Living With Zapatistas
Toward dusk, various invisible insects began to warble. By nightfall, they had upped their pitch into a vibrant cacophony of clicking, underscored by a metallic tambourine-like rattle, echoing throughout the valley. During the day, around the village we would catch the odd glimpse of a rare bird or the brief flutter of a colourful butterfly. Apparently there were salamanders in the undergrowth, but alas, I never saw one.
Our days were spent reading, cooking, eating and bathing - broken only by two weddings, and a confirmation performed by an eminent Mexican archbishop.
The weddings in the neighbouring villages were solemn affairs. For three stuffy hours each time, a large Catholic church-hut was crammed with men on one side and women on the other. The pastor’s softly spoken sermons were occasionally broken by the strumming and deep harmonies of a band of mariachis.
Afterward, several hundred people waited quietly for their turn at one of the dinner tables, receiving the rare luxury of a bowl of meat and a garish bottle of super-sweet pop. With alcoholism afflicting so many indigenous communities, the Zapatistas forbid it. After-meal mints took the form of menthol cigarettes, which were puffed in the shade.
Meanwhile, run from a generator, four enormous speakers belted out the synthesised two-beat tinny tinkering of the latest ‘Musica Romantica', courtesy of a hired singer and his electric keyboard. In the evening, everybody returned to dance in pairs. Tense feet shuffled in small circles, heads with serious faces bobbed from side to side, and shoulders jerked abruptly.
The second wedding coincided with our last day. We spent the night at the neighbouring village, returning the following afternoon to the colourful, colonial city of San Cristobal De Las Casas. In that tourist hub, the shops sell Subcommandante Marcos t-shirts; homeless girls sell pencil-top Marcos dolls; and the graffiti reads:
Todos Somos Marcos - We Are All Marcos.
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