Along with this emphasis on family, comes the emphasis on tradition. My Dutch friend Ferry, a former teacher at Dunham Institute (my language school), told me a story about visiting his Mexican girlfriend's family this past Christmas in Mexico City. They've been dating for a few months but at night, just to keep tabs on these young lovers, his girlfriend had to sleep in the same bedroom as her parents while he had to sleep in the same bed as her aunt and uncle (I joke; bedroom of the aunt and uncle, not bed, but you get the idea). This is a culture where you are going to need Mom and Dad's blessing if you are going to date someone and especially if you are going to marry someone. In the States, sometimes parents don't even meet people's significant others until after the engagement. I mean personally I've been in relationships and my parents didn't even know I was dating someone, and of those relationships they did know about they rarely met my girlfriends. Here, your family is going to know everything. Probably because you told them and want to get your family's blessing, also probably because you spend so much time with your family that they're just going to meet the person naturally, and also because Chiapa (despite being a town of some 70,000 people) is still fundamentally a small town where you're constantly seeing familiar faces and I imagine secrets aren't kept for long.
I still remember going on a walk with my family the first weekend I was here and being surprised by what I saw. My parents were more or less giving me a tour of the neighborhood and first I saw one couple making out on a bench. As we continued walking down along the river bank there was a second couple, and then a third all in each other's arms kissing vigorously. We turned up a set of stairs and there I saw another couple. I think in our 30 minute walk I saw eight couples kissing while leaning against buildings or sitting on steps and benches. At the time I thought it was strange but thought of it in terms of the kissing when you first meet someone. If you're kissing someone on the cheek when you first meet in public maybe if you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend that entitles you to french kiss wherever you please. However, now understanding the importance of family and tradition it makes sense why all these couples are doing this on the streets. And when I say couples, I'm not talking about teenagers or even necessarily people in their early 20s, we're talking late 20's maybe even 30's. Presumably since folks are still living at home with their parents, siblings, and maybe their grandparents until they are married, that means they have no place to go. So ironically the only place they can go to get some privacy is in public. Maybe to some folks it might be gross to see people in each other's arms kissing passionately but hey I think we all could use a little more love in our lives. Doesn't bother me one bit nor the rest of this town. It also doesn't hurt when the women here are some of the most beautiful I've ever seen in my life.
I'm not sure if there's something in the water (other than bacteria that will bring upon Montezuma's revenge for us gringos) or something in the air but honestly the women here are drop dead gorgeous. Right now I've only really experienced Chiapa de Corzo so I'm not sure if it's like this everywhere in Mexico but my Dutch friend Ferry tells me it's a unique characteristic of Chiapa de Corzo and nowhere else in Mexico or the world for that matter. The state of Chiapas is already relatively isolated and Chiapa de Corzo even more so. Folks don't tend to stray far from home, so maybe all these genes just stayed here, between the Rio Grijalva and los Altos (the highlands). Objectifying women? I'm just pointing out the facts here people, they have great natural features (most don't even wear makeup) and heck they even have straight teeth without braces. There are beautiful people everywhere and anyone who knows me knows that who you are is always more important than what you look like. And to all my female readers out there, the genes apply to the guys too. When they dress up as chuntas it's dangerous, sometimes you really just don't know what's under that dress. Anyway, I have already met two different foreigners here who married local women down here. I actually just attended one of their weddings last week.
The wedding took place between a British gentleman named Ed and a local Chiapa de Corzan named Ceci. Ed first came to Chiapa de Corzo a few years back to teach English at Dunham Institute and he met his wife here in town during his stay. My parents were friends of Ed and Ceci so they received five invitations for the family, but since Andrea was still up in Baja I got to take her place. I don't know too many of the details of their relationship but Ed's fluent in Spanish and I believe he's been living in Mexico for the better part of two years. One thing I do know for sure though is that they could not have had a more beautiful location for their wedding. It took place at a venue right on the banks of the Rio Grijalva and the mouth of the Sumidero Canyon called Las Haditas. Tree canopies covered the outdoor stone terrace, where the entire event took place. Chandeliers hung from tree branches above each of our tables. And candles flickered in the warm "winter" breeze.
