The Proud Indians of Chiapas

A woman toasts tortillas in Zinacantán.

Inside the church of San Juan de Chamula, a fine cloud of smoke filled the air. It rose in wisps from hundreds of thin, white candles, perched delicately on the floor in ranks of 5, 10, 20, 40. Scattered around them lay a loose carpet of pine needles, the green arcs overlapping in dizzying patterns. The scents of pine resin, melted wax and burning wick mingled in my nose, and the chanted prayers of the indigenous Chamulans — who knelt before the candles, with bottles of Coca-Cola and pox, a homemade sugar-cane liquor pronounced posh, at their sides — made me feel as if I’d entered another, more mysterious universe.


In reality, however, I was just 20 minutes away from San Cristóbal de las Casas, the lively Spanish colonial city where I’d begun my frugal journey through Chiapas. That morning, I’d walked to San Cristóbal’s market area and located the colectivo, or shared minivan, heading to San Juan Chamula — the closest Indian town in the Chiapas highlands — where I hoped to get an introductory glimpse of native Chiapanecan culture. A fare of 8 pesos (roughly 60 cents at 13 pesos to the dollar) got me to the town center, a wide, beige plaza that was home to a marketplace and to the church (admission 20 pesos), where I witnessed the religious rituals of the Chamulans, a subset of the Tzotzil Maya, who make up about a third of Chiapas’s nearly one million indigenous people.

Not that I’d necessarily needed to leave San Cristóbal to do so. Everywhere in that city I’d seen Indians, many in the colorful outfits of their home villages: black tufted-wool skirts, white tunics, embroidered shawls. And their unique form of religion — a blend of Catholicism and ancient Maya beliefs — spilled out into the stone-paved streets. Near my hotel, a storefront church was open day and night, and one afternoon I found pine needles matting the sidewalk in front of a small hospital.

San Cristóbal was not always so kind to Indians, said Walter Morris Jr., an American anthropologist better known as Chip and the author of “Living Maya,” who arrived there in 1972.

“At the time — and it’s much, much less now — the town was very racist, and Indians were not allowed in town,” he told me at his house in San Cristóbal. “They were allowed to come in for markets, but they had to leave by the end of the day. This was a ladino town, as they said, and the Indians had their own towns.”

Today, though relations between Indians and the ladino (i.e., non-Indian) and mestizo (mixed-ancestry) populations can be extremely tense, indigenous peoples are slightly better off.

“But they have remained intensely Indian, and the ones closest to the town are probably the most traditional,” Mr. Morris said. Indians, he added, want to show that “they are Indians, they are not ladinos, mestizos. They are themselves. They are Maya.”

That pride was evident in Chamula, where photography inside the church was forbidden, punishable by seizure of your camera and, potentially, arrest. Religion here is serious business, so much so that Chamulans who convert from Catholicism have been expelled from their villages. And I got the sense, both in the church and later, when I walked around town, that tourists like myself — and there were hundreds — were merely tolerated, and that an invisible barrier, fortified by centuries of discrimination, would always remain.

My awkward, self-taught Spanish didn’t help, but even so I felt resistance. Inside the church, I asked a man cleaning candle wax from the floors if he knew the symbolic meaning of the pine needles.

“Se mantenga fresca,” he said. They keep the place smelling fresh. It was only later, at the Museo de la Medicina Maya back in San Cristóbal, that I learned each needle represents a person being prayed for. (The soda and liquor, meanwhile, make you burp, supposedly releasing toxic spirits.) Was the man keeping me at a distance? Or was the answer more complicated than he could explain — or I could understand?

The Indian village of Zinacantán.

Because I felt extremely uncomfortable gawking, and because there didn’t seem to be much else do in Chamula, I made my way to the next closest Indian village, Zinacantán. The ride there was slightly complicated: No colectivo traveled a direct route, so I had to pay 9 pesos to reach a crossroads, and then, when no Zinacantán-bound colectivo appeared after 15 minutes, I hailed a taxi and paid 40 pesos for the remainder of the journey through the hills and into a cozy valley. It was only $3, but it seemed exorbitant at the time, and I silently fumed.

Colorful Mayan textiles.

As soon as I stepped out of the van and into the flat expanse of concrete that passes for the center of Zinacantán, I was surrounded. Five girls — all dressed in the electric-indigo shawls that are a hallmark of Zinacantán textiles — were demanding to know if I was interested in artesanias, or artisanal crafts.

