Vagamundos May 13, 2022
Vanessa says that in another lifetime I might have been considered a Vagamundo. Then our frequent moves would garner less suspicion. As it is, our lifestyle is deemed, variously, as transient, nomadic, displaced, or, worse, vagabond. In Spanish, the word is Vagabundo, someone who wanders from place to place without a job or home. However, switch the B for an M, and suddenly a whole new world enters the picture. Reach back far enough and one’s housing plight is transformed into a respectable job title—Vagamundo—to be honorably registered at each port-of-call as an individual charged with exploring a new culture, with noble implications for trade and the sharing of knowledge. If only it were once upon a time.
As we enter our 12th month living in San Cristóbal, Chiapas, the urge to move is upon us once again. As it was in Trinidad and in other points in Mexico, a year proves to be enough time to spend in one place, or at least enough time for me to write 200 pages about it. If this is not sufficient to grasp the essence of a turbulent city, well then, I plead guilty and refer readers again to the lyrics of Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now—“It’s life’s illusions I recall, I really don’t know life at all.”
Beginning in two weeks, we will commence publishing this ongoing narrative from somewhere inside the State of Oaxaca. Our Man in Oaxaca, pronounced Wha-Háca (for my Trini readers). We are heading, we hope, toward a rainy season that is not so wet, evenings that are not so reliant on a steady supply of Ocote firewood, a source of water that is not so toxic to delicate digestive systems, an ambient environment not so conducive to allergenic molds and random gunfire, a civil infrastructure more conducive to sound healthcare, decent meat, reliable transportation—the list goes on.
The problem with San Cristóbal is a gentler version of the problem with all of Chiapas; namely, we live in a state that revolted from Mexico 28 years ago. The revolution was only partly successful, and the subsequent half-measures toward genuine autonomy have created a political and societal vacuum, which has been filled by any number of opportunists, both foreign and homegrown. Moreover, this is the southern frontier-border of a nation reeling and writhing. Chiapas arguably is the poorest state in Mexico. Its proximity to a human migration crisis only adds to the problems, and the fact that Zapatista revolutionaries continue to enjoy such broad support only ensures that federal involvement in the region will be minimal. Lawlessness and neglect shall remain in place, at least until AMLO returns to his retirement estate in Palenque. Did I neglect to mention his ranch is called Chingada?
“Welcome to Pueblo Mágico,” says Gerardo, ironically, when the touring spirit-seeker complains of the sewage smell coming from the standing puddles on Dugelay. The money to repair the leaky pipes will not likely be available until the next municipal election. Residents will have to wait for the next hard rain to clean the mess. Gerardo advises the pilgrim that she might want to put some shoes on.
A tour bus veers onto our street so tightly that I must crouch beneath the extended sideview mirror. Vanessa still limps after stumbling into a collapsed piece of sidewalk, yet she insists on saying her long goodbyes to the friends we have made here. If these Vagamundos do not find another port-of-call soon, the streets of this city may swallow us.