"If we wait until we're ready, we'll be waiting for the rest of our lives." So here I am in Mexico. Do I speak the language, no. Do I know exactly what I'm going to be doing for the next few months here nope. But is this something I have always wanted to do, absolutely. It's been two weeks here in the town of Chiapa de Corzo in the state of Chiapas and already I feel like I've gotten my moneys worth as far as cultural experiences and personal revelations about the world.
But let's start at the beginning with a simple statement; trains are better than planes. My journey from Wisconsin to Chiapas began with a train ride from Milwaukee to Chicago on December 31st via Amtrak's Hiawatha. I've always enjoyed trains. I still recall taking Amtrak out to Boston as well as out to Portland when I was a kid and in more recent years to Portland a second time and from New Orleans to Chicago. First and foremost the thing I love about trains is the fact that getting aboard is so easy. You can show up fifteen minutes ahead of time and casually board the train without even showing a ticket or form of identification. Then the whole train is yours, sit where you please and not once do you even have to talk to an Amtrak employee if you so desire. Oh and baggage, bring as much as you want. Have to use the bathroom, go for it. Want to get a drink or dinner, done. Want to bring your own beverages and food, go ahead. Want to play board games and interact with an array of people, there's a lounge car, dining car, and sightseeing car that can accommodate you. Unfortunately for me there is no train to Mexico.
So some twenty hours later I found myself in a much different situation; O'Hare International Airport. Find your terminal. Wait in line to get your boarding pass. "Do you have a form of identification, do you have your reservation number, do you have a passport?" Check your baggage. "Is it 50 pounds, does it fit these odd dimensions, did you pack your bags yourself, have they been in your possession since you packed them, is there anything in here that I should know about? Oh and that will be an extra $25 baggage fee, have a great flight!" Get in another line for the TSA Security Screening. "If you see something, say something. For your convenience if you are under the age of twelve you get to keep your shoes on! Bribe us with an extra $100 and become a trusted flyer; you can keep your belt and shoes on and skip to the front of the line! NO HOVERBOARDS. Keep your boarding pass, passport and another form of identification out at all times. You, yes you in the cowboy hat and the backpack, stop whistling, you wait in this line and you be miserable just like the rest of the folks, it's for your own security. Only terrorists make eye contact. Only jihadists smile. Do not trust anyone." And after being treated like cattle in a corral, it's time to get processed. "Passport, drivers license, boarding pass, high school diploma, blood tests, make and model of the first car you owned, list of your favorite colors in ascending order, name of the individual who you shared your first kiss with, we just need to verify you are who you say you are, for your security, if you think this is too personal and invasive then wait, because we're just getting started. Take off your shoes, that watch, that necklace, that belt, those glasses. Get rid of the gum, dump the water, sir that's .04oz more soap then is allowed on flight, your peanut butter is being re-positioned for your safety" - You mean you're taking it. - "No, re positioned" -re positioned into your break room I presume - "Arms up, look ahead, shoulders straight, don't move, step forward. Sir your backpack requires a second security check (Dump entire contents of well packed backpack onto table, wipe everything down with tissue paper to waste time, handle common objects such as a toothbrush as if it is a booby trap, look at everything two times over then stare suspiciously at young man in cowboy hat, don't smile back, remember only extremists smile, jam everything back into backpack, use care to put objects in the wrong pockets, job well done, now go harass someone else). Find Terminal. Wait for your group number. Wait in another line. Provide your passport, a form of identification, and your boarding pass one more time, you may have become someone else after being traumatized by the TSA. Board the aircraft. Sit down. Buckle up. Listen. No smoking. No moving about the cabin. Stow your belongings under the seat in front of you. Keep your elbows and knees out of the aisle. No electronic devices. Stop smiling. Enjoy the flight!
So I think it's safe to say you know my feelings on flying. I wish this process upon no one. And I think my return flight home, if I decide to fly, may be the last time I choose the commercial jet as my mode of transportation. One thing for sure, I will never subject my children to such a process. I'll drive or bike across the country before I'll fly it. Ah if only there was a train between Chiapas and the States. If my rant on airport security wasn't enough I highly recommend checking out George Carlin's thoughts on the matter.
