I arrived in Chiapas at night. I had made arrangements the week before for a taxi to pick me up at the airport. As I walked out of the plane, I found myself in a modern airport completed just a few months earlier.
We drove out towards San Cristóbal de las Casa on a new toll road that shortened the time to get to town. Things were very different back in 1994. In the car, I recalled the last time I was here. Our bus was flagged down and searched by heavily armed soldiers. There was dead silence in the bus. Unaware of the uprising early that year, I was trying to make sense of what was going on.
At midnight on January 1, 1994, when the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) went into effect, 3000 black hooded Zapatistas - some with Uzi look-alike wooden guns – made their first appearance, emerging from the forest where they had been hiding. They surprised everyone and took over San Cristóbal de las Casa and several nearby towns. Chiapas was the poorest state in Mexico with more than four million people, of which about a quarter were Mayans. Chiapas is rich in oil and water resources, but many people there did not have access to either. Problems of malnutrition, infant and maternal deaths were more serious than the rest of the country. The Zapatista demanded that the Government improve the living standard of the indigenous people and pass legislation to protect their rights. The group also warned the government of the potential impact of the free trade agreement. Although the conflict lasted only 12 days, it succeeded in attracting worldwide attention.
As we drove into San Cristóbal de las Casa, I eagerly looked around.
"I'm back!" I said to myself.
But what I saw disoriented me. I was surprised to hear bursts of pop music. A group of young people standing outside the bar chatting.
Finally, I arrived at the Paradise Hotel. I opened the huge wooden doors and passed candles perched in stands to get to the front desk. I finally settled into the high-ceiling hotel room.
Early the next morning, I woke up at dawn. Sunlight from the skylights cascaded into the room and illuminated the golden orange paint on the wall. The cheerful color glowed and brightened my mood and made me smile. I felt energetic and I hopped out of the bed. Moments later, I was ready to go out. As I opened the French door that was twice my size, the fragrant scent from the wood frame permeated the air and struck me by surprise. I stopped for a moment to let it penetrate my lungs before walking out into the lobby. The hallway surrounding the courtyard was painted in hot orange accented with baby blue. It was decorated with rustic furniture, large overhead beams and plants in terracotta pots. The mix of native and Spanish styles is what makes this country so charming and fascinating.
I headed out for Chamula, a nearby indigenous village, for its Sunday farmers’ market where villagers from the surrounding areas came to buy or sell produce. I zigzagged through the city until I found the old van that shuttled between San Cristóbal and the village. I was joined by some tourists and indigenous people from the city.
The indigenous culture was still strong and alive in Chamula. They called their churches “templos (temples) as opposed inglesias (churches). Every February, tens of thousands of people would come here to watch the carnival. Although anthropologists consider the indigenous in Chiapas Mayan, the term is something unfamiliar to many villagers here. Most of the indigenous people identified themselves based on their village and dialect. Each village has its own unique customs. Chamula was more conservative than some of the other villages. This had resulted in the preservation of their indigenous culture and Catholic influence but also prompted the expulsion of many who converted to Evangelical Christianity.
San Juan Church was the center of the village. Each door and window was embellished with three-tiered arches in blue and green, adding an interesting touch to the white missionary-style church. I was told that blue and green represented the sky and the earth. Most crosses in the village were planted in the ground and painted in blue and green, symbolizing the connection to earth. Well before the arrival of the Spaniards, the Mayans already used crosses as a symbol of the sacred kopok tree which was called ceiba by the Mayans. Ceiba was considered the tree of life. According to the legend the heaven and earth were connected prior to the genesis until a ceiba tree extended upward and held up the sky while extending its roots to the underworld. Some said that three artists created color and life on earth. They were a sculptor, a painter, and a molder, representing each of the 3 points on the cross. Mayans not only had great respect for the forces of nature and life on earth but also worshipped them. There were gods of the trees, corn, wind, sun and many others. I found their legends colorful and romantic which might explain the rich color and strong personal relationships in their culture.
