The Chamúlas October 1, 2021
One taxi driver in San Cristóbal says to my friend Victor, very frankly, “I don’t take people to San Juan Chamula. I don’t go there.” The taxista’s fear is understandably justified, as drivers tend to be caged canaries for violence in this country. Similarly, my adventure-seeking neighbor Scott, a gringo from the South, shares stories about confrontations with tense-eyed Tzotzil speakers in the town located just a few kilometers out of the city. Despite its sketchy reputation, people still find a way to visit San Juan Chamula, a place that challenges one’s notion of cultural sensitivity.
It is tempting to paint the majority indigenous population with a broad brush as some singularly oppressed but enlightened people, but there is a rainbow of humanity among the Maya, which includes some very dark shades indeed. In the town of San Juan Chamula, just 8 miles north of San Cristóbal, the darkness runs deep. Some men have achieved high political status due to the old law of Practices and Customs, which grants unusual authority and autonomy to family patriarchs.
In San Juan Chamula, it is alleged that these elder statesmen have made lucrative deals with the criminal cartels from the north. As a consequence, the plazas of San Juan Chamula are effectively controlled by narcos, and this feeds a system of Derecho de Piso, the bold extortion racket one finds in larger cities like Cancun and Cuernavaca. Their presence in the Zapatista heartland threatens the legitimacy of the independence movement, and it reminds everyone that the Maya, like all of us, can have their very own pendejos in charge.
The black magic of San Juan Chamula extends beyond mere racketeering. The principal Catholic Churches of the colonial township have transformed over centuries to become shrines of idol worship. This would probably be fine if the only idols were sweet Mary and a bloody-kneed Jesus, but worshippers here conjure a different set of deities, some of them quite malevolent, and they entice them with offerings of chicken blood and Coca-cola. When Catholic priests complained of the unorthodox liturgy and folk practices, they were replaced and summarily booted from town, along with the idol-shunning Protestants who were chased from their homes into the hills.
The outlandish rituals attract the curious from abroad. It takes a certain kind of tourist to seek out these mystical experiences among the old ones, but they do come in droves during advertised festivals, taking pictures outside, for which natives insist on being paid to pose. If the visitors try to take pictures inside the church, they would see prostrate Tzotzil on the floor of the church, the air thick with copal smoke and mysterious chanting, the pews removed and replaced with rows of dripping candles and sacrificial plastic bottles on pine needles. These same tourists may also see their cameras smashed to pieces. If so, they may seek to purchase narcotics in frustration, and here is where the insidious cartel marketplace comes into play.
Victor refers to the bad guys up north simply as Chamúlas—this corrupt gang of indigenous men, acting against the interests of their own people, persecuting the innocent, making widows and orphans, wreaking havoc. The Chamúlas pray for strength for the tasks ahead. They will make offerings of pox and tobacco to see that their enemies are killed and their allies made compliant. The tourists will see none of this, of course, nor will their psychotropic experiences reach the heart of the native passion. Judging from the eyes of the wool-skirted women of the plazas, that passion is rage.