So I've always been a big fan of keeping up to date on political issues, now more than ever because we're in the midst of the primary season. I'm not a big fan of politicians, or the way in which we go about electing our politicians (a single vote, winner takes all format, which lends itself to favor a two party system that can in no way represent the plurality of the American people... another topic for another day). Anyway, I watch the debates regulary and immigration has been a huge issue especially in the Republican debates when it concerns our southern border. Some candidates, have addressed constituents in Spanish at press conferences or during interviews, and have received criticism for creating an environment that is "conducive to illegals" and doesn't solidify English as the only language in this country. I look at American's lack of bilingual-ness as a sad testament to our lack of awareness of the world outside the United States. For every language you learn, you live a life. A bilingual man on an airplane told me that once... but he was smiling so we know what that means. And in the States the vast majority of us are living very closed off lives. Most Europeans can speak two or three languages fluently by the time they graduate high school. At most in the States you'll get a kid who can introduce himself and tell you his favorite hobby in a foreign language by the time he graduates. We simply don't make learning a foreign language a priority. Maybe it's because I'm from Wisconsin and it's over 1,000 miles to the nearest city where a foreign language is predominant but I think it speaks of the larger culture of America. The idea that English is the only language we will ever need, that every other country around the world will accommodate our needs, and that they will learn our language before we learn theirs. Part of the reason I'm here is to break that mold. It's to learn Spanish. It's to live another life.
So back to the politicians condemning the use of Spanish on our soil. I understand the daily use of English, that it is obviously the predominant language of the land, but what frustrates me is the animosity with which Spanish speakers or non native speaking people are being met. If there's one thing I've learned in two weeks of training as an English teacher for foreign language speakers it's that English is an extremely difficult language to comprehend. If there's another thing I've learned in the past two weeks it's that living in a foreign country without knowing the native language is very scary. The simple acts of ordering food at a restaurant, going grocery shopping, finding directions to a park, or explaining your thoughts and feelings becomes a challenge. Just getting from the International Terminal of Mexico City to the gate for my flight to Tuxtla was one of the most stressful experiences I've ever had. Going through customs, filling out all sorts of sheets in Spanish, answering questions in Spanish, finding directions in Spanish, ordering lunch in Spanish - all of it was scary for me but never once was I denied help or ignored, everyone smiled and was patient with me (they allow smiling in Mexican airports). I can't even begin to imagine what would have happened if someone began insulting me or yelling at me for using English or butchering Spanish. And with two weeks under my belt this is something I have yet to experience. Everyone, from the kids I met at the beach to the old men on the street corners, all of them accept me, even though I don't speak their language. I hope we can work on doing the same for the non native speakers in our own country.
So like I said, the random folks on the street, the kids at the beach on the river, and all the vendors at the market have made me feel welcome regardless of the fact that my Spanish is at a very basic level. But the folks who have gone above and beyond in making this place my new home has been my host family. It was in the taxi ride from Tuxtla's airport that my present reality was fully beginning to sink in and all these questions began to arise. What kind of house will I be staying in? How will the city differ from my experience of cities in the Dominican? Who will I be living with? Will they speak any English? Will they like me? The taxi started going up and down the one way streets, weaving through the heart of Chiapa de Corzo, and the town was charming. Colorful flags hung across the narrow streets. Murals were painted on empty walls. And people were sitting outside their houses and conversing on the streets even though it was around 9pm. We pulled up in front of an orange and green house only a few blocks from the central plaza. I breathed deeply and exited the taxi. The questions ran through my head but all my fears and doubts dissipated when my family opened the door and immediately greeted me with hugs and kisses. In American culture, we tend to shake hands with people when we first meet, and hugs are reserved for family and friends. And depending on your family, even hugging can be a rare occurrence. We are a culture that shys away from proximity. We're Americans after all, rugged individualists and lone cowboys! But before we even knew each other's names I found myself embracing and kissing four complete strangers.