Being at the venue felt like you were transported into another world. Chiapa de Corzo is a beautiful town but just like the Dominican Republic, there doesn't seem to be a good system in place to handle trash. Instead many times it is simply dumped in piles on street corners or just thrown onto the street whenever you are finished using a product. True, much of this experience for me has been during the Fiesta when there simply wasn't the infrastructure to handle the thousands of tourists but even now, there still aren't many public garbage cans... it's kind of like a social experiment. Even the starkest environmentalist will litter if there is nowhere for him to put his trash. It's ironic that I'm an environmental educator and I taught kids all about watersheds and how trash ends up in water and yet during the Fiesta I found myself dropping cans in the street because there was nowhere else to put them. I saw guys running around with barrels picking up trash the next day, but they don't always get all of it. Plenty of it ends up on the banks of the river or in the water. So yeah, they could definitely use some help in city planning and taking care of the trash and even more importantly they could use some recycling programs. Once again it's about priorities. I don't know the details but I have to believe it would be feasible to do something with all those cans and plastic bottles, especially when you consider the environmental costs. Composting is also something I've yet to see here. There's an empty lot a half block away from me all gated up, I'm tempted to just start putting my personal compost there, if not for gardening at least to just have that much less going into the landfill (an unknown location to me at this time).
Anyway, back to the wedding. There was a simple ceremony held right down by the shore in a little outdoor "chapel." The ceremony itself wasn't religious at all in nature but instead just included the usual legal jargon, the rings, and the sharing of vows. It was basically the same thing you would hear in the states other than that it was said in Spanish first and then translated into English. There were probably some thirty folks in attendance and after the ceremony probably another two dozen or so showed up for the dinner and festivities. There was a three course meal with a corn soup appetizer, a chicken dinner, and cake for dessert. To be honest I don't remember too many details about the food, probably because I was too busy flagging down my favorite waiter, Abel, and asking for another whiskey coke. Over the course of the five hours or so that I was at this wedding I had to have drank at least ten whiskey cokes (and that's low balling it). Am I that much of a drinker, no. The reason I drank so many was one, because they were free, and two, they were probably some of the weakest drinks in my life. If I'm still standing after nearly a dozen drinks... there's something different about the drinks. At my wedding I'm making the drinks strong, if I'm going to go light on something it'll be the table pieces or heck even the food!
Well, after about eight drinks I was finally feeling it a little and that's when the bride got on top of a chair at the center of the dance floor. Her maid of honor got on another chair across from her and they held a piece of fabric between the two of them (think limbo more or less). At this point some fifteen women got onto the dance floor in a circle around the chairs. Then the band started playing and one woman started leading the group in a sort of conga line around the dance floor. They weaved in and out between tables and ducked under the fabric between the chairs. All the while the bride spun her bouquet over her head with the same wrist motion that one would use for a lasso. And then she tossed it in an arc toward the train of women. A miss. Then a man ran and retrieved the bouquet for the bride. This happened another five times or so. The bride seemingly randomly throwing the bouquet at the women in the conga line and it mostly missing although there were opportunities to catch it but nobody did. I was tipsy, I was confused. Were they supposed to catch it or not? Just then the band stopped playing. The chairs were removed. All the women in the snake now grouped together. The bride turned around. There was a drum roll. And the bride through the bouquet over her head. Aha, this was familiar, this is what we did in the states. But no, once again nobody tried to catch it and the flowers fell to the ground. So they reset. And did it five more times until finally it basically landed onto a women's arms and she "caught" it. Maybe the bouquet has a different meaning here...
