Living on a tightrope

by ARACELI MARÍA ALANÍS CORRAL (Mexico)

A leap into the unknown Mexico

The road was narrow and endless. We had been warned that there would be nothing for us to see but a concrete bending path surrounded by tall dewy-skinned trees. We were in the middle of the rainforest, praying that we might get to a stretch of the road were we could drive at least three minutes straight without having to rotate wheels and stomachs. We had left San Cristóbal early in the morning, thinking that 220 kilometers to get to Palenque were not too much. And there we were, cursing that sweaty snake-shaped road that turned every minute into an hour. My queasy brother was trying to soothe his nausea in the backseat. My tired aunt was trying to soothe her driver nerves beside me. And I was trying to be a good co-driver by finding the way to keep my aunt calm and focused. So I decided to ask some questions: at first, trifling matters about family and friends; but suddenly, when looking at the huts which showed off lowly next to the road, I realized that there was something I had been meaning to know during this Chiapas trip. “Tía Maru,” I started. “Do you remember the Zapatistas?” She nodded, always with her eyes on the road. This is the story: three years before I was born, a group of marginalised indigenous people who lived in the same rainforest we were crossing, declared war against a Mexican State that had always denied them the most basic human rights. They called themselves “Zapatista Army of National Liberation”, but were most commonly known as “the Zapatistas”. “It’s been a long time”, she said. “It was in the 90’s, I believe”. 1994, more precisely. But... what did they pursue?, one may ask. The answer is not one. The answer in which I was interested, however, is related to the fundamental principles they were lacking, such as having a fair job, a land, a roof, health, food, education... But my aunt didn’t broach the answer I was looking for. She talked about some gossips created around the main figures of the movement, but never mentioned what I intended to know: whether they had achieved the rights they fought for or not. Little did I know, later that day the answer would arrive in its own unexpected overwhelming way. We continued driving, until something forced us to stop. A rope was blocking our way. One end of the rope was tied up to a tree. On the opposite side of the road, there was a young woman sitting on a chair and holding the rope tightly, so that we wouldn’t go forward. As the car stopped, a group of children came out from God-knows-where in order to approach the car. I don’t remember how many of them may have been there, but I’m sure they were more than three. They were all yelling. Some of them even climbed the car. “This kid is so little that he can’t even speak, but he knows how to say the word peso”, said aunt Maru, as she examined her wallet. As for me, I didn’t say, think or do anything. I got frozen. I just looked at the nearly-naked little boys and girls jumping around us. Their faces were unclean, just as the few clothes they were wearing. Their eyes were dark and wide. So wide that I could have found there the answer to my doubt, but I was so paralized I couldn’t even look it up. Aunt Maru gave them some money: they ran back to their mother. The rope descended and we continued our journey. The three of us remained silent for a while. It was then when I became aware I had just found the answer I had looked for about the Zapatistas' fight. I cried. It’s been four years, but I still can recall perfectly that rainforest road, that dizziness, that impatience. , What I can recall the most, nevertheless, is the look in the eyes of those children, and in their mother’s: the look in the eyes of people who earn their living by holding a rope. That rope did give me an answer. It triggered other questions, anyway.