When it comes to getting to know my family, I have it pretty easy. There's Javier, my Dad, Tone, my mom, Javier, my brother, and Tone, my sister. That's right, two names for four people, it's not as confusing as you would think. Oh and how could I forget Dolly, the little dog who believes she is royalty and will incessantly bark at anyone, even her own family members. So yeah, as of now that's my family. That first night we stayed up until midnight talking about our lives and sharing photos. Between my Spanish, their English, and a little help from google translate we were able to communicate fairly easily. Javier and Tone have been married for twenty five years and run the corner store just two blocks down the street. Owning your own business in the states takes a lot of work, and it's no different here. They both invest a ton of time in their work so that their kids have the opportunity to attend University and pursue their own dreams. Papa Javier speaks a bit of English that he has picked up from hosting some ten different teachers over the years. I found out quickly that he plays guitar and has an excellent acoustic that I'm free to play when I desire. Mama Tone doesn't speak much English but she is great at gesturing and being patient with my Spanish. She is always giving me new foods and drinks to try, and if I hesitate because it's too spicy or I have no idea what I'm about to try she tells me I am no son of hers! Javi, their son, is my same age and is attending University in Tuxtla to become a Doctor. He is six years into the seven year program and spends much of his time at school, studying, or sleeping. Like his father he knows a lot of English simply from American media and music and the folks they have hosted over the years. Tone, their daughter, is eighteen and is studying finance here in Chiapa. She takes English classes at Dunham, the school I'm training at, and probably has the best English in the family but normally only speaks it when the rest of the family cannot get their point across and my Spanish is failing. I've never had a younger sister, but it's funny how quickly we began teasing each other and bickering like siblings. I honestly could not have asked for a better host family. This place truly feels like home with them. Tone and Javier have been like parents to me, they introduce me to their friends as their son, and always ask me how I'm doing when we gather around the table for meals (just like my parents back in the states). I've enjoyed the time we spent together, walking in the plaza, going out to eat, celebrating an aunt's birthday, playing dominoes, and watching football.
So being from Green Bay, I was naturally curious as to where I could watch the Packer game on Sunday. My family had a TV but did they watch football? If they watched football would they watch the Packers? You can only imagine my delight when I came home Sunday to see Papa Javier with a bottle of Tequila and a few beers telling me the game was going to start in thirty minutes. And the way the game went we needed the drinks. Javier told me that American Football is growing in popularity here and that most Universities have a team now. When I ask him who he normally cheers for, he shrugs and says New England; I'm doing my best to change his mind. When it comes to football fans, I've seen several NFL jerseys, even on the streets of rural Chiapa. I still remember playing Dynasty Mode in Madden 2008 and relocating my football team to Mexico City because after Los Angeles it was the city with the highest demand for a professional football team. When a game is being played on Sunday we normally don't consider the fact that there are hundreds of thousands of Spanish speaking viewers watching the same game as us; that there are people in Latin America and around the world who might be just as passionate about our home teams as we are. And it's not just the NFL, the NBA, MLB, even NASCAR, they're all watched here too. The only real difference on TV sports is the half dozen channels of soccer that they have, which is clearly still the predominant sport of the country.
While the Packer fan inside of me is happy that I could so easily watch the game and enjoy the same experience that I could at home the sociologist inside of me raised a red flag. You see sports is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of "America" that you can find here in Mexico. In addition to sports channels nearly every other channel found in the States is found here, and just dubbed over in Spanish or given subtitles. There's the occasional horribly done soap opera or Mexican drama but when it comes to TV, Film, Video Games, or Music, it's "American" or what we would consume in America. The best example of this for me was coming home late one night to find the whole family watching Downton Abbey in the living room. This is their nightly family ritual, watching the same show that my Mom and sister watch in the States. My brother and sister here watch Star Wars, play Grand Theft Auto, watch shows on Netflix, and listen to Taylor Swift, Adele, and Katy Perry. It's almost overwhelming how similar the entertainment industries are here, in some ways it seems there are some Mexicans who are more "American" than I am. Back in the states I had a smart phone but I was seeing how much it negatively affected my life, how I was getting attached to it, so I began leaving it at home or just leaving it off and I often felt like the odd man out when everyone else around me would have their face in a phone while I would simply try to make eye contact with people or hold a conversation. Here, it's not as bad, but it's getting there. Everyone in my family has a smart phone, and there are still moments here when I'm the only one without a phone in my hand. So in terms of technology and entertainment this place feels very "American." And hey maybe it's not all bad. Like I said I can watch football, or if I decide to watch TV at least it can be an interesting show like Sons of Anarchy as opposed to some terribly filmed soap opera, or I can find American music I enjoy as opposed to the incessant sounds of accordions and trumpets, there's only so much accordion a man can take. I guess part of me had a more idealistic image of what would be the "norm" here, something a little more exotic, heck even just different, than the States. And if the entertainment industry and smart phones was where this conversation ended then it might all be well and good. But America's influence goes well beyond that.
