Soul Chamber: Chapter Three

Chapter Three: San Cristobal De Las Casas


I departed from the ubiquitous Mexican chicken bus the day after my twenty-fourth birthday. The hot dusty trip of eighty-three kilometers from Tuxtla Gutierrez, the capital city of Chiapas, took me high into the Sierra de Chiapas mountain range. Tuxtla is a Spanish Hispanicized word taken from the Aztec name Tochtlan, who raided this former Zoque Indian region between 1486 and 1505.

Tochtlan was the Nahuatl word for Coyatoc. The Zogue Indians called this region the “land of the rabbits” or Coyatoc. Gutierrez was added in remembrance of Joaquin Miguel Gutierrez, who advocated independence in 1848. Prior to this time, San Cristobal De Las Casas, my destination, had been the capital city of Chiapas in which many still consider it to be.

I was awe struck by the vice regal atmosphere of this colonial town. Buried in the Valley of Jovel, San Cristobal De Las Casas bears the luxuriant beauty of old world antiquity commingled in the colonial and indigenous traditions through the centuries with its city squares, ornate churches with colorful facades, cobble-stone streets, red-tiled roofs, and colorful patio gardens that were constructed as far back as the Sixteenth Century.

Diego Mazariego founded the city in 1528. Later the name, “Royal City” was changed to honor the harsh critic of Spanish colonialism and an indefatigable champion for the human rights of the local indigenous, Fr. Bartolome de las Casas. This was my starting point into the enchanting world of prehispanic legacy; imbued in mysticism and a fascinating complex spectacle of multi-ethnic traditions and history.

Making my way through the crowded open markets along busy streets, I encountered the Tzotzil and Tzeltal indigenous, recognizable by their sleeveless tunics of coarse cotton shirts with pink colored adornments. Seated about displays of handmade ceramic pots and woven baskets woman wore colorful embroidered skirts and silk blouses. Encircling their hips were dark blue ribbons.

Most noticeable was the blue lacework of the Mame women adorning their thick black hair buns with woven palm hats that had embroidered huilpils hatbands. And most striking was the sight of a few Lacandones, wearing their traditional broad white cotton tunics with long black hair falling almost down to their waists and bangs cut at the forehead.

The refined beauty and celebration of Mexican life was contrasted by the Western attire of tourists mingling in jeans, Bermuda shorts, loose shirts and tire-tread sandals; taking Kodak moment photographs of the stunning colonial architecture while others bartered with vendors selling textiles. Some tourists posed in front of the historical civil buildings decorated in elaborate primitive facades making for a vibrant picturesque scene. All of it, combined with the smoky smells of sidewalk cuisine created an intoxicating blend of sounds and sights.

When I came across the exquisite architecture of the colonial El Carmen Church, stopping to admire its Mudejar tower, an attractive Caucasian woman emerge followed by a Catholic priest from the church front entrance. Her mature countenance commanded my attention.

She had a sun tan matronly face, a slender figure under a long flowery dress of light cotton, and a long profusion of wavy raven hair falling about her shoulders. The Catholic priest with slicked jet-black hair and square rim spectacles had a dour look upon his face. Solidly standing in his black tunic he humbly imposed his sacrosanct presence so readily in front of the church. The two of them were intently discussing something.

Suddenly, several local children came rushing toward the church. The woman, from where I could see, was fascinated by the unexpected attention afforded the priest. Nothing could exceed the simple suavity of his company as the children greeted him. But there was another reason the children surrounded him. Something the woman realized by the concerned look on her face, as the priest, in a very civil manner, encouraged her immediate departure. Civil in what I observed seemed to be a sense of apprehension between them. He waved her off and quickly turned his attention upon the children, pulling out handfuls of candy from the pockets of his long black robe. The young woman quickly strolled out of my line of sight, darting glances over her shoulder as if hoping not to have been seen.

I would had otherwise put the whole event out of my mind, but a military jeep loaded with heavily armed soldiers came careening around a street corner seconds later, driving directly to the church, than slowly cruising to observe the priest. The priest refused to acknowledge their presence, focusing on to the children. The soldier’s presence reminded me that Mexico was still in a state of social discord and political repression.

“Halcones.” A Mexican man muttered under his breath, eyeing the scene behind me.
The utterance of the word made my skin crawl. This was the name of a special paramilitary squad instilled by Mexican President Luis Echeverria, of the PAN or National Action Party.
Echeverria espoused social economic reform after breaking the seventy-one year rule of the PRI or Institutional Revolutionary Party by open democratic elections. But instead, Echeverria mired Mexico in social tyranny and unemployment for millions. With growing civil unrest and fundamentalist anti-communist movements the Mexican army had become heavily involved in policing and prosecuting so called political activists; branded most likely for speaking out against human rights violations and severe economic disparity of the masses and ruling elite.