Instinct kicked in. After years in Southeast Asia, I know exactly how to tell pesky vendors I’m not interested. But just as a firm “No!” was about to emerge from my mouth, I held back. Maya weaving is gorgeous stuff, colorful and well made, combining a worthy knowledge of history and myth with a keen sense of fashion. I was interested.

So, after a quick look around the big white church in the middle of town, I corralled one of the girls. We ambled down a small road, the thick mountains rising in the near distance, then turned a corner and walked into her home, a typical compound centered on a courtyard and surrounded by family rooms.

Video

Frugal Traveler: Zinacantán, Mexico

Watch a woman weave traditional textiles on a loom.

By Matt Gross on Publish Date November 18, 2008.

The girl’s father and a few young men sat at a picnic table in the courtyard and barely looked up as I entered, but her mother and sisters sprang into action. One sister picked up a small, primitive loom that hung from the ceiling and gave it a few demonstration pulls. The mother, meanwhile, guided me around from embroidered shawls to stretches of vibrant fabric to a rack of scarves, where a short one with fiery orange and sky blue stripes caught my eye. I wasn’t entirely sure it had been made right there (the shop was called Artesanias “Maria Isabel,” at 31 Avenida Juan Sabines, 52-967-679-1809), but I bought it for 50 pesos; night in the mountains can be cold.

Then, because it was lunchtime, I asked the girl’s mother where I could find good, true Chiapanecan cuisine.

Toasted tortillas, tomato salsa, ground pumpkin seeds and cheese.

Her eyes lit up, and she ushered me into the kitchen, an almost bare room where a wood fire glowed red under a broad griddle. Her daughter came in and began to press and toast tortillas, which she piled on a low table next to small dishes of strong, crumbly cow’s-milk cheese, a mild but sweet tomato salsa and pepita, or ground toasted pumpkin seeds. For 10 minutes, as the sun poked through holes in the corrugated tin roof and drew fingers in the rising smoke, I sat at the table, methodically assembling and devouring the purest lunch I’d had in days, and washing it down with a local favorite: Coca-Cola.

When I could eat no more, I asked to pay for my meal, and the girl looked at me quizzically. The soda, she said, cost 15 pesos. She made no mention of the food. I handed her the few coins and left, stunned.

A few days later, however, I would learn from a friend that this was standard in Zinacantán, and that it was not entirely out of the goodness of my hosts’ hearts: there was probably, my friend said, another dish on the table, containing a single coin, where I was expected to leave my contribution, whatever that might be. (Indeed, when I looked at the photos I’d taken, there it was.) In other words, what I’d thought was heartfelt generosity was actually a well-rehearsed ritual for tourists like me.

I felt deceived, naïve and, at the same time, guilty. Hadn’t I deprived the family of 5 or 10 badly needed pesos? But if they needed the money, why charge me for the scarf and not the snack? Was this some element of Zinacantán culture that I couldn’t understand? Clearly, the invisible barriers still stood strong, as I’d fully expected them to. You can’t just wander into a town a stranger and wander out an insider.

But in the weeks since, I’ve realized that I had a choice: dwell on the touristy aspect or try to recapture that initial feeling of elation, when I left that girl’s courtyard full and happy and feeling blessed, if only for a moment.

Next stop: The Maya ruins at Palenque.

Comments are no longer being accepted.

sounds as if nothing has changed at that church since I was there 30 years ago, except that they also prayed in front orf chicken eggs

There are not indians in Mexico. It is call “Indigenas”.
The Indians come from the west part of the US

Both are appropriate. As an English and Spanish speaker from Chiapas, Alberto doesn’t know what he is talking about. It’s a generality, most people talk about the villages they are from and don’t refer to themselves as “indigenas.” Indigenous is an American term used mostly by academics and pressed onto the Indian peoples everywhere.

Totally agree withe Alberto.

There are not indians in Mexico. It is call “Indigenas”.

And also America people was first called indians cause Columbus thought he arrived to the “Indias”.

We should think about going to Mexico soon…the Peso has declined by 40% recently.

