Canicula, or the Dog-Days of Summer July 29, 2021
The Feast of San Cristobal has been over for days, but the bombs will not stop bursting in air. Street dogs are not noticeably bothered by the booms, but those dogs locked inside are out of control with anxious barking. For them the world seems to be ending. These dogs must live the good life, with regular meals and attention and a warm place to call home, yet they cry the loudest when world is upset. Today the erupting sky says that the world is very upset indeed, but, to the skinny dogs wandering the streets, this is just another day in the barrio.
San Cristóbal Mártyr is the patron saint of this city and the cause of all the commotion this week. More generally, he serves travelers and lost souls, of which this city has more than its share. The famous saint’s life under Roman occupation is the stuff of legend but subject to dispute, such that Roman Catholics tend to downplay his greatness. However, to Mexican Guadalupistas, this guy is a top-calibre hero. Indeed, he once rescued an infant from a swollen river, only to discover that the baby was Jesus Christ in the flesh. Orale, Guey! This would definitely qualify as a miracle worthy of sainthood, but, as any traveler can attest, there are never reliable witnesses around when the moment of truth arrives. You are alone in the river.
Today we cross the river to the hills of Santa Cruz, east of the city, to the Casa de Carlos, where we hear from Margarito that there is going to be a sweating ceremony. Temazcal is the Nahuatl term for the practice, which is widespread throughout Mesoamerica—the use of heat and smoke in a confined structure to open pores and expel toxins, both real and imagined. The steam is meant to cleanse and purify, but I find that some stains cling stubbornly. This may take a while.
We arrive at a steep-walled limestone ravine by taxi, where a few Chiapaneco families are homesteading, just beyond the city limits. They build against the canyon wall, using the stone as their foundation and fourth wall. One dad and his sons are laying irrigation pipe, while a half-dozen men forage the high wooded slopes with machetes. In the midst of this activity, 8 outsiders are preparing to access the wisdom of the elders, seated in a circle around a fire, hands folded prayerfully, screaming only occasionally, which causes the Tzotzil laborers to look up briefly from their excavation.
I am one of the screamers, but I am not purging toxins. A dog clings to my calf, while another leaps at my face. These animals, I am informed, are meant to keep away hostile entities, which evidently includes me. I barely make it inside the secured perimeter, whereupon I am told not to leave for the afternoon. I am the only arrival not prepared with an “offering,” which could be as simple as a basket of fruit but is expected to be more like 150 pesos. At the moment, I would like my “offering” to be the hides a few dogs, but that would be selfish. I hush myself and observe.
Carlos, the Shaman, speaks to the assembled—softly, positively, and in English. He knows his clientele, and these particular ones are decidedly non-native—budding transcendentalists from the city hostels, decorated with tattoos, nose-rings, black nail polish, and bundles of unruly hair. The teacher lights a cigar of some kind of tobacco, inhales deeply, and blows blue smoke into the faces of his guests. Then he grabs a liter of Pox, takes a swig, and spritzes everyone, as if straight out of a Jerry Lewis comedy. And here I am wondering if I should be wearing my medical mask. I am certainly not going to take off my clothes, and, no, I am not about to enter the confines of a smokey cement uterus, which is what the rounded structure is supposed to represent.
I would make a run for it, but I am not sure where the mean dogs are. Even if I made it to the river, there is the problem of the suspension footbridge that is wearing thin. Once across the river, if my memory serves correctly, it is less than a mile to the ridge overlooking the dome of Guadalupe, followed by a downhill jaunt through a pine forest and gated cabañas, landing in the old city at Calle Francisco León. An hour of travel altogether. Tops. But the dogs—those dogs!—will not let me leave. The chanting and barking commence in earnest within the hothouse. The moon will rise soon. I yearn for the familiar sounds of Catholic rockets. A prayer to San Cristóbal comes to mind.
“I’ve run from the arms of lovers, I’ve run from the eyes of friends,
I’ve run from the hands of kindness, I’ve run just because I can…
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.”
“Moon and Saint Cristopher” by M.C. Carpenter