Signs of San Patricios March 16, 2022
I came to this world like me father before,
Where for 200 years we had known only war,
So when Mr. Polk’s Army required one more—
For some old Spanish land and black Catholic crusade—
I joined Los Patricios lead cannonade,
And I served in Saint Patrick’s Brigade.
Springtime in San Cristóbal de las Casas means that firewood is not such a pressing concern. The days are sunny, almost hot, and the sunsets push closer to bedtime. The rainy season is still a few months away. It is the best time of the year to be out and about, singing Irish songs of Mexican kinship.
Our mission today is to locate the urban hummingbird refuge called Reserva de Colibrí, which I am convinced lies somewhere in the northeast corner of the city, in Barrio Cuxtitali, the first indigenous barrio in the Valley of Jovel. Once over the top of El Cerillo, we follow the old road toward the hills of Moxviquil, where Franz Bloom once conducted his archeology among the limestone grottos. The road is named after the man, but maintenance has forgotten him, and soon the pavement turns to pulverized lime. The mustard-colored church of Cuxtitali marks the end of the city. There is no sign yet of a hummingbird refuge, and we are quickly running out of signs.
We collide with some riparian vegetation and a remarkably clear creek. A footbridge takes us across, and a series of well-used trails skirt the waterway. One man in a straw hat and button-down shirt is dragging two fallen green trees. We ask if this is private property, and he merely chuckles and welcomes us to pass, raising his hat to wipe his brow. An old woman shucking corn beneath a shade tree seems equally amused by our presence, and I am embarrassed to ask if she happens to be sitting in a hummingbird refuge.
We reach a grid of residential streets, with a smattering of tortilla shops and small markets, but there are no restaurants and no Tecate emblems to be found. Indeed, there are very few people on the streets and almost no car traffic. And even if there were, where would they drive? This neighborhood is almost completely surrounded by water and footbridges. The only exit is the main periphery avenue that encircles San Cristobal. Wherever we are is physically separate from the rest of the city. The street names only add to the mystery—Genesis, Saint John the Baptist, and Apocalypse, whose painted arrows indicate that it runs in all directions. Then we pass a large Evangelist Church, and it all starts to make sense. We are in the Protestant section of town. Home to the apostates.
The sharp division between Protestants and Catholics here is reminiscent of the Irish Troubles, and physical isolation becomes the norm. Often the Protestants form their own villages, but in this northeast corner of San Cristobal, a ghetto of sorts persists. Protestant neighborhoods fall under suspicion of harboring narcos, since the closed nature of the society is attractive to those evading detection. However, my only gripe with the Evangelistas is the Sunday hymnal, which can drone on for hours without a proper key change, although one can hardly fault the believers for being no fun.
Back on the Catholic side of the river, Barrio Cuxtitali reappears with its street traffic and morning bustle. A drunkard, reclined on the steps of the church, shouts at us for bread money, but I am too distracted by the sign ahead—Casa de Colibrí—and a plastered barrier painted with hummingbirds. We have found our refuge, or so I think. But after presenting ourselves at the entrance to an exceedingly lush garden, we are informed that this a residence for midwives and delivering mothers. Still, we are invited to enter, even as the kind lady at the door senses our confusion. Believers may consider this a sign.