Then it was the guys' turn. My Dad, uncle, brother, Brian (another TEFL student who lives with my aunt and uncle), Mike (an older Canadian fellow) and I all got up and joined the circle of men on the dance floor. Ceci was sitting on a chair in the middle of the circle and Ed was kneeling down in front of her. The men then all did an about face and turned to face the tables while Ed removed Ceci's garter. Then Ed climbed the chair, the best man climbed another chair, fabric was held across, the music began, and we started our train. It was at this time that I heard a voice behind me ask, "do you know what's going on?" I turned my head to see an equally tall, and equally confused, irishman who was presumably one of Ed's friends who made the trip over for the wedding. I told him I had no idea what was going on and that I didn't speak Spanish either. We both laughed and continued to be taken on a wild ride around tables and ducking under the limbo fabric. Ed through the garter with the same success of his wife. Eventually the music stopped and we all grouped together while Ed turned his back to us preparing to throw the garter. I noticed my Dad and uncle were among the group of us, along with several other men that were surely married. Wasn't the point of the bouquet and garter to signify who will be the next person to get married? Anyway Ed threw the garter and lo and behold my Dad caught it. There was applause and my Dad went and sat back down by my mom (in my mind I'm thinking what the hell is going on?). Ed throws it a couple more times. The irishman and I have a full foot on the competition and the wingspan to catch the thing but we're both so confused and giggly that we don't make the attempt because none of the Mexican guys are. Maybe the bouquet and garter are bad luck down here or maybe nobody wants to get married soon? Some six throws later and another guy sort of haphazardly "catches" it.
Catching up with Ed during a break in the dancing I ask him what his plans are for the future with Ceci. He tells me they're moving to England and taking over his Dad's carpet cleaning company there. He assures me they're going to take time every year to come back to Chiapa and visit for a few weeks or maybe even months depending on his responsibilities back home with the company. Given how far the American dollar and Euro go down here that plan is easily feasible. For example in my month of being here I've spent roughly eighty dollars on groceries, equal to maybe one grocery store visit back home. Also back home, going out to eat for a full plate of food that fills me up will probably cost me around 15 bucks. Here I could buy dinner for myself and three other people with that much money. Rent falls into roughly the same ratio. For a little under one hundred dollars you can get yourself a one bedroom apartment. Is it going to be fancy, no, is it going to be beautiful, no, but it beats spending 500+ dollars for the same square footage back in the States. The biggest difference I've discovered here in terms of the value of the dollar so far though is in terms of taxes. Real estate taxes back in Wisconsin average about 2,500 dollars per year. Here in Chiapa de Corzo you'll pay about 40 dollars a year. Nearly everything that is bought and sold in the States will have a state sales tax, Wisconsin is at 5% while California has rates as high as 10%. Here in Chiapa there is zero sales tax, unless you go to the grocery store (which to my knowledge is the only business here in town which cares to collect taxes for the government). I don't know enough about the income tax system in Mexico to make a comparison but irregardless I think the picture I'm painting is clear. Mexico is inexpensive. I could spend probably 50 dollars a week and all my needs would be met; food, alcoholic beverages, outings to restaurants, internet, rent, and other miscellaneous expenditures. You could easily work 6 months in the states with a minimum wage job and save enough to live in Mexico for the following 6 months (I guess I say "you" implying you're someone who doesn't mind living the way I do). If you keep things simple, minimize expenditures, you have more freedom than you think you do. It's a future I would definitely consider, spend spring, summer, and fall back in Wisconsin, skip out on most of winter to come to Mexico. That's what my Canadian friend Mike has been doing for the last six years.
Rubel Gomez Nigenda is the current Patron and when he passes away his grave too will be danced upon each January just like the Patrons that came before him. Rubel has been the acting Patron for some fifteen years having been nominated by the previous Patron before his death, as is the custom. I see Rubel a few days after even learning that the position of the Patron exists at the January 21st firework display on the Rio Grijalva which also happens to be my host father, Javier's birthday.
I partied more in those final days of the Fiesta than I have in years. I felt like I was in college again celebrating Spring Jam, the week long concert series that marks the end of the Spring semester at the University of Minnesota, except now I was at a religious festival hanging out mostly with my family. The following day after the fireworks was the day of the big parade. As I mentioned in my previous post there seemed to be multiple "parades" every single day over the course of the Fiesta. It wasn't strange to hear the parachicos or chuntas go by at 2pm or at 2am and I often wondered how many, if any, of these groups were official "parades" of the Fiesta. My own experience of seeing these groups on the streets seemed to give me the feeling that these were more a perfect storm of friends and families who happened to meet up and form a critical mass than planned events put on by any one person. For as much chaos as the Fiesta seemed to contain there were still traditional events that have been going on for decades, and even hundreds of years. Events such as the Chunta parade on the 8th, the first day of the Parachicos on the 15th, the firework show on the 21st, and the more conventional parade through the heart of Chiapa de Corzo on the 22nd.