As soon as I stepped into San Juan Church, I was greeted with the fresh scent of pine needles. There were no pews in the church. It was carpeted with pine needles. The villagers and their families came here with soda, used as a replacement for traditional fermented maize drink, and with candles to pray for good health or harvest. They knelt on the ground to show respect in front of the saint that specialized in the areas they needed help in. One by one, they lit up the candles they brought. Different colors of candles were used for different purposes. For example, white symbolized the purity of the mother of earth. Green candles were used to ward off disease. Yellow and orange candles helped expel unlucky spells. Sometimes shamans were invited to the church for traditional rituals with incense or eggs to purify or identify illness.
A wide variety of Catholic statues were lined up along the walls. Mayans had always been polytheism. Maybe the Spaniards believed that they had converted the Mayans but, aside from the architecture of the Catholic church, everything else seemed to be reminiscent of the ancient Mayan culture. In the Mayan mythology, the sun god was beheaded. In revenge, his sons went to the underground and killed the evil. Some believed that the similarity between the Mayan and Catholic father-and-son pairs and their crosses was the reason why Catholicism was adopted widely by the Mayan.
When the Spaniards conquered Mexico, they ruthlessly destroyed most of the Mayan statues, temples and literature. But watching the Mayans practice traditional rituals in the church in front of Catholic saints, I wondered if they transposed their Mayan faith to a Catholic look-alike, to preserve their religion, or if they really converted to Catholicism. Was the transposing a way of distracting themselves from the cultural and political domination by the Spaniards or an expression of their disappointment in the Mayan gods? We may never know the real answer.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
4 (B). Through Oaxaca
When I woke up the next morning, I found myself drenched in sunlight. I was surprised by the serenity in the room after an adventurous night. I turned on the TV to fill the room with the voice of the news anchor. I didn’t understand much of what was said in Spanish but had a sense that the demonstrators might have left the central plaza under pressure from the police. Eager to find out what was going on, I decided to skip breakfast and head out for the central plaza.
As soon I walked out of the hotel, I changed my plan and took a detour to the Basilica de la Soledad Church. Maybe I was nervous about seeing what Oaxaca had become or maybe I just needed to prepare myself for what I was going to see. The town seemed to come back to life as people and cars passed by me.
The basilica is dedicated to the Virgin of Solitude, Oaxaca’s patron saint. She is believed to have the power to heal and work miracles. There was no one in the courtyard outside the Baroque church as I crossed. The lime-stone church casted a large shadow on the plaza in the chilly morning. I could hear the service inside the church so I sped up and slipped into the pew. The priest was reading from the bible as the Virgin of Solitude looking down on him in her pearl-encrusted vest and gold crown. I was distracted by the frosty breeze that found its way through the open doors into the church, but the singing somehow warmed me up. The elegance of the saint and the tranquility in the church were calming even for a non-believer like me. Before I left, I joined the prayer for peace and safety of the town and the demonstrators.
I strolled down the street towards the center of the old town. Most of the stores were shut, many graffitied with protests against the governor and the president. My heart was sinking. I could hardly recognize the town that had been one of the most beautiful colonial cities in Mexico. As I got closer and closer to the central plaza, more people entered the street as if we were marching together. The crowd worried me. I began to wonder if the confrontation had escalated again. I quickened my pace until I was met with armored police fencing the central plaza and was prevented from entering it. In front of them there was commotion surrounding torched bus and cars as people raced to climbed into them and take pictures. I was relieved that things had not grown worse.
By the second day, the central plaza was re-opened to the public. I wandered around, hoping to find the spot near the main church where I used to sit and watch people. The town center was filled with police and debris from the demonstration. Many policemen who slept in the corridor overnight were sitting on their mattresses chatting with each other. Some chose to read comic books and sizzling magazines with photos of sexy women to recuperate from days of confrontation. Others lined up by the pay phone to call home.
An old man brought a big bag of bread and pastries for the police.
“Thank you for helping us end the protest. Many stores had gone without business for months.” He said to the police.
It was the Day of the Dead. The Oaxacans used to put out elaborate offerings on decorative altars to celebrate the return of their deceased families. Most people feared the dead but the Mexicans seemed to savor their time with the families, dead or alive, with great pleasure. They dressed up skeletons in beautiful colors, adorned the grave yards with a sea of flamboyant flowers and sometimes even played music at the cemeteries, as if we are only alive and truly free when we are dead.