Folks here aren't just figuratively ingesting America, they literally are as well. A trip to the grocery store will bring you face to face with many of your favorite foods from the States. As if them playing Lady Gaga over the loud speaker in the store wasn't strange enough. Everything from Cheetohs to Lucky Charms, Barilla Pasta to Twinkies, Hostess Donuts to Yoplait Yogurt can be found on the shelves. Not all these companies are necessarily from the States but they're the same ones you find there. This means these companies are just getting bigger, if they are selling the same products at my little grocery store a block from my house in Green Bay as a rural grocery store in Chiapas Mexico, then these companies are like empires of their own. One of the most frightening things for me here is the obsession with meat. Whereas in most cultures outside the US and Europe meat is merely used to flavor a meal and is not the center piece the tide is turning towards a meat centered American diet here in Chiapa. I'm sure to many it's a sign of progress, more inexpensive tasty protein, that is touted as a necessity in the human diet. But given the health problems we have in the States, our meat and dairy heavy diet is something no other country should want to emulate. We are the richest country in the world, pouring more money than any other into our healthcare system, and yet statistically we are one of the unhealthiest populations in the world... and it all points to what we consume. Javier tells me there's a growing epidemic of childhood obesity in Mexico, ironically as we have this conversation Javier and Tone, my host brother and sister, return from the market with a bag full of American candy and snacks and a liter of Coca-Cola. I point to the salty chips and sugary candies his own children are eating and tell him that here is the source of the problem. I also find it deeply disturbing that in most Latin American countries you can't drink water and are often left with the only alternative being beer, soda, or sugary fruit flavored drinks. These countries have the infrastructure to import all of these horrible foods from around the world but they don't invest the money into providing clean water; the very thing that sustains life on this planet. Priorities. When I cook for myself I tend to be a vegetarian, with the occasional cheeseburger, but here the very notion of vegetarian is seen as alien. Why wouldn't you want to eat meat? For readers at home I would strongly encourage you to watch Forks Over Knives if you have the same question of why not to eat meat. I was a hard core carnivore before that film and I haven't viewed food the same way since. But it's hard in this society. Every restaurant, every street vendor, heck even the football games are full of meat. Of course I can order something and just say, sin carne, without meat please but the word vegetarian doesn't even seem to be in folks vocabulary here. Oh and with the Packer game the other day, the game was sponsored by Tyson in the form of a woman wearing lingerie and eating chicken fingers in a sexual manner during timeouts, two minute warnings, and halftime. They just really want you to eat meat here I guess along with chips, soda, and donuts, like I said before I think to many it's a sign of class, of progress. But I don't think people here are conscious of the impact that diet has on their health, the economy, and on the environment.
