War Diaries Part II | Chiapas
Chapter 1: My Foreign Tongue

Language Piñata:

We're like two blind men, Heber and I, swatting at a language piñata, bracing for contact. I struggle for the correct Spanish verb to say I'm hot, rather than to imply I'm horny. Heber hopes the English pronoun he uses this time will not turn his sister into a "he." Chatty fools armed with broomstick vocabularies, we prefer not to check our swings.

And why should we? At Centro Bilingue language school in the city of San Cristobal de Las Casas, Mexico, this is an inter-cambio. A language free-for-all. A chance to test drive the foreign tongues we've been studying.

Flashpoint of a Revolution:

It's peaceful here. Students from around the world sip cafe con leches and read the rules of conjugation in Centro's El Puente Cafe. A video of the Mexican pop group Azul Azul plays on a large screen tv tuned to MTV International.

It's hard to imagine that just six years ago this city was the flashpoint of a Revolution. On January 1, 1994, a band of Mexican Indians, some armed with automatic weapons and others with only wooden guns and machetes, executed a simultaneous pre-dawn attack on four different cities here in Mexico's southernmost state of Chiapas.

They called themselves the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) and though they held this city for just one day before retreating deep into the Lacandona Jungle, they put a marketable face on Mexican discontent. A face hidden by a balaclava. But more on that later.

Food Good, I Writer:

It's 2:15 PM and I'm walking home for dinner with my host family Federico and Marina Burkhardt. I spend the majority of the dinner hour, in between bites of beef and black beans, tossing out unintelligible Spanish non-sequiturs that sound like, "Food good. I writer." Marina laughs. Federico silently wonders if I'm an idiot. A native of Switzerland, he speaks five languages. Spanish he says, took him a little over a month.

I seem to have better luck when I focus my conversational efforts on their son Diddier. In all of San Cristobal, he seems to understand me best. He is exceptionally bright, I believe, for an eight month-old boy.

Silent Phase:

After dinner, I sit in their flower filled courtyard courtyard and practice my lessons. Today I learned the verb dormir--to sleep,which is what I did during two years of high school Spanish. Without a Spanish to English dictionary in my hand, I honestly don't know my culo from my cabeza. At Centro Bilingue I'm the fastest in the slow group. If Spanish was grade school dodge ball--I would be the last one picked.

Yet while I may be slow to grasp the difference between esta and esta' (my instructor Julio says I'm in my silent phase) I have been able to figure this out: being afraid to try new things, to look foolish can keep us from some great adventures. Here at this moment, trying to roll a double-R, I face my fear...and hear it as well. It sounds like a dog fart.

How Late Am I Open?

It's 8:30 PM and I'm walking the 260 steps up San Cristobal Hill. At the top is a panoramic view of the city. Below, people are shooting off corn husk rockets called cahuetes. From one neighborhood I hear the sounds of Salsa. From another, a rendition of Ave Maria.

I'm winded from the climb but happy to put some distance between me an my last language faux pas. Nearly ten minutes ago I walked into a local restaurant and confidently asked the hostess in Spanish, "How late am I open?" She was more annoyed than charmed. I decided I would eat somewhere else, if and when my appetite returned.

There are lovers everywhere on this hill. Perhaps it's the only privacy they can find in a country where extended families share homes as much as names. From here, the city looks like an island surrounded by mountains. It's a hip and sophisticated place, full of cyber cafes and live music (walking home I will hear a trumpeter play Miles Davis's "So What.") I came here to research a novel which I set in Chiapas three years after the Zapatista uprising. I laugh at my earlier fraud, trying to write about the place without coming here -- using a Lonely Planet Guide.

Where Were You During the Uprising?

My Spanish instructor is a baby-faced 28-year-old named Julio Cesar Blanco Torres. He's in command of a serious English vocabulary. He uses words like intrepid and idiosyncrasy. I use Spanish words like perro and gato. He has a three-year old son named Ulysses, which may explain why he is so patient with me. Julio is very good at his job, but even at warp speed I'll still be speaking Tarzan Spanish (no prepositions and everything in present tense) for years.

I need to research my book and maybe freelance a few stories on the Chiapas gubernatorial election. In place of our lessons I tell Julio I want to take field trips. In other words, I need an interpreter.

It's a win-win situation. I get good information and he gets to practice simultaneous translations. When were not doing interviews around town I ask him questions about his own life, like where was he during the Zapatista uprising?