The festivities on Friday the 22nd began with a mug of whiskey and ended with shots of tequila. I left my house in the afternoon with my sisters and about five of their University friends from Tuxtla to stake out our spot to view the parade. We stopped by the house of my Aunt and Uncle just down the street and all the girls headed upstairs. I assumed they were just getting ready, but my cousins told me to come with. I followed the train of now ten girls and we climbed through a doorway and came out onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the streets below. Having walked these streets dozens of times over the last few weeks I had never even realized that these balconies existed. We followed the balcony around the corner and below us stood a mass of hundreds of people and floats as far as the eye could see. We had the best view you could've had and the parade started literally in front of our balcony. For me parades are a little like fireworks. Normally after about five or ten minutes I lose interest. Okay, more floats, okay more children, okay more marching bands, okay more candy. Once again though, Chiapa didn't disappoint.
There were floats, there were some children, there were a handful of bands, and some candy but there was also cross dressing dudes handing out shots of tequila and violently throwing fruit and vegetables at onlookers. The people watching alone was exceptional, then add in the component of dodging peppers and bananas that are being thrown at you and this two hour parade kept me interested the entire time. I believe the parade is supposed to be a celebration of fertility and life, but like always I hear this through my broken Spanish and from my fellow gringos. Nearly everyone in the parade has something that they're throwing, whether it's confetti, candy, or vegetables. I'm told all the produce is supposed to symbolize the male genitalia, so when my sisters and I end up with over a dozen different phallic looking fruits and vegetables I'm not quite sure what to make of it. Either way my grocery bill will be a little cheaper this week. The floats are mostly brightly colored trailers full of chiapanecas dancing
and beauty queens waving. The one exception in this madness of dancing, laughing, and music is the float of the Reformed Church of Christ. A stern looking family is standing straight and tall on a platform that has a big clock tower. They're dressed in their Sunday best, their lips are pursed, and their eyes gaze straight ahead. There are a few young children on the float and I can see the confusion and desire in their eyes. "Why can't we dance or throw candy?" "Because Satan's in the music, and the candy too!" If one had to pick a Christian church to belong to down here I think it would be difficult to not go Catholic. Best party of the year where I can wear a dress and drink in the streets or a depressing gathering where I have to wear a three piece suit in 90 degree weather and am then told I'm going to hell... I think I know which one I'd choose.
I woke up early the next morning on a mission. I had stayed up until 2am the previous night; first drinking beer with my sisters' friends, then joining my brother and his fourteen med student friends and drinking whiskey, then hanging out with my parents and drinking more beer, and finally rejoining my sisters and their friends once again to drink some tequila, and I can proudly say I've yet to have a hangover in Mexico. Is drinking that important to me, no. Do I advocate it, no. But when in Rome! Anyway, I got a few hours of sleep and had an appointment at 9am to rent a parachico outfit for the last day of the festival. The current teachers and two of the other TEFL students in my class all planned to join the final parade that afternoon. Similar to the chunta dialogue that went through my head two weeks earlier I realized this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to join in a unique tradition like nothing else in the world. For about $13 each of us got a full parachico outfit for the day; sequenced pants, a poncho, a chinchin (rattle), head wrap, mask, and the yellow headdress. As we donned our outfits together it was ironic to realize that here I was, a white, blonde haired, blue eyed, bearded foreigner dressing up to look like a white, blonde haired, blue eyed, bearded foreigner. I don't think I look anything remotely like a Spaniard in my every day life, and yet according to this criteria, I was the spitting image of one!