The city of Tuxtla Gutierrez is on the other side of the River Grijalva from Chiapa, a short 15 minute drive away. People in Chiapa de Corzo had spoken ill of Tuxtla but it wasn't until I drove through it with my host family that I figured out what it was; an American strip mall; a concrete jungle. As we entered the town I literally uttered "my god" as a Wal Mart/Sam's Club complex appeared before me. But that was just the beginning. Driving down the main thoroughfare of Tuxtla every other store was some sort of American franchise. McDonalds, Burger King, Pizza Hut, Little Caesars, Starbucks, KFC, Verizon, AT&T, Autozone, etc. They also had an actual mall too, and I don't even want to know what was inside. Parking lots and power lines. Ugly grey buildings. Square boring architecture. This is progress. Luckily, I came to Chiapa de Corzo and not Tuxtla. Only a few km apart but so different. Chiapa is yet to be invaded by American stores. The closest thing we have to an American business is the supermarket that sells American food products. All of the shops here tend to still be mom and pop operated like the corner store my parents own. There is still an open air market that takes place in the plaza every day. I can walk a block and buy fresh fruit and vegetables from a vendor or buy tostadas and empanadas from a little restaurant around the corner. I only wonder how long Chiapa will hold out for. The state of Chiapas is the furthest region away from the States and is still very rural with little to no tourism and yet it's frightening to see how American businesses and products are thriving here. If things keep progressing Mom and Pop won't be able to compete and will have to shut their doors; but they'll be able to buy tyson chiken nuggets for only a dollar, right? The economy here is being flooded with cheaper foreign made products which people are buying because they want to save money; however, they are simultaneously eroding their own local economy because they are putting themselves and their neighbors out of business - we all have a linked fate when it comes to economics. Because of NAFTA Mexicans can get their cheetohs and cheap corn but at what cost? At the loss of your traditions, your job, your health, your landscape? We've already seen what WalMart does to main streets in American cities. It puts everyone else out of business, pays horrendous wages, sells questionable items, and has zero positive impact over the long run for the surrounding community, not to mention it's a concrete ugly box. Luckily Chiapa de Corzo has kept them at bay so far, but Tuxtla is growing every year, and the river is the only thing separating the two city limits at this point.
While Chiapa has succeeded in keeping out many American stores they haven't succeeded in keeping out all foreign business. Nestle, the world's largest food company, recently built a coffee creamer factory a few km from the central plaza of Chiapa. Having a behemoth of a company like Nestle in your backyard is a concern enough, it's another concern when they built their factory on top of a historical site dating back to 300 BC. You see, the location of Chiapa along the Rio Grijalva made it a natural crossroads of sorts, so when descendants of the Olmecs decided to build a trade empire, they chose present day Chiapa de Corzo as the place to call home. There's a lot more history that I could go into, but what you should know is that there are at least 36 known pyramids currently unearthed in Chiapa, with dozens, possibly even hundreds more still undiscovered all of which are over 2,000 years old. Every hill holds potential. The problem is, no one has capitalized on this discovery, which I believe has only happened in the last decade or so. The site could be a huge source of tourism due to these being some of the oldest ruins in the New World but there simply isn't the infrastructure or the investment coming from the government or the local people. One can simply wander onto the pyramids and climb them at will. It's awesome that it's free to do so, but it also means they are unprotected, from things like graffiti or from buyers, like Nestle, who have been rumored to bulldoze or simply build on top of the pyramids. Nobody knows for sure the damage that has been done because the Nestle factory is more of a compound that looks like an Army base than your typical factory. Walls with barbed wire to keep people out, and workers in, ha, maybe they're not that sinister but I wouldn't put it past them. I've been told by locals that Nestle dumps all their factory waste directly into the Rio Grijalva as well. I find this out the day after I went swimming in the river... I haven't turned orange yet. But this just goes to show the price the community pays for "progress." Local farmers not being able to compete with American subsidized wheat and corn, smalll mom and pop businesses not being able to sell products as cheap as Wal-Mart, and the environment not being able to defend itself from factories eager to find a location where questions aren't asked and pollution can happen without any consequences - but hey if it means we can buy our coffee creamer for 50 cents cheaper here in the states, it's worth it right?http://themindunleashed.org/2016/01/supreme-court-former-child-slaves-used-in-cocoa-production-can-sue-nestle.html
The point I want to emphasize now is that this is not the way it has to be. To me what I see isn't progress. I see a region about to start down a dangerous road of pollution, slave wager labor, depression, anomie, drug abuse, homogeneity, and cultural dissolution. A dangerous road the US went down and is in some ways still very much traveling on. I only wish more people here knew what will happen if they keep on going down the rabbit hole. I feel like I see the iceberg, but hell the ship might already be going down. There are people who are actively resisting both here and abroad. Back in the States, permaculture and the homesteader movement of returning to the land are alive and well. Young people who grew up in the city, surrounded by excess, are giving it all up to live lives that more closely resemble the simpler lives of their grand parents and great grandparents. Combining past wisdom with modern technology and science to create communities that are sustainable, equitable, and beautiful. Here, the movement took the form of an armed revolution, something that probably won't be happening in the States any time soon, but occurred here less than 20 years ago. They call themselves the Zapitistas, farmers who refused to accept the conditions of NAFTA (they will be a subject of a future blog) and they still operate in the jungle in the mountains, watching over Chiapas. For ya'll back at home the best way to fight this system in the current moment is to vote with your dollar. Every time you buy an item you are a voter because money is power, it's the blood flow of every company that exists and without it, they must adapt or die. Know who you are buying from, do you support what they are doing or how they are getting their products? Ignorance is bliss, but it's not an excuse for the damage that is being done. Every product you buy has a story, has an impact, has a chance to influence the world in a certain direction. Vote wisely.