I was disappointed that there was none of that this year. With the debris and flurry of people, it was all too confusing to me. I felt lost looking for my old spot. I paused as the frustration hit me. That’s when I looked up and saw the towering church standing next to the glittering sun. My eyes fluttered. I re-oriented myself and suddenly realized that I was standing at the spot where I used to sit. Since my last trip, they had planted trees in the plaza which used to be wide open. The long line of policemen wrapping around the church waiting for their lunch changed the look and feel of the area.
When I visited Oaxaca in 1994, the campaign for the presidential election was underway. It was the first election after the new electoral laws were passed and the first to have international observers. I remember my conversation with a young man who did not plan to cast his vote.
“The election will be rigged. Even if I went to vote, it would not change the outcome of the election. The ruling party will continue to stay in power.” He shared his pessimism with me.
“You have to vote! Taiwanese were not allowed to vote in presidential elections before, but everything has changed. You have to believe in the power of people. Sometimes change seems like a distant future. Believe it or not, the change can happen.”
I spoke with optimism a few years after the Taiwan government, controlled by Chinese renegades who ruled the country with iron fist, ended the longest martial law period in world history. The National Delegate Assembly with only Chinese-born representatives was dismissed. For the first time, Taiwanese could cast their votes in their own country in presidential elections. Things that had seemed hopeless became reality, thanks to the courage of those who stood up against dictatorship. I was excited and hopeful for the future of Taiwan. I didn’t know if this young man cast his vote, but in 2000, Mexico’s opposition party won their first presidential election, putting an end to 72 years of one-party rule. Coincidentally, Taiwan was also transformed in the same year in the same way.
Much had happened since then. Being here again brought back the hopes that I had for both countries. Both countries experienced an increased number of demonstrations as the countries liberated. Democracy was a long journey. Problems did not go away overnight. In fact, democracy helped surface problems that were unspoken before, often creating an illusion of instability in the short term.
People here were divided on the events that had unfolded in the last few months.
“My sister is a teacher. She makes $500 a month, far more than I do. And yet every year they go on strike and demand a pay raise. This has been going on for more than 20 years.” The waiter in a restaurant where I ordered chicken mole told me. “But I still think that everyone has the right to demonstrate. I just don’t like it being politicized.”
My taxi driver complained, “The months-long demonstration has scared away many tourists. It really affected my business. My children have not been able to go to school for a while now because the teachers are on strike.”
“I heard that the governor is very corrupt. Is there any truth to that?” I asked him.
“I think so. After he became the governor, he built a huge house.” The driver answered.
Yolanda ran a small newspaper. She had a different perspective.
“Inflation has continued to worsen over the year. After privatization, many materials and resources are controlled by a few companies. The monopolies have driven up prices. Things are not as bad here in Oaxaca as they are in the remote areas where things are very tough and people struggle with poverty. I am a single mom. Although the demonstration has affected my business, I think we have to continue to fight for reforms.”
Mexico is blessed with oil, platinum and millionaires, including one of the richest men in the world. And yet the country is plagued with income disparity.
Is Chiapas facing the same challenges?
That night I dreamed of Chiapas again.
As soon I walked out of the hotel, I changed my plan and took a detour to the Basilica de la Soledad Church. Maybe I was nervous about seeing what Oaxaca had become or maybe I just needed to prepare myself for what I was going to see. The town seemed to come back to life as people and cars passed by me.
The basilica is dedicated to the Virgin of Solitude, Oaxaca’s patron saint. She is believed to have the power to heal and work miracles. There was no one in the courtyard outside the Baroque church as I crossed. The lime-stone church casted a large shadow on the plaza in the chilly morning. I could hear the service inside the church so I sped up and slipped into the pew. The priest was reading from the bible as the Virgin of Solitude looking down on him in her pearl-encrusted vest and gold crown. I was distracted by the frosty breeze that found its way through the open doors into the church, but the singing somehow warmed me up. The elegance of the saint and the tranquility in the church were calming even for a non-believer like me. Before I left, I joined the prayer for peace and safety of the town and the demonstrators.