When wearing the parachico outfit there are two things that you realize right away. One, it's hot and you begin sweating immediately in the sunny 80 degree weather with the pants, long sleeved shirt, poncho, and tight fitting mask that are more conducive to a cool cloudy fall day than the winter heat of Mexico. Two, as if the sweat in your eyes didn't already make it hard to see, your mask has two tiny slits in it that make navigation extremely difficult since you have a tiny tunnel of vision. Pretend to make your hands into binoculars around your eyes and then close the diameter of the circles of your hands by half and you're entering the vision of a parachico. This wouldn't be such a big deal if not for the fact that you are traveling over cobble stone streets, going up stairs, avoiding cars, and trying to stay with your friends who all happen to look exactly the same as everyone else. Our first foray onto the street and Preston, one of my fellow TEFL students, takes off his mask and says he can't deal with the heat and the lack of vision. As we seek out the larger parade of parachicos and travel across the city I experiment with taking my mask off only to realize it is very difficult to get it back into place. No one else in my group seems to have a problem with easily taking their mask off and putting it back on but for me it's a 5 minute procedure. I decide I'm not taking it off again.
Tripping through the streets, and climbing up a series of stairs we arrive near the graveyard. We are now a group of ten or so with all of us gringos dressed as parachicos except for Kate who is dressed as a chiapaneca. I'm making an effort to try and memorize the colors of the ponchos of my friends as more and more parachicos surround us. Then we hear the whistle and the sound of the chinchins. I turn my whole head 90 degrees to catch a glimpse of a wave of dancing parachicos heading straight for us. They break upon us and suddenly any plan we had to stay together is cast aside as we are gobbled up by the dancers. I'm rattling my chinchin with my arms in the air, thinking I'm completely alone when I realize Preston and Corrine are behind me. One of the benefits of being 6'4" is that even when you're wearing an identical outfit as hundreds of other people your friends can still find you. I see Kate, the lone chiapaneca, in a sea of parachicos, and we rejoin her and her husband Rob who is
easily identified as the one parachico without long sleeves. There's five of us now, but we don't know where anyone else is, and we continue to be taken by the flow of parachicos. The flood eventually subsides and we're in the courtyard outside a shrine dedicated to San Sebastian. We're still body to body but we have stopped our forward progression. Now, the whistle changes and I realize we're doing the same dance that the parachicos did the day at the graveyard for the patrons. First we shake our chinchins and spin in circles, next we all simultaneously cease to shake our rattles and stomp our feet to the beat of the drum instead, then we all get down on our knees, in front of a small statue of Sebastian, in a moment of silence. It's a strange moment of tranquility, this calm before the inevitable storm that will ensue when that whistle plays again. It's also the first time I have knelt in front of a crucifix or saint in over four years. When in Rome!
The dancing resumes, and we make our way over a hill towards the house where the main statue of San Sebastian is being held for the 2015 year. We get to the house of San Sebastian, but we're so hot and dehydrated we decide to stop at a strangers house nearby and buy water and take in the shade. I remove my mask after having worn it straight for over an hour and the air upon my skin feels miraculous. Preston has left but we have found another teacher, James, so we are once again five. We're told that the parachicos are getting the statue ready to be moved and it will be about an hour before we're back on the street for the procession.
I'm still a bit rusty on what the significance of the whole Fiesta Grande de Enero is really about but the moving of San Sebastian from one house in Chiapa de Corzo to another is the climax of the festival. Why San Sebastian, why a statue, why is he housed in people's homes, why is he processed through the streets, these are questions I don't have answers to. But what I do know is that the house where the four current teachers of Dunham Institute live, is the next house to receive San Sebastian, meaning that this parade will eventually end at their residence. It is an enormous honor to house San Sebastian. As of now the waiting list to be approved to house him goes all the way until 2030, you might have a better chance of getting Packer season tickets than hosting this guy. Not only is it a huge honor it's also a huge responsibility and investment on the part of the family that hosts him. For example at the teachers' home half of the first floor was renovated in order to host the statue. Walls were knocked out, floors were redone, other walls were erected. But construction, and the loss of living space, isn't the only cost. The host is also responsible for feeding the parachicos the night of the 23rd, as well as hosting and feeding pilgrims who come to visit San Sebastian throughout the next year. Their house must be kept open for days at a time so people far and near can see him. Once a month they must also redress the shrine with fruit, flowers, and other offerings. There's more details that I don't quite know but regardless it takes a lot of time and money to have this honor. Ironically, I'm told that Gustavo, the host father of the teachers, who is hosting San Sebastian, isn't even a religious man. It's a matter of pride and giving back to the community. It would be rare to see a middle class family in the States dedicate their home, their time, and their money so freely. Sure there are weddings but there are usually things expected of you at weddings, gifts or tickets that are bought, and besides you need to be invited to attend. Here, all are welcome, the homeless, the foreigner, the drunk, the homosexual, no one is turned away.
