Barrio Santa Lucia July 4, 2021
“Spanish bombs in Santa Lucia are flying in on the DC-10 tonight.”
Of course I know the actual words to the Clash song—“Spanish bombs in Andalucia”—but, nevertheless, the tune is in my head as I roam my new neighborhood of Santa Lucia, punctuated by the sporadic explosive sounds of firecrackers, or whatever those noisemakers may be. And, in fairness, the song’s español is already ripe for parody, as Joe Strummer sings, “Yo te Cuero infinito,” which translates roughly to “unending leather.” I think he means “Quiero,” but what do I know? The Englishman’s Spanish skills would seem roughly equivalent to my own.
Barrio Santa Lucia is the southern district of Centro Colonial, bordered on the west by Calle Insurgentes and on the east by Calle Almolonga. Sprinkled among the walled residences and public schools are corner shops—Abarrotes—that sell snacks and drinks through iron bars, but it is the large wooded hill to the south that calls us on a sunny Sunday morning. Almolonga crosses a filthy yellow river, passing homemade wooden wagons with ladies selling fresh flowers, vegetables, and bundles of Ocote, the resinous wood used as a firestarter. Its fragrance is that of sweet cedar, its texture tacky like used popsicle sticks. A bundle of this fuel will come in handy later when the chilly afternoon rains commence.
My anonymous source somehow identifies a twisty, uninviting alleyway as the route out of the city and into the hill country. We make our way past a pack of dirty dogs and bowlegged old women in sheepskin skirts, and soon we find ourselves climbing above the ramshackle homes that cling to the reddened slopes, revealing a half-millennium of civilization nestled within a mountainous frontera. Rising above the dense human habitations are the hilltop spires and domes of godliness—Gualalupe, Cristobalito, Santa Domingo—like points on a compass.
The hill we are ascending is less celestial, more terrestrial. The forest is a mix of subtropical species with long-5-needled pines and western cedars predominating. The understory is sparse and leafy, with granitic outcrops adorned by mosses and small ferns. The city below occasionally erupts with bursts of airborne explosions, followed by small clouds above the churches to mark the Sunday celebrations. These firework displays do not come cheap, but the faithful donate to the tradition, better to announce the presence of God with a bang than to care for the whimpering poor. Bread and circus, with an emphasis on the latter.
The foot trail narrows toward the summit, and soon a grassy meadow emerges at a saddle overlooking San Cristobal de las Casas and the surrounding green peaks. At the summit is the green cement church of Santa Cruz, which looks abandoned but for the hundreds of colorful prayer flags that are tenderly strung from among pine trees bordering the grassy lawn. Pilgrims must ascend this hill regularly to maintain the decorations, but no one is around today. Littering the ground outside an adjacent gazebo are condom wrappers and lipstick-stained cigarette butts, suggesting a different kind of rapture. As I approach the modest steeple of Santa Cruz, the red-tile roof comes to life with a colony of sunbathing lizards. Birds whistle from the cedars. Cathedral bells chime from 600 feet below. More explosions. Dogs and children cackle from the tin-covered cottages in the trees. The colonial city sings its song of praise—“Oh, please leave the Ventana open…Yo te Quiero infinito, yo te Quiero, oh, mi Corazon.”