The Mayab

The Mayab - the land of the Mayans - is the Other Country for Mayan Language speakers in México, Guatamala, Belize, Honduras. It is the place where the Mayan Culture is the strongest emanating force in the human circumstances.

In San Cristobal and Chiapas in general the Spanish/European oppressors were an always beleaguered, isolated garrison in a vast Mayan Cosmos. Wondorous, violent whirlwinds would appear and destroy the ugly, medieval, stone churches - built by terrorized slaves. The Mayan people would pretend to be Christians. And the church would pretend they weren´t the enablers of oppression and pretend they were beneviolent shepards.

The Mayan peoples resistance is perhaps the longest and most successful of all indigenas peoples in the Americas. The Zapatista Uprising, the so-called Guatamalan Civil War are seamless continuities of this indigenas resistance.

I embrace the indigenas reality that surrounds and pervades the human condition where I am.

From my room, on the rooftop of Duena Maria´s Posada del Centro, the center of my view is dominated by the Church of Cerillo. Built by freed Indian slaves it is a beautiful building framed by the distant pine covered mountains.

On the other side of the church is the main, cheapest fruit market in town - the products of which I´m mainly subsisting on. In my long zig-zagging walks of exploration to the market I ran into Yaqui again.

He was in the gutter of one of the nastier out-lying barrios. He had plunged to new depths since his public humiliation in the central plaza.

In his drunken, dementia he told of his efforts to summon shamanistic power to plant a cancer deep in the entrails of the one who had kicked him in the ass - and his brother, the new lords of the San Cristobal underworld.

Of course he asked me for money. I immediately reached into my pocket and gave him a 10 peso coin. There was a flash of anger, his old maleviolence, that I had insulted him by giving him so little. But then even he realized, he remembered that you can´t get blood from a stone.

He then told me of how tired of life he was. How he wished for death.

I began to give empty words of comfort - and then stopped myself. There was nothing that could be said. I had again become entangled in Yaqui´s dementia. I was there - an important component in the circumstances of his ultimate humiliation. And then there was my involvement in the events that happened when he was at the peak of his powers - eight years ago - and the beginning of the decline.

Finally he could no longer delay from buying a drink with the 10 pesos.

Since then I keep on running into him. His hate is making him strong again. He´s rallying. Something of his former presence has returned. He no longer begs.

In front of the Church of Cerillo is a beautiful plaza. The presiding Mayan priest of the church plaza is Leon, the lion of the Lacondon Jungle, a joyous dancing, singing, drunken lunatic.

I first bumped into him as I was leaving the store that sells Mayan Camposino´s milk products. I´ve resumed eating bollas - but I´m doing so in a responsible way.

He asked me for money. I gave him my partially eaten bolla. And I observed that in this dirty, stinking, drunken lunatic was an unconquerable, unextinguishable joyous spirit.

Soon after that I met him again in the plaza of the Church of Cerillo as I was returning to the posada from the market. Of course he asked for money. I told him I was poor in money but rich in bananas, oranges, and peanuts.

As we ate he spontaneously broke out into song and dance. The songs had Spanish words about the moon, about women, about not having money but being rich, about love, about crazy mariachis. But they were Mayan songs delivered in an old, but time-less way, as they were danced.

I broke out my harmonica and stayed with him.

I´ve only been playing the harmonica for about a month. I´ve had no problem making the harmonica cry. But until then I couldn´t make it laugh. In a strange, lunatic Indian way it kind of worked. My harmonica was laughing. We began to draw a crowd, who in the beginning was laughing at us, but then was laughing appreciatively.

Then a Mexican soldier/military cop came.

Leon said it was no problem. He said he knew the soldier/police. He said he was a good guy. The soldier said he wanted to talk to Leon. He went willingly with the cop.

Next day coming back from the market, I again sat in the church plaza. Suddenly, as if from no where Leon appeared.

He said he had the shit kicked out of him, and spent the night in a cold jail cell without a blanket. He said that if we see any military police we should both run - fast.

But he said in the meantime we should definitely make some music - and dance.