San Juan Chamula - Mayan Rituals infused into Catholicism
Scenes from the religious struggles in southern Mexico
Back in Mexico City, it was the darker skinned "mestizos" who wore Covid masks religiously - outdoors or in - whilst the lighter skinned "gueros" seemed less concerned.
But now I’m here in Chiapas. And I’m on a small local bus heading to San Juan Chamula, rammed full of Tzotzil Mayan women. And not one of them is wearing a mask. Intriguing! And, if they're not gonna bother then neither will I. When in Rome.
San Juan Chamula is a place that the guidebooks earnestly warn you about. Not for the faint-hearted, they say. If you insist on going then you really must get a local guide, they say.
Like most towns in this part of Chiapas, it has strong Zapatista connections, though there are still police and government offices here. You have to travel a few miles north to find towns where the EZLN have full control and a sign on the way in informs you that “here the people dictate the rules and the government obeys."
But it's not the Zapatistas that concern the writers of guidebooks. It's the rituals that go on in the church in the main square.
The citizens of Chamula exhibit the kind of fierce individualism I can previously only recall seeing in the “Barbagia” - the mountainous inner core of Sardinia, famous for being the place that the Romans gave up trying to conquer. The people simply resist change, regardless of the apparent odds stacked against them. They don’t care. They simply fight off invaders. That’s how it is.
And here in Chamula they practise their own mixture of indigenous spirituality fused with traditional Catholicism. And they’re not gonna change it. And they turf out anyone who tries to make them do so. That’s how it is.
But before the church, first the cemetery on the outskirts of town.
San Juan Chamula’s cemetery looks like something out of a somewhat acid-tinged spaghetti western, complete with a dilapidated and roofless former temple at one end. Earth mounds are laid out, with barely stepping space between them, each marked by a simple cross and with pine branches that are replaced each Day of the Dead. Many crosses are further adorned with bright plastic decorations. No gravestones are there, to block the potential return of a soul to its body.
I spent about 30 minutes walking around the outer ring of the cemetery and I found it a beautiful and peaceful place. The heaviness of British graveyards entirely absent and replaced with a sense that the dead were actually still close by and doing okay.
Back to the church.
This huge, cathedral-sized building has been around since the early days of the Spanish conquest. It stands at the far end of a huge zócalo that marks the centre of the town. Vehicles including bicycles are not allowed nearby. Even wandering around the area aimlessly appears to be forbidden, on payment of a multa - a fine. In fact, a closer look around the area reveals multiple signs warning of multas for all manner of possible transgressions.
To enter the church itself, you must first buy a ticket for 30 pesos. You are then reminded on the door that no caps and no glasses must be worn. And that no phones may be used and absolutely no pictures or videos may be taken - multas for the latter approach 4,000 pesos.
But on entering the church, all my reactions to these impositions melt away. There must be five thousand lit candles inside, all burning away in small glasses and standing on old tables that are arrayed around the sides and end of the building. The floor is tiled marble but covered in fresh pine needles. Lining the walls are glass cabinets containing near life-sized effigies of Christian saints, a common feature of large Mexican churches. But, unlike in most of those, there are few dedicated to the main dude, Jesus. Instead the focus here is John the Baptist, the Saint John of San Juan Chamula. The heat from the sheer number of candles is palpable.
Upside-down garlands hang from a high joist near the entrance, and swathes of cloth hang from the central beam that runs the length of the church, tied to the sides of the church. The smell of incense fills the air. The place has the feel of a traditional cathedral that has been taken over by an ancient tantric sect from northern India.
On the floor sit groups of local families, each engaged in what appears to be a similar ritual. I hang out for an hour or so to see what they’re doing.
It seems to go something like this. A familial gathering enters the church and finds a space. The smaller children are given phones to play with, multas regardless. They bring with them a large number of very thin candles and some bottles of fizzy drinks. In addition, some groups have a live chicken in a cardboard box tied with string. One person, possibly a family head or otherwise someone hired to run things, takes the lead in running the ceremony.
As I ignored the advice to come with a guide, I don’t know exactly what the ceremonies going on are about. But they feel to me like rituals to say goodbye to a departed loved one, or perhaps to auger in a change of fortune.
First an area of the floor is brushed free of pine needles. Then the thin candles are laid out in rows. Next the area is sanctified with first a clear liquid and then a dark one. The choice for the clear one seems to be either Sprite, mineral water or pox - a Mayan home-brewed spirit. The dark one is invariably Coca Cola. The bottles are shook around the area, then uncapped so that some may be drunk by family members. Some of the liquids may also be sprinkled around. If the group have brought along a chicken then, around this time, it is got out of its box and proceeds to cluck in a concerned manner, possibly aware that it may not be long for this world. Its throat is quickly cut. Throughout this time, the person leading the ceremony chants in a low voice and in a language I assume to be Tzotzil.
Then the candles are lit in rows, beginning with those furthest away. The heat generated I could feel from a few metres distance. They burn fiercely and after five or ten minutes are gone, leaving just pools of wax upon the marble floor. More clear or dark liquids may be sprayed around. At some point, the person running the ceremony comes to the end of his or her chanting, and the group get up and leave. Quickly, one of the guys who clean the place up comes over, scrapes the wax off the floor with a plasterer’s tool and sweeps up any ash. They complete the job by brushing pine needles back over the space.
Throughout the time I’m there, as well as local families, groups of Westerners like myself enter and walk around. Some are just in twos, others by the coach-load. But no one seems to pay us any mind.
Walking to the front of the church, I see three glass cabinets of John the Baptist mounted as a centrepiece. To the right, there is a door which I occasionally see open and which has still more candles inside, burning away. It’s clear that this room is for church personnel only so I don’t try to get in.
I buy a few avocados from an old woman in the further part of the square before jumping on a combi to head back to San Cristobal. I am aware that I have picked up energy from the church some hours later as I wander around San Cris. It’s that Mexican vibe. It opens the front of the body and the face, seeking life, wanting to show up, wanting to be a part of it, wanting to unashamedly show the world who you are.
Defiance through sheer aliveness.