Four Abreast, Twenty Deep:

Julio tells me that News Year's Eve he had been sitting in front of his house, having a few drinks, listening to music. But by 2:30 am the rest of his family and friends had already gone to bed. He stayed up a little longer. Long enough to see a column of men in black uniforms and hoods marching from the south up his street.

"They were four abreast, maybe twenty deep," says Julio, remembering. "They carried AK-47's and some had grenades."

Since they were dressed like the Mexican army, Julio says he thought they were from the nearby Zone 31 military Base. He called out, "Happy New Year," as they passed by. He thought it was a strange time to be conducting exercises, but shrugged it off and finally went to bed.

"But when I awoke later that morning. I knew something different," Julio says.

"I can't explain it, but you could feel it in the air."

Early that morning more Zapatistas had marched into the city and stormed the city municipal building. The group's spokesperson a black-masked figure who called himself Subcommandante Marcos, held a press conference in the town square to declare, "Ya Basta!" Enough! Enough discrimination against Mexican Indians. Enough political corruption.

Selling the Revolution:

Even though they posed little physical threat, the very idea of the Zapatista uprising developed a mythical potency. Many Mexicans were both surprised and pleased at how this rag tag Indian army had tweaked the nose of a government which had historically ignored them. International peace organizations set up shop in Chiapas. Young Americans and Europeans took up residence as "human shields" in communities sympathetic to the movement.

One shopkeeper tells me, "Young male tourists swarmed San Cristobal, just praying to get shot at. And almost every woman that came here after the uprising, came with one thought in mind--to have Marcos' babies." Today, in markets around San Cristobal you can buy everything from Marcos dolls to EZLN balaclavas and Zapatista T-shirts.

All Politics Are Local:

It's Friday. In two days, Chiapas residents will go to the polls to elect a new governor. Since the Zapatista uprising there has been little political stability in the state. The Revolutionary Insitutional Party (PRI), which had dominated the Mexican government for 71 years until this July's election of Vicente Fox, has appointed a succession of four different governors since 1994, only to dismiss each one.

With the election of Fox, opponents of the PRI taste blood in the water. In Chiapas they formed a coalition called the Alliance for Chiapas comprised of eight different parties from conservative to socialist. They're backing an independent candidate named Pablo Salazar against the PRI's Sami David.

"Joining forces is the only way to win," local coordinator Gabriella Gudino tells me in perfect English. "Despite losing the presidential election, they're (PRI) still a potent political force, especially in the rural areas." She hands me a brochure which reads, "Yo Voy Con Pablo." I'm with Pablo.

More Bitter:

The wild card in the elections, most concede, will be the indigenous people. There are over a million Indians in Chiapas. Descendants of the Mayans. Heirs to one of the most advanced civilizations in history. Yet today, most live in abject poverty. It would be simpler if the lines were more clearly drawn. But as in most things in Mexico, the conflict is deeper. More complex. More bitter.

The Zapatistas claim to be the voice of the indigenous, but the indigenous are hardly a monothlithic unified force. Thirty-three different Indian dialects are spoken here and there are centuries old rivalries between tribes such as the Zinacantans, who allied themselves with the Spanish invaders and the Chamulans who fought against them.

And now in many Indian communities there's a raging religious conflict between the Catholic majority and Protestant evangelicals. Alejandro Sauso, head of of the independent Mexican Human Right Commission tells me how community chiefs in one village are charging a $500 conversion fee for those wanted to switch from Catholic to Protestant. Others have been were burned from their homes; some even jailed for listening to evangelical music.

Indians are politically divided as well. Many support the government over the opposition, largely because of the money and resources that have been funneled to their villages over the year's through the PRI's once and still potent political machine.

After the Church:

I'm on a tour to see the church in the Indian village of San Juan Chamula. It's a required stop. Inside incense mingles with pine. There are no seats anywhere and candles cover the floor. We are warned not to take pictures inside. Our guide, Pepe, points to a man holding a big stick who is said to have the reflexes of a secret service agent.

The Chamulans practice a spiritual mixed-bag of Catholicism and pre-Hispanic rituals. There is no altar, no masses or traditional sacraments, but along the side walls are dozens of glass cases holding life-size statues of the saints.

Individuals called cargo holders are responsible for dressing, cleaning and maintenance of the specific statues, as well as carrying them through the streets during festivals. Bad statutes, ones that fall out of favor, say for not protecting the town during an earthquake, are taken out of the church and beheaded with machetes.