San Sebastian comes onto the street. He stands about five feet tall and is being carried by several people on a large litter. We let most of the parachicos and Sebastian pass before rejoining the parade. They're on their way to the main church in town for a three hour service. We follow at a safe distance and decide we'd rather grab some dinner than sit for hours in a crowded hot church. Tacos. Then we stake out our spots in front of the teachers' home. We are all still in our full parachico outfits except with the coming darkness we've removed our masks. It was already hard enough to see in the daytime! We receive strange looks from the folks that pass by, especially from children, as they see our faces and think we are normal parachicos only to see our eyes blink and mouths move and realize to their dismay that we are actual white people. I check my watch and sure enough, nearly three hours exactly from the time we left Sebastian near the church, he is back on the street, making his final push to his new home.
Like most parades and shows in my life we showed up two hours early to get the best spot only to watch it all go to hell a few minutes before the main event. This final parade was no different. We had a spacious section of the sidewalk across from the house all to ourselves with a great view but as the parachicos began flooding the street there wasn't enough room for the bodies of both the spectators and the participants and we were forced to adapt. We all got pushed up against the wall of the house we were in front of. For me it wasn't a big issue. I'm big and I'm tall so I could still see what was happening and for the most part the parachicos didn't try to push me. However; there were two small kids in front of us who didn't have the same luxury I did. As I mentioned before parachicos are basically blind. They don't mean to hit you but they basically keep moving in one direction until they run into someone or something and then spin around and head in a new direction (basically like a roomba floor cleaner). Also some of these guys have been out on the streets dancing and drinking since noon so they're that much more unbalanced. Anyway, while we're being overrun with parachicos Kate has the motherly instinct to shelter these two children and take the brunt of the impact. She picks up one of the kids while Rob takes the other (God these Aussies are going to be awesome parents some day!). Eventually Kate passes her child to me because I have a better vantage point and I'm taller. The whole day up to this point was awesome and what would transpire later that night was also amazing, but having this little 5 year old kid on my shoulders shaking my rattle and wearing my headpiece truly made my day. Even after the parachicos thinned out and he was no longer in danger I just kept dancing with him up there. Him rattling away and me stepping with the beat. I have no idea who the kid was, never met the parents, but its a memory I'll never forget and I hope it's the same for him.
After San Sebastian arrives at his new home we grab some dinner with Kate's parents at the park and then return our parachico outfits, exactly 12 hours after receiving them that morning. I briefly stop back at my house to change out of my sweaty clothes and then hit the street again to rendezvous with Preston and Ferry. We go to the central plaza because we know there will be live music there but what we find is an impenetrable wall of tourists. We try and make our way towards the center but eventually come to the conclusion that there are so many people that even if we wanted to dance we wouldn't be able to. Ferry tells me these are all people from Tuxtla and that we need to find the local parties where all the Chiapa de Corzans are. We go up and down streets, searching in vain for music or dancing. It's amazing that a mere hour ago there were thousands of parachicos and spectators and now these same streets are abandoned. We walk past Preston's house and he calls it a night. Ferry and I continue on, eventually finding ourselves back at the teachers' house. The scene there is tranquil. There are a few people inside the house paying their respects to San Sebastian while a few more linger in the front yard and on the street. We talk with Rob, Kate, and Paul (another teacher). It feels like the night is winding down to an end when out of nowhere a marimba band appears and begins to play. The people who are still around rise to their feet and even more seemingly appear out of thin air and suddenly this empty street becomes a dance floor.
