This morning Rita had an appointment with a contact at Na Bolom, the old house of Franz and Trudy Blom that is now an institute and museum. They went off exploring libraries and cultural events, of which more later.
After lunch we headed to the market to get a combi for Zinacantan. We came in at the end of a minor festival of the Virgin of Candelaria. Outside the church was a small band with a loudspeaker that could reach to Vancouver.
When we entered the church, 11 men in ceremonial traje were dancing in a near circle, the circle being completed by the three seated musicians playing a violin, harp, and guitar. The dancers wore old-fashioned sandals with the high ankle-guard, as was used in prehispanic times. Over their gorgeously embroidered and tasseled tunics they wore a long black poncho that almost reached the ground and had subtly coloured stripes near the hem. Each held his hat in his hands, while over his head was a grey headcloth from which hung tassels of bright ribbons, mainly blue and red. The dance was simple, striking alternate feet with the beat, not moving a all from one’s place. The song was simple and repetitive. But the whole effect was mesmerizing, except for the firecrackers outside toward the end of the dance.
We stayed inside a while as they preyed, but were drawn outside by new sounds. In the bandstand a man was playing a bamboo flute while two others accompanied him on drums. Other men in ceremonial garb hung around, and bottles of posh were evident for the offerings.
We then headed to the museum, a thatch-roofed, mud-walled structure with some displays of clothing and musical instruments. Next door is a continuation that also functions as a kind of shop, with a kitchen setup and partly finished weavings hanging on the walls.
A ways behind the museum, next to a school, was a smaller church, dated 1872 and dedicated to San Sebastian. After taking a picture of Rita in front of this church, we went inside and had a chat with the Sacristan. We noticed the beautiful ceiling pattern that looked Islamic to me, and which he said was made form ocote, the wood we use to start a fire. He also lamented the evangelists who no longer prey to the saints. It seemed absolutely nonsensical to him. He wanted our opinion but we deferred, noting that we are strangers in their land.
We decided to head back but it was late in a day, and the combi wouldn’t leave until two taxis were filled and left. The taxi driver wouldn’t leave until he filled up unless we agreed to pay for four passengers rather than two. We waited about half an hour, while Rita rested and I went through the shops with weavings. In one shop they tried to tell me that shirts made in a factory in San Cristobal were made by hand in Zinacantan, so I headed to the other, a cooperative of 20 women with beautiful things in it. Took some photos with their permission.
Back then to the taxi. The rate is 12 per person. If we pay 48 for the whole ride we can even get off where we want instead of in the market. The driver started lowering the price, reaching 40. Rita offered him 35 which he refused. I offered him 36, noting that it would be like taking 3 passengers and we had a deal.
We got off the taxi, as arranged, at the Museum of Maya Medicine, north of the market. The museum is well worth a trip. It treats not only the physical but also the spiritual, if they could be divided. So there is much emphasis on Maya concepts of hot and cold plants and how they balance the body, and on diviners and others who cure by what we would consider supernatural means. This exhibit would probably help reinforce the kind of curing and divining episodes that Rosario Castellanos puts in her book.
We then walked back through the market, buying fruits and vegetables on the way, came home, and made a nice supper. After supper, we went to a “cultural event,” listed as an encounter with regional literature. It turned out to be very 60s, a room in a restaurant-bar where young poets took turns reciting. I don’t understand poetry in English so this was lost on me. But there was an effective story told by a young man. If I got this right, it is about a young girl whose father had abused her for years, and thus who tended to choose older men with authority as lovers. At present, her lover is a teacher. She decided to assert herself and demand that he use a condom. He grew angry but tried, and had trouble and grew much angrier to the point that he beat her. This, like many things, reminded her of the beatings she also got from her father, and the resulting despair led her to suicide. After a few others, a woman got up and recited rather than read a poem about pregnancy related to the chrysalis stage of a butterfly. I enjoyed the varied motions and changes in tone. They announced that more of a discussion would follow and Rita suggested we leave. I was very happy to do so as one member of a couple standing and sitting on the other side of me had clearly eaten too many frijoles and was not being successful in controlling the fragrant results.
And that’s it for Friday.
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