting their symbolic revenge.
In the 90s the government of Mexico harshly put down an
armed revolt by the Indians of Chiapas who were demanding a share in the oil
wealth discovered in their land. Reading about it, I remembered the ceremonies
invented by people trying to exist in the present, while also preserving their
fast disappearing culture.
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