I strolled down the street towards the center of the old town. Most of the stores were shut, many graffitied with protests against the governor and the president. My heart was sinking. I could hardly recognize the town that had been one of the most beautiful colonial cities in Mexico. As I got closer and closer to the central plaza, more people entered the street as if we were marching together. The crowd worried me. I began to wonder if the confrontation had escalated again. I quickened my pace until I was met with armored police fencing the central plaza and was prevented from entering it. In front of them there was commotion surrounding torched bus and cars as people raced to climbed into them and take pictures. I was relieved that things had not grown worse.
By the second day, the central plaza was re-opened to the public. I wandered around, hoping to find the spot near the main church where I used to sit and watch people. The town center was filled with police and debris from the demonstration. Many policemen who slept in the corridor overnight were sitting on their mattresses chatting with each other. Some chose to read comic books and sizzling magazines with photos of sexy women to recuperate from days of confrontation. Others lined up by the pay phone to call home.
An old man brought a big bag of bread and pastries for the police.
“Thank you for helping us end the protest. Many stores had gone without business for months.” He said to the police.
It was the Day of the Dead. The Oaxacans used to put out elaborate offerings on decorative altars to celebrate the return of their deceased families. Most people feared the dead but the Mexicans seemed to savor their time with the families, dead or alive, with great pleasure. They dressed up skeletons in beautiful colors, adorned the grave yards with a sea of flamboyant flowers and sometimes even played music at the cemeteries, as if we are only alive and truly free when we are dead.
I was disappointed that there was none of that this year. With the debris and flurry of people, it was all too confusing to me. I felt lost looking for my old spot. I paused as the frustration hit me. That’s when I looked up and saw the towering church standing next to the glittering sun. My eyes fluttered. I re-oriented myself and suddenly realized that I was standing at the spot where I used to sit. Since my last trip, they had planted trees in the plaza which used to be wide open. The long line of policemen wrapping around the church waiting for their lunch changed the look and feel of the area.
When I visited Oaxaca in 1994, the campaign for the presidential election was underway. It was the first election after the new electoral laws were passed and the first to have international observers. I remember my conversation with a young man who did not plan to cast his vote.
“The election will be rigged. Even if I went to vote, it would not change the outcome of the election. The ruling party will continue to stay in power.” He shared his pessimism with me.
“You have to vote! Taiwanese were not allowed to vote in presidential elections before, but everything has changed. You have to believe in the power of people. Sometimes change seems like a distant future. Believe it or not, the change can happen.”
I spoke with optimism a few years after the Taiwan government, controlled by Chinese renegades who ruled the country with iron fist, ended the longest martial law period in world history. The National Delegate Assembly with only Chinese-born representatives was dismissed. For the first time, Taiwanese could cast their votes in their own country in presidential elections. Things that had seemed hopeless became reality, thanks to the courage of those who stood up against dictatorship. I was excited and hopeful for the future of Taiwan. I didn’t know if this young man cast his vote, but in 2000, Mexico’s opposition party won their first presidential election, putting an end to 72 years of one-party rule. Coincidentally, Taiwan was also transformed in the same year in the same way.
Much had happened since then. Being here again brought back the hopes that I had for both countries. Both countries experienced an increased number of demonstrations as the countries liberated. Democracy was a long journey. Problems did not go away overnight. In fact, democracy helped surface problems that were unspoken before, often creating an illusion of instability in the short term.
People here were divided on the events that had unfolded in the last few months.
“My sister is a teacher. She makes $500 a month, far more than I do. And yet every year they go on strike and demand a pay raise. This has been going on for more than 20 years.” The waiter in a restaurant where I ordered chicken mole told me. “But I still think that everyone has the right to demonstrate. I just don’t like it being politicized.”
My taxi driver complained, “The months-long demonstration has scared away many tourists. It really affected my business. My children have not been able to go to school for a while now because the teachers are on strike.”
“I heard that the governor is very corrupt. Is there any truth to that?” I asked him.