While I’ve been pretty critical and cynical about the future for Chiapas there are still some things that America can’t touch; cultural experiences that simply could never happen in the States; things like the Fiesta Grande de Enero. The story of the Fiesta has its origins with a woman from Spain named Dona Maria and her sick son (who’s name seems to have been lost to time, despite his central role to the plot). Maria searches across all of Spain for someone to help her son but nobody can seem to heal him. One day she hears about a pool of cleansing hot springs in the New World, situated just outside Chiapa de Corzo, that may be able to save her son. So mother and child travel to Chiapa in search of these waters; however, these too fail to alleviate the boy of his illness. In desperation, Dona Maria goes to the local medicine man and tells him that if he can cure her son she will feed the entire city of Chiapa de Corzo for a month. Chiapa has been going through a severe drought so the whole community has a vested interest in saving this boy. Upon inspecting the child, the medicine man realizes that the boy is not suffering an illness of the body but an illness of the soul; he is depressed. The entire community decides the best way to lift the boy’s spirits is to dress like Spaniards and sing and dance for him. And so clad in Spanish attire the whole town puts on a show for the boy and his sadness goes away. Dona Maria kept her word, and handed out food and wine for the entire city, and for some three weeks they celebrated; this is the festival that continues for these three weeks in January, the Fiesta Grande de Enero.
Now this is just my short summary of the events that took place. Ask any local and you may hear an entirely different story about who was involved, about what illness the boy had, and how he was healed, or why people dress the way they do. But from the conversations I’ve had and what I’ve heard, the above seems to be the most logical series of events as to how this Fiesta began. Naturally, there are many who say the Fiesta dates back to before the first Spaniards even arrived while others place more emphasis on the saints and religious aspects that the Fiesta has taken in more recent history. You see, when the first Catholic missionaries showed up to Chiapa and saw the people euphorically singing, dancing, and drinking in the streets they knew they couldn’t just shut down the biggest party of the year, that wouldn’t make Christianity very popular. So instead they more or less hijacked the festival by replacing the boy, with Jesus, St. Sebastian, and St. Anthony Abbot. Literally replacing the image of the boy with these male figures, maybe that’s why no one remembers what this kid’s name was. Oh those Catholics, taking pagan traditions and festivals and turning them into Christian holidays by inserting a saint or two here and the baby Jesus there. Regardless of the reasons for celebrating, these three weeks of the Fiesta are without a doubt the biggest event of the year for the small town of Chiapa.
When I first arrived on January 1st, the central plaza of the town was all but vacant and you would see maybe a handful of people sitting on their stoops and wandering the streets after nightfall. A few days later the city began to transform in preparation for the beginning of the Fiesta. Lights were strung up, carnival rides including a ferris wheel were erected, a gigantic stage and sound system were set up in the center of town, dozens of food stalls were positioned to cover every square foot of the central plaza, hundreds of michelada vendors (think bloody mary’s but a whole lot worse) had their carts positioned on every single street corner, and thousands of tourists from Mexico and around the world were flooding into our quiet town preparing for three weeks of madness. Black and white. The city changed drastically and all of it was in place to handle and channel the chaos that would ensue with the official start of the Fiesta.