I visited St. Juan de Chamula on Sept. 16, 1999 – we went on horseback from San Chrisobal – (it was an excursion my hotel recommended – about $20) It was Mexican Independence day so all the school kids were parading around the square in formation – and as we arrived on horseback in the square, some town elders in elaborate indigenous dress were making speeches. Later, one approached us with a jug of pox – and we shared several shots! I understand the feeling of “being merely tolerated,” you described, but riding a horse into town, and visiting on a national holiday melted away those barriers for us – it was one of my most memorable travel experiences!

Indians or “Indigenas” are the true Americans, everyone else is a descendent of immigrants and/or slaves.

Thank you, Matt! A wonderful story and your writing improves by the day.

Maybe instead of Indians or Indigenas, it’s more accurate and respectful to call them by their ethnic affiliation, e.g., Maya, or if you want to be more accurate, the Tzotzil or Quechua or Ixil, etc. Frugal Traveler does seem a bit naive, though, to think he could just ask someone in a place of worship to explain his religious practices or beliefs, in a place that has been persecuted for so long. They aren’t going to take you by the arm and show you around. Just be glad you’re allowed in at all.

Your “Frugal Traveler” conveniently overlooks a few unsavory facts about Chiapas, and about most other places he visits.

Chiaps is the poorest state in a poor country. It has the highest starvation and mal-nutrition rate in Central America. The CDC tells visitors to Chiapas to have six innoculations and to take anti-malarial compounds daily and to steralize drinking water. Not to mention scorpions, which are endemic and which kill several hundred Mexicans and tourists yearly.

Is it really good judgment to suggest that people visit places like that?

Think I’ll go to Paris, Frugal.

A.P

We, too, rode horses from San Cristobal de las Casas to the village back in 1989. Sadly, the church was closed. As we wandered around town we developed a little following of giggling children who seemed particularly interested in me. My friend figured out that they thought I was some kind of a witch because I have red hair!

The best way to refer to either “indians” or “indígenas” would be by the title “Indigenous people”. However, indians and indígenas refer to the native people from this continent before the arrival of European conquerors and whose common practices have not changed dramatically since then.

Cheers,

Juan

I was at the church in Chamula last year and it was much more interesting than what is described here: there were several indian shamans performing an elaborate ritual inside of the church, which involved lighting several candles, drinking a series of bevrages, and ultimately killing a chicken by strangulation. I sat in the church for about 45 minutes and saw the ritual to completion 2-3 times.

I visited in 1989, also riding to the village on horseback. In the church I saw a woman kill a chicken by wringing its neck as she kneeled at a shrine to her saint. I was told that taking pictures could be grounds for stoning. San Cristobal at night was the quietest place I have ever been.

Frightening Americans out of travel to countries outside of their own or Europe is ignorant and since most US citizens barely leave the confines of their home…it is not even an issue. The unsavory facts can be found for any part of the world. There is mostly good and people should stop trying to keep Americans tucked away at home….

Please give us a break Andy Paine….I have lived in San Cristóbal for 21 years and never been stung by a scorpion (they exist but few die from it and they are found all over México, not just Chiapas); never had malaria and yes, I boil my water or buy bottled but there is not a town in México where you shouldn’t do that.
What would make these articles more interesting is making sure that fact checking is done and a less nostalgic attitude towards the social situation here.
Deborah

Response to Andy Paine,

Have you ever visited Chiapas? Have you ever talked to the Mayas that inhabit the state?Have you ever smelled tortillas being cooked? Have you ever watched these people faces?

For what you wrote, you are the best example of an American tourist (there are exceptions, of course), with the idea of visiting a place only if they have the luxuries you are used to and where everything is placed on silver dishes for your pleasure. The comments you made regarding scorpions -related deaths are wrong. Do you know that there are anti-venoms available in Mexico too? Only a handful of people die of such incidents.
There is something more about traveling that just worrying about diseases and whether or not you will acquire one.

Mexico is ,of course, a poor country. However, we truly respect our culture and what is represents.
I truly invite you to visit Chiapas, but only if you are openminded. Otherwise, please go to Paris and enjoy the Louvre and Champs Elysee. The less people like you visit these wonderful communities, the better off they are.

Viva México y Viva Chiapas

Juan

I am happy to see others have commented on your use of the word “Indian.” I am quite disappointed that that the NY Times would use that title instead of a) indigenas, as they are actually known in Mexico, or b) at least native americans, or something to that effect. I know the United States still calls it’s Native American organization the Bureau of Indian Affairs, but it seems high time we as a society correct Columbus’ mistake from 500 years ago and only refer to people from the Indian subcontinent as Indians!

