In Which Burps are Evil Spirits Leaving the Body

(this was Monday. a bit backlogged these days)

What I experienced today, staying in the city of San Cristobal, was so amazing and fulfilling, that it was nearly almost kinda worth the price of being sick and not setting out with bicycles and paniers. 

Importantly, today I felt well. Feeling well felt glorious! I ate and ate and ate and relished the hunger. The whole day was frosted with this extra little glow of gratitude for well-being, which made everything extra special. (Is there a way to live like this everyday without having to be sick first?) 

In the morning I joined a walking tour--in English!--where we padded around the city in a group, by the end feeling quite a bit of solidarity amongst ourselves and so grateful to our knowledgeable guide, and learned about the churches, coffee varieties, religions, local art, local cuisine. After living in unquenched curiosity in this city for a number of days, I was ecstatic to have question after question answered, and to learn details I didn't even know were significant.

Atop this good climb of stairs sits the Church of Guadalupe, built in 1834. According to our guide, the Catholics "created a brown-skinned saint", The Saint of Guadalupe, in order to make the local people more interested in Catholicism. 

They let us climb up into the bell tower of the church, a passageway so narrow and short that I had to fold myself in half. Here Kathy and I climb the crimped spiral staircase. 

There's something special to me about a church bell, all the significant events it has been struck for, all the ears that have heard it over the many years.

On our tour we also visited an artist's gallery and cooperative. All the red items here, murals or quotidian, caught my eye. 

Tasting Tezcalate, a classic Chiapas drink made from corn (as is everything), chocolate, canela (unprocessed sugar), and achiote (that impossibly red seed which is a little furry looking and used for natural dies). Like all drinks here, it was incredibly sweet, but it matched my shirt. 

As if a fabulous walking tour wasn't enough goodness for a day, in the afternoon we pedaled out to the neighboring town, Chamula, an indigenous village (descended from the Mayans) that was having Carnival for the 4 days before Ash Wednesday. 

The road to Chamula was a short adventure unto itself. We climbed a 16% grade (thank you Kathy's bike computer) straight out of the city. I breathed like a bellows and tacked my way up the wall. I thought with amazement: I could not have done this yesterday. (Yesterday I was in bed, wearied from a tumultuous gut and with the motivation of a piece of lint.)

The advantage of bicycles was made manifest when we found the calle was blocked by a number of road blocks (why?), huge stones, piles of dirt, finally a number of downed trees--a horizontal forest to climb through. A Chamulan woman got out of a taxi on one side of the trees, and she stepped over the logs in the most graceful way, without even lifting her skirts. She smiled at us. I lifted my steel green monster to my shoulder and walked across the logs as if I had a shoulder bag. 

Bicycle shoulder bag through trees roadblock

The Chamulans practice a symbiosis of Catholicism blended with their ancient traditional religion, which is based on astrology and nature. This would seemingly be a contradiction, blending Christianity with what Christianity would spurn as "paganism", but the two coexist in a natural and fulfilling way for the Chamulans. 

Their church, for instance, is Catholic in shape and intention, but is decorated with Mayan crosses (crosses which include circles to represent the circle of life) and has no single priest, but instead rotating roles of "Mayodormos", each a caretaker of one of the many saint statues inside. The floor is often covered in pine needles. 

It is against the Chamulan belief to be photographed, or to photograph inside their church, so I can only describe with words. You must believe me then, this incredible view I saw.  

I walked into the church of Chamula and encountered an experience so bizarre and so powerful, so otherworldly. 

I was among the religious rituals of an indigenous culture, one of those deeply ancient human ways, which in so many parts of the world is being lost to cell phones and sky scrapers. There are things in this life that stand out, heightened above all other experiences, and witnessing the intense rituals and fervent ways of these people in that church space, was one of those moments. 

The church had an open ceiling and no pews, but around the perimeter of the inside where images and sculptures of saints. A thousand--at least--candles glittered with jumping flames on tables and adhered, melted, to the floor. The light was like sun reflected like wavelets on a pond, the light moving but stationary. The immense sparkle from those candles was breathtaking. About 10 groups of people were clustered kneeling on the floor, lines of candles in front of them. The air was thick with fragrant smoke. Fireworks blasted outside. Bottles of coca cola and sprite rested on the floor among those praying and I saw a little boy chugging one, to induce the burps, which are evil spirits leaving the body. A man kneeled and chanted, while another passed a plastic bag of eggs over his head and neck. A tiny baby scooted next to her mum and ate cookies on the floor of the church. The whine of accordions and the beat of drums could be heard from outside. A man went from sculpture of saint to saint, holding an immense goblet of incense, chanting. 

I don't know if it was the smoke, but I could feel the strength of people's devotion inside there, the mystic powerful energy, and it made me feel hot and a little light headed. I moved to the side to regard it all. My soul filled, even as I felt considerably out of my element, and barely understood half of all the activity in there, and my eyes welled up. 

Outside, groups of colorfully costumed and noise-making men came down from a cross street, and yet another group dressed in black and white fleecy garments came down a little hill. The town square and surrounding streets were packed with groups of be-jazzed people like this and tents and stalls. 

These men and boys were dressed hat to shoes in colorful layered garments, with masks and rainbow steamers and fuzzy vests. They thwacked drums, looped accordions back and forth, flapped at guitars. There was no music created from this, just noise. Everyone seemed so intent and jubilant. They skipped in circles around boxes of beer and coca cola. Everywhere it was stacks of beer. Warm beer. And we were offered some as soon as we stepped into the square, basically, "Join our party!" Those who had had too much beer (maybe they'd started when it was cold?) were slumped against the church or asleep beside the fountain. 

You could buy popcorn and mangos on sticks and countless burpy drinks and colorful scarves. "Cake!" a woman with one tooth called out to us; she knew just the right amount of English. Her face was adorable and she laughed delightedly at us. I bought of a piece of the Tres Leches cake, served on half a styrofoam rectangle. I couldn't stomach the insipid frosting, though the cake itself was moist and not too sweet. I went to put styrofoam and frosting in the trash (I wasn't about to add it to one of the trash piles on the ground, though that seemed the custom), when a small dirty faced boy reached for it instead. I usually would give my unwanted frosting to my Mum, but this little kid got it this time. 

What an amazing experience to witness the devotion in the church and the colorful mess of party outside it. May these people be able to continue in their traditions undisturbed for years to come.