“I think so. After he became the governor, he built a huge house.” The driver answered.
Yolanda ran a small newspaper. She had a different perspective.
“Inflation has continued to worsen over the year. After privatization, many materials and resources are controlled by a few companies. The monopolies have driven up prices. Things are not as bad here in Oaxaca as they are in the remote areas where things are very tough and people struggle with poverty. I am a single mom. Although the demonstration has affected my business, I think we have to continue to fight for reforms.”
Mexico is blessed with oil, platinum and millionaires, including one of the richest men in the world. And yet the country is plagued with income disparity.
Is Chiapas facing the same challenges?
That night I dreamed of Chiapas again.
Monday, June 8, 2009
4(A). Through Oaxaca | Parada en Oaxaca
The first time I went to Mexico, I stopped in Oaxaca before going to San Cristóbal de las Casas. I chose to follow the same route as in 1994.
The morning I flew out, I was greeted with an email from Emilio. That’s how I learned about the standoff between the protestors and the police in Oaxaca. The demonstration had been going on for months. The demonstrators began clashing with the police. The tension escalated when an American amateur journalist was shot to death amid the chaos. The day before my flight, the federal police descended in the city and shut down the local airport. Concerned about my safety, Emilio suggested that I cancel my trip. Not wanting to forfeit the ticket, I decided to stick with my plan and find out first-hand what’s really going on there.
Clueless if the Oaxaca airport had re-opened, I landed in Mexico City where I would transfer to the city in the South. The international airport was hustling and bustling as always. For a minute I wondered if the news about Oaxaca was accurate. I proceeded to the immigration check point.
“Wait here. I need to make a copy of your passport for my record.”
Going through immigration here was always brisk. I was surprised by the new procedure. The immigration officer took my passport and disappeared into her office, leaving me pondering if things had gotten worse in Oaxaca. I stood there all alone staring at the empty booth feeling the time ticking at snail’s pace as if I was on trial waiting to find out my sentence.
When the immigration officer finally came back, I couldn’t help asking her the reason for the procedure.
“A foreigner was shot in Oaxaca yesterday so we are keeping records of all the visitors who are going there, just in case.” She smiled at me broadly when she finished, as if she was joking.
I returned the smile, pretending that I was taking it all in stride.
Back in 1994, there was also a sit-in by the teachers in the central plaza in this charming town. They asked for a pay increase but the strike was peaceful. I used to sit near the plaza with my back to the demonstrators so I could watch the vendors with their colorful balloons and kids running in front of the church while diners enjoyed the sumptuous Oaxacan specialties. Energy erupted all around me so that I wasn’t sure if I was in an amusement park or an enchanting Spanish colonial town.
This time the teachers’ demonstration had intensified after the governor’s raid on the demonstrators. The teachers were joined by many sympathizers and the left-wing APPO Popular Assembly of the Peoples of Oaxaca. They began calling for the resignation of the governor, Ulise Ruiz Ortiz, who was also accused of corruption and repression.
After waiting for hours in Mexico City, I was finally on my way to Oaxaca. The plane was packed but with only 3 foreigners. No one said a word during the entire flight. I didn’t really know what to expect. It was almost midnight by the time we landed. I looked for a taxi as I walked out of the airport. I got in a share ride with a few strangers. It felt a bit odd, but I was so eager to get to my hotel that I didn’t let it bother me.
The streets were deserted and pitch dark. All the stores were shut. We drove miles without seeing a car but a few barricades and torched cars. The silence was eerie and surreal. To get around the blockades, the driver went through small alleys. There were no lights coming out of any of the houses.
“It is so safe in Oaxaca tonight!” One passenger broke the silence trying to make light of the situation.
The rest of us remained quiet, still too stunned by what we saw.
The hotel that I was supposed to stay at was only a few blocks from the central plaza which had been sealed off by the federal police.
“I have to let you off here. You will have to walk only 10 blocks.” The driver said.
