North by Northwest January 12, 2022
All roads are clear this morning. San Cristóbal de las Casas is once again open to the outside world. The roadblocks that closed the five routes out of this high valley, once called Jovel, dissipated overnight without incident. There were some reports of bangs and explosions, but this is a city of frequent bangs and explosions, so it is easy to confuse the jubilance with the terror. So far, news of a city held for ransom has not yet reached the papers in Mexico City, but the National Palace must certainly be aware. Meanwhile, El Gemelo, the Twin, remains in jail for extortion and conspiracy. AMLO does not want another Culiacan on his docket.
Speaking of the President, Lopez Obrador has announced that he will retire from politics in 2024, turn his phone off, and “write a book about conservative thinking.” The old Tabasco man says he plans to return to his ranch—La Chingada (yes, Chingada!)—in Palenque, Chiapas. His neighbors must be thrilled.
As part of a lengthy holiday speech, he said, pointing to his press critics, “They brought me a doll. They say I don’t love Santa. A journalist said I am so anti-foreigner that I don’t like Santa … the truth is I respect Santa, but I have a lot of affection for the wise men.”
I am not sure if those wise men faced any difficulty entering San Cristobal on the 6th of January, as scheduled by the Catholics, but this does not prevent a fruitful outcome for Candelaria, the grand tamales celebration, scheduled in February (by you-know-who), but appearing right now along the roadside to San Juan Chamula, where we currently find ourselves in a famished state.
Candelaria Restaurant is an old converted hacienda on the only road to San Juan Chamula, located not far beyond the commercial clutter of Walmart, where the sidewalks turn into grassy trails. Just up the hill from La Candelaria was the armed roadblock that held fast until sometime last night, when local residents physically intervened. As for the day before that, I can only say that the creamed vegetable soup was delicious, although the scrawny chicken entree was disappointing. Service was black-tie and attentive as ever.
In the late 19th-century, in an attempt to move the growing Tzotzil population away from the congested city center, a large landowner by the name of Ramón was persuaded to deed to the city a large tract of property across the river to the north. The new neighborhood was named Barrio San Ramón—no relation, to be sure. A church and plaza was established in 1898 along the main road to San Juan Chamula. Today it is mixed residential and commercial neighborhood at the north-by-northwest edge of San Cristobal.
Judging by the caged entrances to Abarrotes and other small shops, poverty and crime are present on the main street in San Ramón, which makes the giant box store at the far end of the Barrio so conspicuous—
Walmart. It is the only one in the city, planted like a gaudy cube from a planetary invader. It is here because of NAFTA, the infamous trade deal that once caused a Chiapaneco revolution. This monument to consumerism and worker exploitation, the last outpost on the road up to San Juan Chamula, is separated from the rest of San Ramón—from the poverty and the crime, the extortions and Derecho de Piso, the Motonetos and bloody COMACH, and whatever is next—by one cleanly mowed strip of grass which surrounds the box and the parking lot it comes in.
Somewhere around here is Margarito’s new place. He is rather concerned that, as a newcomer, he is required to attend a neighborhood cooperative meeting, where he will be informed as to whether or not the neighbors of San Ramón approve of his presence. If they say no, well, Margarito is a very nice guy who should not have to worry about something like that. But, then again, this is the road to San Juan Chamula, where so many of San Cristobal’s problems seem to originate, and the best advice for everyone, including Margarito, may simply be to stay away.