Spiritual Misticism in Chiapas

by Marco Antonio Tena Lopez (Mexico)

A leap into the unknown Mexico

“8, possibly 9 hours” the bus driver said sturdily as he held the gearshift lever with his right hand setting it into second gear and a cigarette between his index and middle finger of its left, “by car you could probably do it in 6, but the roads are narrow and well, these terrains are not for everyone, you know, kid!”. “Damn” I replied monotonously. Without any kinds of response I went back to find my row where I found Diego, sleeping and thought of doing the same. Coming back from Palenque in Chiapas we had been told by locals of an indigenous community which everyone had to visit at least once in their life: San Juan Chamula. This community is regionally known as the best example to understand the deep and dichotomal effects of the Spanish colonization on indigenous religions. San Juan Chamula is one of the few places in Chiapas (and Mexico) where Mayan culture is still practiced, preserving its original customs and traditions. However, the wonder that this small village creates on its visitors relies on the fact that these customs and traditions are lived through catholic institutions, like a church and cemeteries, to the point where it is considered that the two large crosses that oversee each of the three cemeteries are representations of Chul Metic, God Mother, and Chul Totic, God Father. We eerily but eagerly descended the bus, where we were approached by a young indigenous kid “I see you have your camera, very nice, very nice, what is it? Kodak? Canon?” “Canon” I answered swiftly. “Okey okey, nice. Just remember, no pictures inside the Church.” He just stood there, like waiting for a tip. “Thanks” I said as I dived for a few of the spare coins I had in my pocket. We had been warned previously that it was of the utmost importance to be respectful and behave in a tranquil manner, especially in the Church. The strict no picture policy lies on the belief that these picture-taking instruments would remove a piece of its soul. The bus parked at the end of a long dusty road considered San Juan’s main street, which led directly into the Church and its main square. As we started walking closer and closer towards the village through the mist we started noticing diminutive wooden huts were a few vendors would call us, offering a wide range of products from warm artisanal wool jackets, to pox, a mystic spirit beverage produced in the region and sold for as low as $2 US dollars a liter. Although visibility was extremely low, throughout the road a piercing sight could be felt all around and shadows could be seen anyway your view was directed towards. “Those are mayoles, they supervise everything, they supervise the Church, they supervise you” Said a street vendor whilst we attempted to buy water unsuccesfully. “Coca-cola or fanta only right now” “No way, you have Coca-Cola?” said Diego astoundingly. The street vendor pointed towards the side of a relatively larger hut with a large orange poster which read “Ich’o Batel $5” and a large Sprite and Coca-Cola bottles to its side. “Few basic services but Coca-Cola everywhere….” I said as we started heading across the main square to enter the Church, “Capitalism, Am I right?” As we stood in front of the two large sober wooden doors in awe, three women carrying live hens entered furiously in a hurry along our right side, reciting some of what we could only deduce as religious chants in its Mayan dialect. Although these two doors were the Church’s main entrance, these two doors are only open at the same time during “la Fiesta de San Juan”, the local annual festivity. However, on the other days of the year, a smaller door within the right door functions as a general public entrance, which as soon as it opened, irradiated a very strong smell of copal incense and smoke, as well as the sound of loud religious and almost pagan chants mixed with relatively quieter clucks from the hens that were being killed for sacrifice. A man approached us. “30 pesos to come in”.