Winter of Our Malcontents November 19, 2021
Winter is arriving here in the high country of Chiapas, with evening lows dipping down to 40, but you could not tell by the trees in my neighborhood. The green avocado over the adobe wall still holds fruit, while the candy-colored bougainvilleas bloom vibrantly, almost grateful for the passing of wet season.
Of course, subtropical winter here is nothing like the frozen arctic hellscape it is up north, so the Yanquis continue to arrive in search of fun in comparatively mild weather. As long as everyone keeps moving, they stay warm, but sit too long and a damp chill creeps in. Much of the day, my feet are like popsicles, so frequent walks are useful. I just bought fifteen bundles of chopped tree branches for 350 pesos, and already today I have burned one of the bundles. The young wood steams and hisses for an hour in the hot flame of resinous Ocote kindling before its own combustion becomes self-sustaining. When the bricks of the fireplace begin to emanate warming infrared photons, I can finally take my shoes off, perhaps even dry some bath towels.
Silver-haired Gerardo sees nothing good coming from the latest influx of visitors. “They all work for Carlos Slim,” he fumes, referring to Mexico’s most famous billionaire. He means capitalism. Politically, Gerardo is a strident Zapatista. Personally, he is just like so many of us—underfunded and discouraged by how the world is turning out. At 50, he is a 20th-century man longing for the ’90’s and those heady days of action. Now his leftist literature just gathers mold. “No one buys art, no one buys books. They fucking come here just to get drunk and take selfies.”
He rails against the consumer culture, the miseducation and willful ignorance of the middle class, the hypocrisies, the injustices, the lies, the corruptions, and even the imbibers of Coke. I tuck my “Sin Azúcar” out of view, lest he think me part of the problem. But, of course, he already knows I am.
This Zapatista sees the many stripes of Yanqui villainy at the SanCris watering hole. One is the New Age Hippie, someone predisposed to spending as little money as possible, most of it going toward purchasing things that come from somewhere else. These practitioners may preach sustainability and buying local, but they tend to have peculiar tastes to satisfy. Worse, they support themselves through peddling to tourists, a niche already occupied by people who have a right to work here. They seek nothing less than to change the culture to suit their ideology.
For those with trust funds and no need to work, or for those North American retirees on fixed incomes, or, perhaps especially, the new class of digital nomads, whatever is considered a good rental deal is something completely unaffordable to most Mexicans. Since the pandemic, an entirely new class of immigrants have entered the picture. Every time some expat signs a housing lease in this city, the market values downtown go up, and locals get pushed out. One might observe this phenomenon in any number of desirable places, but Chiapas is different. These people have an actual army to resist the foreigners.
I learn that Gerardo is sleeping in his store lately. There is no fireplace, and his used electric space-heater is broken. No matter, he probably could not afford the 350-pesos pile of fuel anyway, that is, unless I buy his overpriced book on “The Many Faces of Sandinista Democracy 1980.” Fortunately for Gerardo, Tzotzil woolen blankets are cheap and thick and very tightly weaved. Outside, on Calle Francisco Madero, some barefooted Jesus-lookalike walks by us. He has a confident kick to his step, something Gerardo could use right now.
The silver-haired Zappie shakes his head at the foreigner and shivers. “Pinches Frío. Why doesn’t he wear shoes?”