The Fiesta Grande de Enero lasts for twenty days beginning on January 4th and ending on the 23rd; however, there are key days within the Fiesta that hold more importance than the rest. On any given day of the Fiesta you will find random bands of people parading through the streets banging on drums and lighting off fireworks but January 8th, 15th, 17th, 19th, and 23rd are all days where the many become one; they are days where a perfect storm of individuals come together and a critical mass is formed. The 23rd is significant because it is the last day of the Fiesta, one last chance to party before next year. The 17th and 19th are both days dedicated to the saints mentioned before. But the real days of partying so far up to this point in my experience of the Fiesta have been on the 8th and 15th, the days where the “characters” are released onto the streets for the first time. You see there are three distinct costumes that are worn throughout the Fiesta by the locals. The 15th marks the release of the Parachicos and the Chiapanecas. The Parachicos are men, women, and children dressed to look like Spaniards akin to the very garb that was worn when the townspeople first danced and dressed up for the boy. Their name “para chico” literally translates into “for the boy” in English. Parachicos can be identified by their large yellow afros and painted masks which represent the blonde hair and lighter skin of the Spanish people. The Chiapanecas are women who wear the traditional dress of Chiapa; a black flowing garment with colorful patterns embroidered in sequential circles upon the length of the dress. The 15th was marked by a twelve hour parade through the city heart of the city beginning at noon and not truly ending until some time the following morning. At the start of the parade the temperatures reached the 90s and I could only imagine the heat that those dressed up must be feeling given that both costumes are designed for much cooler weather; this is winter after all. On January 8th the third character is released; the chunta.The chuntas represent the servants of Dona Maria who were responsible for handing out the food and wine after the boy was healed. They wear a flowering headband, a white blouse, and long colorful skirts. The thing that’s unique about chuntas are that the vast majority of them are men. That’s where I come in.
When I first arrived in Chiapa and was learning about the details of the Fiesta, my host family told me I was going to be a part of the January 8th celebration. I told them I would love to be involved. You can imagine my surprise when a few days later my host mother held up a dress and told me she found me an outfit. You see, no one really knows why the men of Chiapa de Corzo dress up as women but it has been happening every January for hundreds of years; it’s tradition. You think that would be a detail that wouldn’t be forgotten easily but no one here seems to question the reasons why, it is part of the history of the Fiesta and it is more or less an honor to be a part of the celebration. I had my initial concerns. It’s not everyday you cross dress in a foreign city. I was told everyone outside of Chiapa de Corzo, all the tourists, thought thought the men of our city were crazy, and there would probably be a lot of pointing and laughing. But after learning more about the tradition, hearing that some of the other students from my course would be accompanying me, and seeing the excitement my mom had at the notion of me dressing up I told them I was in. I had my family, I had my friends, I had pride for my newly adopted hometown, I was ready to be made into a chunta.
I have never worn makeup or dressed up as a woman before. I guess there were those skits at summer camp, but being in the woods with kids you’ve known for three weeks is a little different than being on display to thousands of strangers in the streets of Mexico. To get ready for the night, I went to my aunt’s house just down the street. When I arrived my teacher’s daughter was just getting her makeup finished. My aunt smiled at me and told me I would look just like her and that I was next. I opened a beer and told her to make me the most beautiful gringa in the world. When it came time for me to sit in the chair and get my face done I couldn’t help but giggle through the entire experience. My aunt continuously hit me and told me to stop moving which just made it worse. The fact that a giant statue of Jesus on the cross loomed over me while I was being made into a woman only made the situation that much more comical to me. Ironically, given that the Catholic church claimed the Fiesta as it’s own, that meant that it also technically condoned the actions that were to follow. Yes, we’re cross dressing, yes we're drinking tequila in the streets, but it's for Jesus so we're all good with the big guy upstairs! Foundation, blush, shimmer, lipstick, eyeshadow, smiles, ready. My mother and some other students join us. They get their faces done after me. We don our blouses and skirts, place the flowery headband atop our heads, take a celebratory shot (photo and alcohol). And empty out onto the street.