It was clear to me that President Echeverria was a despotic leader ordering the repression of alleged “guerrillas” by force from a covert military force. Fresh in my mind was the United States Embassy’s report of the unarmed student massacres in Mexico City’s Plaza de las Tres Culturas in 1968 and 1971 by the Mexican military. The death toll was well over 300 people. The Halcones were the hired thugs of Echeverria’s political authority. Now I knew why the priest sent the woman on her way, and crowded the children about him: For hers and his own protection from the Halcones.

Any bystander interest given the menacing soldiers in the jeep seemed to gratify them of their tyrannical power over this remote colonial city. I swayed for a moment under the weight of their malevolence, and then went on my way, leaving the sidewalk street to walk out of their line of sight. I did not want to become submissive prey to Mexico’s gun-barrel politics. The thought of it sunk me into a sullen resistance. I quickly walked out of their sight.

The political turmoil of this third world country was soon put behind me when I came upon the two-story colonial built hotel called Anahuac Hacienda; my destination to meet up with Dr. Hornsby and his expedition party.

My Moorish designed lodging appropriately named, “the land between the waters,” instantly felt like a safe refuge when I crossed its threshold. The authentic Hispanic ambiance and genial hospitality I received transformed my concerns about the political dangers lurking about us in this ancient provincial city. Emanating all about the hotel structure and courtyard garden with flowing water fountain was a nurturing ambience that captured the mysticism of the Mesoamerican culture.

Moreover, I found my interior accommodations equal - richly embellished with tasseled wool rugs of primary color zigzag patterns covering the hardwood floors. Ornately colored textured fabrics neatly laid out across the simple wooden framed beds. An adobe fireplace with neatly stacked wood had a mantel filled with clay figures of birds and animals. Black and white photographs of the Lacandones in poses of daily life tasks were set on the wall. The tranquility engulfed me, and a wave of fatigue washed over me. Settling on the bed to take a short siesta, I discovered a small brochure about Anahuac on the nightstand.

Anahuac was a renovated hacienda and coffee mill, having been purchased by Gustav and Sarina Albrecht in 1951. Gustav, an archeologist employed by an oil company came to Mexico in the early Twentieth Century. He had passed away ten years ago. Swiss born Sarina, now a widower had been jailed in Germany and imprisoned at a Nazi concentration camp for her anti-fascist campaigning.

Once released, she fled Europe to Mexico just before the outbreak of WWII. Sarina had hoped to put a safe distance between her and further political issues. But a few years later, while she accompanied an expedition into the Sierras de Chiapas highlands, she encountered the Lacandones, the last living vestige to the Maya empire. Witnessing the blatant exploitation of the Lacandones’ lands by the government and industrial corporations ignited Sarina’s humanitarian passion. Not only that, she met her future husband, Gustav, who was among the expedition’s members.

At the time of our expedition’s arrival, Sarina was gaining international recognition for her ardent defense of the Lacandones and the Lacandon Rainforest: The centuries old home of the Lacandones. As part of her campaign, Sarina cataloged volumes of black and white photographs of the Lacandones and the horrific scorched earth landscapes from clear-cut deforestation of the rainforest’s ancient cedar and mahogany trees within their territory. She cultivated an intensively personal relationship with the Lacandones, which Hornsby respected and vitally needed to accomplish his goal. Her conviction for their human rights was something that Hornsby was prudently in line with and expected us to be equally respectful when living in the various villages he had assigned us for the coming months.

I arrived late for Hornsby’s briefing at the Anahuac cultural center’s bibliotheca. I had overslept, exhausted from the sleepless two-day bus journey from Mexico City. Hornsby gave me a scornful look as I took an empty seat among the others at a long rectangular rough-hewn wooden table. Looking about the table of the six chosen expedition members I discovered the raven-haired woman I had observed earlier in the day, coming out of the church with the priest. She was seated directly across from me, eyeing me with a perturbed glance.

Initially there were six of us accompanying Hornsby, all noticeably in our twentieth decade of age. Sarina was seated off to one side, remaining reserved and observant of us. Hornsby had set up a large topographical map of the southern Mexico region on an easel behind him. He was one not to waste time with my tardiness. Dressed in khaki attire, Hornsby continued with his orientation.