I was Dumbfounded. The police had already shut down the electricity for the entire city. The picture of me toiling a luggage in a war zone at night seemed so wrong and even laughable to me. Fortunately, another passenger intervened and asked the driver to drop me off at a hotel in a safe area. It was a fancy hotel far more expensive than the other hotel but I was just relieved that I had a place to unwind.
In the middle of the night, I could hear the helicopters flying right over my room. Gun shots fired off through the sky intermittently. How is Oaxaca after all these years? I was anxious to know but exhaustion finally put me to sleep.
The morning I flew out, I was greeted with an email from Emilio. That’s how I learned about the standoff between the protestors and the police in Oaxaca. The demonstration had been going on for months. The demonstrators began clashing with the police. The tension escalated when an American amateur journalist was shot to death amid the chaos. The day before my flight, the federal police descended in the city and shut down the local airport. Concerned about my safety, Emilio suggested that I cancel my trip. Not wanting to forfeit the ticket, I decided to stick with my plan and find out first-hand what’s really going on there.
Clueless if the Oaxaca airport had re-opened, I landed in Mexico City where I would transfer to the city in the South. The international airport was hustling and bustling as always. For a minute I wondered if the news about Oaxaca was accurate. I proceeded to the immigration check point.
“Wait here. I need to make a copy of your passport for my record.”
Going through immigration here was always brisk. I was surprised by the new procedure. The immigration officer took my passport and disappeared into her office, leaving me pondering if things had gotten worse in Oaxaca. I stood there all alone staring at the empty booth feeling the time ticking at snail’s pace as if I was on trial waiting to find out my sentence.
When the immigration officer finally came back, I couldn’t help asking her the reason for the procedure.
“A foreigner was shot in Oaxaca yesterday so we are keeping records of all the visitors who are going there, just in case.” She smiled at me broadly when she finished, as if she was joking.
I returned the smile, pretending that I was taking it all in stride.
Back in 1994, there was also a sit-in by the teachers in the central plaza in this charming town. They asked for a pay increase but the strike was peaceful. I used to sit near the plaza with my back to the demonstrators so I could watch the vendors with their colorful balloons and kids running in front of the church while diners enjoyed the sumptuous Oaxacan specialties. Energy erupted all around me so that I wasn’t sure if I was in an amusement park or an enchanting Spanish colonial town.
This time the teachers’ demonstration had intensified after the governor’s raid on the demonstrators. The teachers were joined by many sympathizers and the left-wing APPO Popular Assembly of the Peoples of Oaxaca. They began calling for the resignation of the governor, Ulise Ruiz Ortiz, who was also accused of corruption and repression.
After waiting for hours in Mexico City, I was finally on my way to Oaxaca. The plane was packed but with only 3 foreigners. No one said a word during the entire flight. I didn’t really know what to expect. It was almost midnight by the time we landed. I looked for a taxi as I walked out of the airport. I got in a share ride with a few strangers. It felt a bit odd, but I was so eager to get to my hotel that I didn’t let it bother me.
The streets were deserted and pitch dark. All the stores were shut. We drove miles without seeing a car but a few barricades and torched cars. The silence was eerie and surreal. To get around the blockades, the driver went through small alleys. There were no lights coming out of any of the houses.
“It is so safe in Oaxaca tonight!” One passenger broke the silence trying to make light of the situation.
The rest of us remained quiet, still too stunned by what we saw.
The hotel that I was supposed to stay at was only a few blocks from the central plaza which had been sealed off by the federal police.
“I have to let you off here. You will have to walk only 10 blocks.” The driver said.
I was Dumbfounded. The police had already shut down the electricity for the entire city. The picture of me toiling a luggage in a war zone at night seemed so wrong and even laughable to me. Fortunately, another passenger intervened and asked the driver to drop me off at a hotel in a safe area. It was a fancy hotel far more expensive than the other hotel but I was just relieved that I had a place to unwind.
In the middle of the night, I could hear the helicopters flying right over my room. Gun shots fired off through the sky intermittently. How is Oaxaca after all these years? I was anxious to know but exhaustion finally put me to sleep.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
3. The Pending Project | Proyecto Pendiente
It had been more than 10 years. One day the memory of the woman in the church crept back and began haunting me, calling for my return to San Cristóbal de las Casas.