It’s 7:55 and the parade begins in five minutes. My mother takes up the lead of the group and although she is only a little over 5 feet tall she glides across the street and I have to practically run to keep up with her. We’ve gone two blocks and when I look behind me we have somehow lost the rest of our group and it is only my mother, her friend, and myself. She continues to make a B line for the parade start and I follow, now feeling a little more self conscious since I am now fully realizing the nature of the situation. I am a 6 foot 4 white guy, dressed as a woman, running through the street. Children are tugging at their parents pants legs and pointing, women are smiling, men are laughing. It’s at this point I realize I have to decide how this night is going to go. Am I going to withdraw inside myself and just get the night over with or am I going to embrace this moment and not care what anyone thinks of me. I choose the latter. I look ridiculous but hell I’m going to have a good time. I eagerly wave, smile, and blow kisses at the random people we pass on our way to the central square. We’re too late. The parade has begun and the bystanders have formed an impenetrable wall between us and our fellow chuntas. My mother and her friend pause to discuss what to do next. A timid girl comes up to me and asks if she can take a picture with me, I smile and say of course. The next thing I know there is a line of people waiting to be photographed with me. My mother takes me by the hand and has to practically pull me away from the people still waiting to have their picture taken. We race down a side street that parallels where the parade is taking place. We find a soft spot in the crowd and plunge through. Bodies everywhere. We burst through the tourists and find ourselves on the street. We misjudged the placement of the front of the parade because “we” are now the front of the parade.
When they told me I was going to dress up as a woman I figured I’d be with my fellow gringos for the entire experience and I’d just be another chunta, lost in the mass of men dressed as women. But here I was, more or less leading a parade of hundreds of cross dressing men through the streets of a foreign town where I didn’t speak the language and stuck out like a sore thumb. It's hard to dream of a more random experience. Thousands of cameras were trained on me. People ran from the crowd out into the street in order to take selfies. There were cat calls and shouts of “You’re beautiful” from the mass of people perched on the sidewalks. I continued with my plan to simply give the people what they wanted. I waved and smiled, even posing for pictures when I saw the news cameras. I danced and spun in my dress all the while laughing at how ridiculous this moment in time was. When we entered a Catholic church I all but lost it. Never ever could something like this take place in a church back home. Nevermind what we’re wearing. There are bottles of booze being passed around. Fireworks are being shot off. People are screaming Viva Adventura and Viva Chiapas at the top of their lungs. R’s are being rolled. Music is being played everywhere. It’s chaos. And it’s at this point that a journalist enters the parade of chuntas and begins to interview me in Spanish. I try multiple times to tell her I don’t speak much Spanish but she continues to ask me questions at a rate that I think even most Mexicans would have a tough time comprehending. I lean in and using the Spanish I know I tell her. “My name is Steven Umentum. I am from Green Bay Wisconsin. I like the festival. It is fun. In the United States it is strange for men to dress like women but here it is normal. Viva Chiapas. Have a good night.” So somewhere out there in a newspaper or on the internet there’s probably that interview of me butchering my Spanish along with dozens of photos of me looking crazy, if you find something, feel free to share it. Maybe I’m famous. I’m just happy I had the opportunity to have this experience, and give some folks a good laugh.
It was a miracle that we found the rest of our group. When I say parade when talking about the chuntas, I’m not talking about your 4th of July parade in small town America or even your Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade in NYC. There’s no true distinction between the crowd and the parade. At times the mass of bodies becomes so strong that people who were on the sidewalk are literally picked up and brought into the parade. There were times where I was moving and my feet weren’t even on the ground. So no, we’re not talking about evenly spaced floats and dance steps, we’re talking about sweaty bodies taking up every space and people dancing and screaming at will. There is no marching band. Instead there were random groups of drummers and trumpeteers dispersed among the crowd. There is no rotten hard candy being thrown at you by children, instead you are handed shots by bearded women. There is no parade route with police escort, instead the amoeba of bodies finds the path of least resistance and flows where it is easiest like water pouring from a broken down dam. This is the context in which I was reunited with my friends. We paraded through the city for three more hours, we lost each other and found each other over and over again, but come midnight we called it a night and returned home together.
Ironically, while the country of Mexico has thousands of photos of me I hardly have any at all. At the end of the day I don’t need to have the pictures. This is one of those experiences I will remember for the rest of my life and one that I think that will be hard to beat.
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