Just as the ‘label’ for african americans evolved, we would like to shed the one imposed on us by the confused Europeans whom in search of India first came to our land. We are not Indians, whether we are in Mexico, US, Canada, or even in Southern Argentina or Chile. We are indigenous peoples and each of our nations has a name and culture, please make the effort to inform yourselves and refer to us properly.

My wife just returned from Chiapas. We visited San Cristobal de las Casas, San Juan Juan Chamula, Zinacantan, Palenque, Agua Azul waterfalls, and other spots. It was one of the most enjoyable vacations we have had. We had heard that the Chaipanecos were among the friendliest people in Mexico. They are indeed. Everyone you meet on the street will greet you with a “buenos dias, buenas tardes, or buenas noches”. We were also fortunate to be there during the “Day of the Dead”, which is celebrated on Novermber 2. We went to the main “pantheon”,or cemetery and witnessed a sight like no other. Thousands of people celebrating the memory of their deceased loved ones. Millions of flowers, people picknicking, laying out their favorite meals, strolling musicians playing all types of music, merriment all around. All in all, a fantastic sight. By the way, we were treated to the same meal in Zincantan by the same young lady. Her name is Rosa. We had many fine meals in Chiapas, but, like Mr. Gross commented, none finer than the one Rosa prepared for us. Also, we speak Spanish and all the people we spoke to prefered the term “indigenas”.

“Both are appropriate. As an English and Spanish speaker from Chiapas, Alberto doesn’t know what he is talking about. It’s a generality, most people talk about the villages they are from and don’t refer to themselves as “indigenas.” Indigenous is an American term used mostly by academics and pressed onto the Indian peoples everywhere.”

Generally they prefer to be called Jesus and Maria

I’m astonished how you can go into a country (any country) and expect to take pictures at peoples homes, receive transportation in desolated areas, eat a full course meal and try to get away with not paying, and when you do pay its such a ridiculosly small amount ($3) BUT you are “silently fuming to whole ride?” Its ludicris that a person working for the NY Times will be fuming for $3 paid for a cab ride after wating 15mins for a ride that doesnt arrive. Are you actually mad you didnt pay 0.40 cents? You are so caught up on thinking that the locals trying to feed thier families and make a dime are pests, as you say “I know exactly how to tell pesky vendors I’m not interested” until of course you can get a deal out of it and take advantage of thier “combining a worthy knowledge of history and myth with a keen sense of fashion”. And the whole story about eating a full course meal and leaving without paying just put me over the roof. where exactly is this place that you can go in and eat for free?? That place doesnt exist unless its a soup kitchen. If you were in doubt why didnt you ask? or out of the kindness of YOUR heart pay a nice sum that would’ve made a difference to this family, the food was that good that is obviously made a difference to you. One thing is to be a Frugal Traveler and another is to take advantage of people for your benefit. How exactly were YOU deceived in this WHOLE story? All I see is you trying to get all you want at little or no cost to you at a country that you dont even appreciate enough to get to know the customs. With the 6 figures you surely earn you can pick up a book and find some stuff out before you get there. I disagree with Paul, this was a pathetic story.

I have to say, it can be hard to escape the subtle undertones of condescension. The tone of this piece smacks of the pejorative language of colonial writers. There’s a little “noble savage” in there. That kind of attitude is, I think, one of the destructive influences of tourism.

The debate over Indian vs. indígena isn’t really relvant. What’s relevant is Gross’s watery, overimpressed portrait of the people he met. It reads like the accounts of 19th-century travelers for whom the people they met were not so much people as anthropological specimens, emblems of a charmingly primitive (a word Gross isn’t afraid to use above) culture. It would be offensive if Gross weren’t so hapless and earnest. None of it, in any case, makes good writing.

I spent just four amazing days in San Cristobal and the surrounding villages and long to go back. I am enjoying your blog, as I find myself reliving some of those strange and satisfying experiences.

The “invisible” barriers are many. For a people that was isolated from Western culture for centuries, either for distance (physical) or for discrimination and non-inclusion, the distance (no longer physical) remains as pronounced as ever.

One has to be very sensitive to that (not many tourists are) when traveling in this part of Mexico to enjoy the experience for what it is.