The End: Pueblo Mágico May 26, 2022
“If you love somebody enough,
You follow wherever they go—
That’s how I got to San Cris,
How I got to San Cris.”
apologies to Tom T. Hall
Our bus tickets to Oaxaca are purchased, and we are packed to leave our little house on Calle Pantaleón Domínguez, in the low southern barrio of Santa Lucia, San Cristóbal de las Casas. This colonial city is celebrated as one of Mexico’s Pueblos Mágicos, in the land of Magical Realism, where the make-believe comes true. The mere designation earns government funds.
Meanwhile, our friend Peter Trinh was attacked last night by armed assailants on motorcycles, who broke his glasses and stole his phone. The expat facebook page that normally would report such an incident has been “paused” indefinitely, due to the vitriol being spewed among newcomers and old-timers about the state of things. This city has swelled to over 200,000 based largely on the growth industry of healing and mystic-seeking, which only underscores how many wounded people live here, each longing to have good fortune foretold. They come for answers, they leave with dysentery. Magic.
“Things are heading south,” says Vanessa, amused to know that there is no Spanish translation for this bleak American phrase. If there is hope to find in this place, it may be in the words, sounds, images, and small deeds of a vibrant art community. Poetry and performance are everywhere, thanks to literary defenders like Margarito, Victor, Gabriel, and Gerardo, as well as the activism of militant collectives like Poetry on Napkins, the Tzotzil Rappers, and clandestine muralists whose nighttime decorations of our city state it plainly: Aborta el Gobierno, No Hay Revolución Sin Mujeres, and Nadie Es Ilegal. In the face of a losing struggle, I am reminded of Tom Lehrer’s comedic gem, “Folk Song Army”:
“Remember the war against Franco,
The one where each of us belongs,
Where he may have won all the battles,
But we had all the good songs.”
One final music party at our house features Vanessa’s inimitable Flor de Jamaica tacos, as well as Los Sureños, the Southerners, our favorite Son Jarocho band. Once again, this band honors the traditional music of Veracruz, loudly. As always, the call-and-response lyrics require no electronic amplification, and the small stringed instruments are played with such abandon as to silence any conversation. The Jarana’s delicate surface is scratched to the bare wood from gouging flat picks, the better to project the urgency of the musical moment. As we are about to learn from Margarito, however, the exuberant volume of the strings and voices may be no match for the Himno Zapatista, the anthem of the Chiapaneca revolutionary.
At the heart of Chiapas is a great hurt, and it is acutely manifest in this ancient mountain valley called Jovel. The wound was first laid bare in the records of Mazariego’s conquest a half-millennium ago, followed by countless gashes at the hands of those who came after, including the missionaries, the excavations of Harvard’s Franz Bloom, the neoliberals of NAFTA, and the Coca-Cola bottling company, all of whom came explicitly to exploit the most vulnerable people in Mexico. Five-hundred years of simmering resentments defy the cultural richness and natural beauty that call so many to this place. And the latest blow hits closest to home.
18-year-old Candelaria, who now calls herself Candi in the city of her emancipation, has been summoned home to her village in San Andres. Her uncle apparently followed her here, at the request of her parents, and he represents a power not to be underestimated, namely, an indignant family in an indigenous community that is prone to enforce their rights with machetes. Margarito and Victor have provided her sanctuary at the LibreArte bookstore, but they currently feel the weight of it. The uncle has been asking questions about the place, such as where the owners live, leaving everyone feeling vulnerable. It is painful for Margarito to ask Candelaria to leave the bookstore, but a cardinal rule is never to make the Maya angry. The roots go deep and spread everywhere along the frontier.
Candelaria may have options. Her foot malformity requires her to use a crutch, and this qualifies her for government disability relief, which might enable her to afford a place to live on her own. However, her parents need that money too, and they want their girl home where she belongs. Indeed, it is not unlikely that Candi will become one of the many young women who are declared “disappeared,” when, in fact, they have been kidnapped by family members. Mexico certainly has laws against this, but such laws do not reach this far out—the Zapatistas see to it.
It is well past midnight, and our musical ensemble has swelled to fifteen, leaving our casita close to bursting for some singalongs—in English!—including Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, and Linda Ronstadt. A beautiful long goodbye. It is agreed that we say “Hasta Pronto” rather than “Adios.” I close with that most poignant lost refrain:
“It’s too late for turning back, and I pray for the heart and the nerve,
And I rely upon the moon and Saint Cristopher to be my guide.”
Mary Chapin Carpenter
I almost forgot about my souvenir Bombita, which has been curing on my mantlepiece since the Guadalupe feast in December, when the city erupted with explosions for almost two weeks. I have been saving this unexploded ordnance for a special occasion, but I seem to have run out of time. Quickly, I assemble the last of my Ocote resined wood and fill the fireplace. The idea is to generate some hot embers that I can transfer to our back patio. Place the cork-sized, straw-wrapped wad of gunpowder on the hot coals, and cover your ears for a wicked blast. I have never lived in a war zone, but I have lived here. The violent bangs and ecstatic booms of San Cristobal will be ringing in my ears for a long time.
But not before one final combustion for the road: Three. Two. One. Nothing. The drops start to fall. Lightening detonates the sky. If I am not mistaken, the rainy season begins exactly now. Time to plant the corn.
THE END.