Barrio Guadalupe June 24, 2021
The explosions started hours before dawn on June 24th. From every direction, the booms continue through the day as if an insurrection has descended from the hills, punctuated only by the clanging church bells and maniacal rooster shouts. These are calls to action, but not of the violent variety. Today is the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, San Juan Bautista, who happens to be the patron saint of the nearby town of San Juan Chamula. The Catholic holiday serves the practical function of signaling the beginning of the rainy season in Chiapas. It is time to plant the corn.
Hilltop churches provide my orientation from the neighborhood of Barrio Guadalupe. From the easternmost perch of the Church of Our Lady, circa 1830, we descend the 79 steps for quesadillas, then proceed west through downtown SanCris, as lazy locals call the city, and then climb the steps of the martyrs to the western outpost of the Church of San Cristobalito, or Li’l Chris, as this lazy gringo calls it.
This 18th-century church, like the others, was damaged in the 2017 earthquake, but the repairs are finished, and the place of worship is open for business, so I genuflect and enter with my cubreboca affixed. The ornate interior smells of old wood and candle smoke, with striking portraits of the Virgin, as well as a bearded man who is supposed to be Jesus but who looks a bit too ordinary. Mary seems to be the star of the show here. And Guadalupe forms the spiritual heart of this city.
The small church is empty but for two women kneeling before the altar. They are Tzotzil Maya, and they are deep in prayer. One sings an atonal Latin melody but with Tzotzil lyrics, and her song seems to go on forever, like a Rosary. In front of the two are 4 unopened bottles of liquid, 2 waters, a Sprite and a Coke. They appear to be beverages for the ladies, but my anonymous source says that they are offerings to the deity, which must be a cosmic blow to the Pepsi Company. Behind the liquids and below the largest painting of the Virgin are 12 apostolic candles, which provide practically the only light in this solemn and rather ominous room.
Thunder rumbles outside. These hilltop churches are struck by lightning on a regular basis, but the towering cross of Christ makes for a reliable Franklin rod, and, thank God, adobe does not burn. On the steps, a persistent man with a decorated soup can is soliciting donations for addicts, but his breath smells of alcohol, and I wonder if he understands the purpose of his charity. When I politely say no, he mutters “pendejo”, assuming I do not know what it means. A rare and warm wave of language mastery washes over me, and I almost want to tell him off in Spanish, but then I would lose my brief advantage.
My illusion of fluency quickly dissolves when I return to Barrio Guadalupe and misinterpret the signs near my temporary home on Calle Tapachula. I see a sign next door for what I believe to be a large art gallery with a corrugated metal roof, but “Galleria” means “rooster ranch,” which the morning racket confirms. As for “Taller Mecánico,” I was not aware that a mechanic’s height was an issue. Taller means workshop, I am informed. My Spanish is a mess. Perhaps I should learn Tzotzil prayers instead.
We pause to grab some Tlacoyos, small flat ovals of blue-cornmeal stuffed with beans or cheese, topped with chopped nopal and green chile. We gobble them up, but not fast enough, as the rain begins to pour in buckets, turning Calle Tapachula into a cobblestone river. This city is built to withstand heavy showers, so one narrow river merges quickly with others at intersections, then flow away. The raised narrow sidewalk might be spared the deluge were it not for gushers pouring from the red tile roofs and PVC gutters. This would have been a good time to try out my waterproof boots, but planning ahead has never been my strong suit.
I learn tonight from the Expat Facebook page that at least some of the explosions this morning were gunshots on Paseo 20 de Noviembre. This is a developing story.