“What was the life they endured that induced such sorrow in the prayers? Have their lives changed after all these years?” I asked over and over again in my head.
I jumped on the opportunity when I heard about a project to build a midwifery school in Chiapas. I was elated that I had a reason to go back to San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas. The school, founded in San Miguel de Allende, had been hosting young women from Chiapas and other impoverished states in Mexico and Guatemala. The plan was to build another campus in Chiapas to help improve health care for the rural areas and reduce maternal mortality. Chiapas was the poorest state in Mexico. I hoped to get insight into the indigenous communities there on this trip.
The night before my trip, I fell asleep to Ricky Martin’s “Asignatura Pendiente”, smiling and full of emotions.
“What was the life they endured that induced such sorrow in the prayers? Have their lives changed after all these years?” I asked over and over again in my head.
I jumped on the opportunity when I heard about a project to build a midwifery school in Chiapas. I was elated that I had a reason to go back to San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas. The school, founded in San Miguel de Allende, had been hosting young women from Chiapas and other impoverished states in Mexico and Guatemala. The plan was to build another campus in Chiapas to help improve health care for the rural areas and reduce maternal mortality. Chiapas was the poorest state in Mexico. I hoped to get insight into the indigenous communities there on this trip.
The night before my trip, I fell asleep to Ricky Martin’s “Asignatura Pendiente”, smiling and full of emotions.
I have more frequent flyer miles than I need to go to Mars.
I have fan clubs
And houses that you can see from the sky
In the eyes of others
I was so very lucky
An army of people who would do anything for me
A picture with Bush
A suite at the Waldorf
More cars than friends
I don’t want to have any more desires
My pet almost could not recognize me
The more I have
The more I could not forget you
Waving your small hand you said goodbye
In the afternoon rain in San Juan
I bring with me your kiss
All I have is the memory not you
I was so busy in heaven
I forgot that life was better on earth
My Puerto Ricans
My Indians
My love
My pending project
2. Memory of 1994 | Memorias 1994
The drizzle sprinkled like snowflakes in San Cristóbal de las Casas. The streets were empty, and the air was tense. Silence permeated the town like a gag order. A couple Chamula women sat on their heels behind their merchandise outside of the 450-year-old church. The black masked Zapatista miniatures stood next to chromatic indigenous dolls calling for my attention.
I paused and looked at the intricate carving on the façade of the Baroque-style church before I entered. As soon I walked into the church, I was taken aback by the unexpected darkness. I slowed down as my eyes tried to adjust to it, until I could see a statue of dark-skinned Jesus at the end of the church. Slowly, through a fog of smoke, I began to see the gold-gilded walls around me.
Close your eyes and listen………….
Mayan prayer floated in the darkness. The sorrow in her voice struck me like a thunderbolt. In the dim light I saw a bare-footed indigenous woman kneeling on the hay scattered thickly on the floor. In her arms was a tiny baby.
Can you hear what I am hearing now?
I paused and looked at the intricate carving on the façade of the Baroque-style church before I entered. As soon I walked into the church, I was taken aback by the unexpected darkness. I slowed down as my eyes tried to adjust to it, until I could see a statue of dark-skinned Jesus at the end of the church. Slowly, through a fog of smoke, I began to see the gold-gilded walls around me.
Close your eyes and listen………….
Mayan prayer floated in the darkness. The sorrow in her voice struck me like a thunderbolt. In the dim light I saw a bare-footed indigenous woman kneeling on the hay scattered thickly on the floor. In her arms was a tiny baby.
Can you hear what I am hearing now?
1. The Psychic | El Psíquico
You are an old soul with many past lives
Traveling the paths of the past
Once an Aztec Warrior
Marching from one village to the other
The trail of the past is the passage of the present
Forward
Este libro esta dedicado a
Los más queridos y los olvidados
Los esperanzados y los incrédulos
Al pasado y al future
Los más queridos y los olvidados
Los esperanzados y los incrédulos
Al pasado y al future
******************
To
The beloved and the forgotten
The hopeful and the skeptics
The past and the future
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