Everyone is dancing, young and old, drunk and sober, local and foreigner. There are girls still in their chiapaneca dresses, next to them is a group of goth punk kids, on the other side of them is a guy named Victor wearing a bright pink shirt, dancing expertly with his wife who wears a matching pink top, next to them is a group of older women who pull Ferry, Rob, Kate, and I onto the dance floor, and then next to us appears my own family, and lastly a few stray parachicos join the fray. I dance with my sister, my mom, Victor, and even the parachicos. When the music stops everyone sits down and the dance floor empties. The parachicos collapse in a drunken stupor, unable to even stand. But when the marimbas begin playing again everyone is back on their feet, the parachicos put their masks back on and dance in perfect rhythm, and the street is filled once more. We dance for hours until finally at a little after 2:30am my family calls it a night and decides to head home, it's been a long day and I'm ready to go as well... the next day I find out the band didn't stop playing until 4am and people were out there until the very last minute; knowing that these were the final moments of the Fiesta, and they wouldn't get an opportunity to celebrate with this same fervor again until next year.
The festivities on Friday the 22nd began with a mug of whiskey and ended with shots of tequila. I left my house in the afternoon with my sisters and about five of their University friends from Tuxtla to stake out our spot to view the parade. We stopped by the house of my Aunt and Uncle just down the street and all the girls headed upstairs. I assumed they were just getting ready, but my cousins told me to come with. I followed the train of now ten girls and we climbed through a doorway and came out onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the streets below. Having walked these streets dozens of times over the last few weeks I had never even realized that these balconies existed. We followed the balcony around the corner and below us stood a mass of hundreds of people and floats as far as the eye could see. We had the best view you could've had and the parade started literally in front of our balcony. For me parades are a little like fireworks. Normally after about five or ten minutes I lose interest. Okay, more floats, okay more children, okay more marching bands, okay more candy. Once again though, Chiapa didn't disappoint.
I woke up early the next morning on a mission. I had stayed up until 2am the previous night; first drinking beer with my sisters' friends, then joining my brother and his fourteen med student friends and drinking whiskey, then hanging out with my parents and drinking more beer, and finally rejoining my sisters and their friends once again to drink some tequila, and I can proudly say I've yet to have a hangover in Mexico. Is drinking that important to me, no. Do I advocate it, no. But when in Rome! Anyway, I got a few hours of sleep and had an appointment at 9am to rent a parachico outfit for the last day of the festival. The current teachers and two of the other TEFL students in my class all planned to join the final parade that afternoon. Similar to the chunta dialogue that went through my head two weeks earlier I realized this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to join in a unique tradition like nothing else in the world. For about $13 each of us got a full parachico outfit for the day; sequenced pants, a poncho, a chinchin (rattle), head wrap, mask, and the yellow headdress. As we donned our outfits together it was ironic to realize that here I was, a white, blonde haired, blue eyed, bearded foreigner dressing up to look like a white, blonde haired, blue eyed, bearded foreigner. I don't think I look anything remotely like a Spaniard in my every day life, and yet according to this criteria, I was the spitting image of one!
When wearing the parachico outfit there are two things that you realize right away. One, it's hot and you begin sweating immediately in the sunny 80 degree weather with the pants, long sleeved shirt, poncho, and tight fitting mask that are more conducive to a cool cloudy fall day than the winter heat of Mexico. Two, as if the sweat in your eyes didn't already make it hard to see, your mask has two tiny slits in it that make navigation extremely difficult since you have a tiny tunnel of vision. Pretend to make your hands into binoculars around your eyes and then close the diameter of the circles of your hands by half and you're entering the vision of a parachico. This wouldn't be such a big deal if not for the fact that you are traveling over cobble stone streets, going up stairs, avoiding cars, and trying to stay with your friends who all happen to look exactly the same as everyone else. Our first foray onto the street and Preston, one of my fellow TEFL students, takes off his mask and says he can't deal with the heat and the lack of vision. As we seek out the larger parade of parachicos and travel across the city I experiment with taking my mask off only to realize it is very difficult to get it back into place. No one else in my group seems to have a problem with easily taking their mask off and putting it back on but for me it's a 5 minute procedure. I decide I'm not taking it off again.
I'm still a bit rusty on what the significance of the whole Fiesta Grande de Enero is really about but the moving of San Sebastian from one house in Chiapa de Corzo to another is the climax of the festival. Why San Sebastian, why a statue, why is he housed in people's homes, why is he processed through the streets, these are questions I don't have answers to. But what I do know is that the house where the four current teachers of Dunham Institute live, is the next house to receive San Sebastian, meaning that this parade will eventually end at their residence. It is an enormous honor to house San Sebastian. As of now the waiting list to be approved to house him goes all the way until 2030, you might have a better chance of getting Packer season tickets than hosting this guy. Not only is it a huge honor it's also a huge responsibility and investment on the part of the family that hosts him. For example at the teachers' home half of the first floor was renovated in order to host the statue. Walls were knocked out, floors were redone, other walls were erected. But construction, and the loss of living space, isn't the only cost. The host is also responsible for feeding the parachicos the night of the 23rd, as well as hosting and feeding pilgrims who come to visit San Sebastian throughout the next year. Their house must be kept open for days at a time so people far and near can see him. Once a month they must also redress the shrine with fruit, flowers, and other offerings. There's more details that I don't quite know but regardless it takes a lot of time and money to have this honor. Ironically, I'm told that Gustavo, the host father of the teachers, who is hosting San Sebastian, isn't even a religious man. It's a matter of pride and giving back to the community. It would be rare to see a middle class family in the States dedicate their home, their time, and their money so freely. Sure there are weddings but there are usually things expected of you at weddings, gifts or tickets that are bought, and besides you need to be invited to attend. Here, all are welcome, the homeless, the foreigner, the drunk, the homosexual, no one is turned away.
After San Sebastian arrives at his new home we grab some dinner with Kate's parents at the park and then return our parachico outfits, exactly 12 hours after receiving them that morning. I briefly stop back at my house to change out of my sweaty clothes and then hit the street again to rendezvous with Preston and Ferry. We go to the central plaza because we know there will be live music there but what we find is an impenetrable wall of tourists. We try and make our way towards the center but eventually come to the conclusion that there are so many people that even if we wanted to dance we wouldn't be able to. Ferry tells me these are all people from Tuxtla and that we need to find the local parties where all the Chiapa de Corzans are. We go up and down streets, searching in vain for music or dancing. It's amazing that a mere hour ago there were thousands of parachicos and spectators and now these same streets are abandoned. We walk past Preston's house and he calls it a night. Ferry and I continue on, eventually finding ourselves back at the teachers' house. The scene there is tranquil. There are a few people inside the house paying their respects to San Sebastian while a few more linger in the front yard and on the street. We talk with Rob, Kate, and Paul (another teacher). It feels like the night is winding down to an end when out of nowhere a marimba band appears and begins to play. The people who are still around rise to their feet and even more seemingly appear out of thin air and suddenly this empty street becomes a dance floor.
Everyone is dancing, young and old, drunk and sober, local and foreigner. There are girls still in their chiapaneca dresses, next to them is a group of goth punk kids, on the other side of them is a guy named Victor wearing a bright pink shirt, dancing expertly with his wife who wears a matching pink top, next to them is a group of older women who pull Ferry, Rob, Kate, and I onto the dance floor, and then next to us appears my own family, and lastly a few stray parachicos join the fray. I dance with my sister, my mom, Victor, and even the parachicos. When the music stops everyone sits down and the dance floor empties. The parachicos collapse in a drunken stupor, unable to even stand. But when the marimbas begin playing again everyone is back on their feet, the parachicos put their masks back on and dance in perfect rhythm, and the street is filled once more. We dance for hours until finally at a little after 2:30am my family calls it a night and decides to head home, it's been a long day and I'm ready to go as well... the next day I find out the band didn't stop playing until 4am and people were out there until the very last minute; knowing that these were the final moments of the Fiesta, and they wouldn't get an opportunity to celebrate with this same fervor again until next year.
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