Always Coca Cola:

To my left, behind a bank of candles, a man is weeping profusely. Two young children stand beside him along with his wife, holding an infant. They're all barefoot. After 15 minutes of crying he uncaps a large bottle of Coca Cola and takes a big swallow. He gives it to his wife who drinks and then passes it to the children, including the baby. They drink until it's empty. I ask our guide, an Tzetzil Indian named Pepe, what's going on? He tells us carbonated drinks like Coca Cola are ritual here.

"To the Chamulans," he say, "burping is like a prayer from your lips. The gas rises to the heavens and helps bring you closer to God." It can also bring you closer to the dentist. Apparently, cavities are epidemic here.

As we walk, Pepe points out the two largest house in Chamula. They're very modern--with satellite dishes on the roof and new cars in the driveway.

"Coca Cola distributor," he says, pointing at one, "Pepsi Cola distributor," pointing at the other.

Casa Amour:

Federico had been a guest of the Lopez family, just like me, when he came here to study Spanish six years ago. He moved in permanently after marrying one of the three Lopez sisters. The same thing happened to an American named Jack Nelson who married another one. In a city of Spanish language romances this is Casa Amour. I'm warned not to drink the water -- even though I'm already married.

Jack runs a tour business call Mexiculture. Federico is an artist. Back at Casa Amour I watch him carve a wooden locket that will open to reveal a stone of honey- polished amber. Though poor in infrastructure, Chiapas is rich in amber and other natural resources. "I like to work in amber," Federico tells me, "because it's millions of years old. To me it's like the memory of the world."

The Road to Palenque:

For the weekend, I've hired a driver named Juan to take me to the Mayan ruins in Palenque near the Guatemalan border. It's still dark at 5:50 AM when he picks me up. We drive five blocks to get Julio and we're on the road by 6.

There are more than 500 stone buildings and temples in Palenque, all built without metal tools or the wheel. Only a few of the most spectacular have been excavated, like El Palacio with it's soaring stone tower or the Temple of Inscriptions containing the crypt of Mayan ruler Pakal. I try to imagine the gray blocks pyramids in their heyday. Once they were bright red. Beacons of man's presence in this dense jungle.

Nixon in Ziploc:

It's jungle hot in Palenque and I'm sweating like Richard Nixon in a Ziploc. I start to say, "estoy caliente," but remember that I' m hot and not horny. I choose "mucho calor" instead.

In my book, a key scene takes place among the ruins of Palenque, so I want to cover the territory carefully. I shoot videotape of Julio walking up the steps of each temple. He's a good sport--until I ask him to run through the jungle like the hero of my book. He says something in Spanish I don't understand (which is not difficult to do) and which I believe is his point.

Don't Drink the Water:

After Palenque, we stop for a swim at a place called Agua Azul where three levels of thunderous waterfalls converge. While I'm cooling off in the spray, Julio slips on some rocks and sucks down half a liter of river water. I miss the whole thing. He doesn't say anything until half an hour later, telling Juan to pull the car over.

We continue the drive in silence. Finally, Juan asks me why I don't try to use my Spanish more. I tell him I'm going through my silent phase. From the back seat I hear Julio laugh for the first time since throwing up. For the next three hours Juan tells dirty jokes which I'm grateful not to understand.

Massacre at Acteal:

It's Sunday morning. Election day in Chiapas. Juan, Julio and I are driving to the village of Acteal, site of a brutal massacre three years ago. There are two checkpoints along the way designed to filter out nosy tourists. Juan tells me foreigners who make a stink are often deported.

He also says if you hit a dog or a chicken with your car villagers will set up a roadblock until your return--then charge you 100 pesos. Though moving fast, we manage to avoid both pets and livestock. We're also lucky in another way: because of the elections both checkpoints are closed.

Pillar of Shame:

At the entrance to Acteal there is a 30 foot high monument called, "The Pillar of Shame." It looks like a giant thorn poking from the earth. As we get closer we see that the sculpture depicts a spiraling mass of contorted bodies--45 of them.

Here, on December 22, 1997, 45 members of a pacifist group called Las Abejas (The Bees) were gunned down by a paramilitary group reportedly organized and armed by local PRI officials. The solemnity of the history here is lightened for me momentarily. I join some nearby children batting a volleyball across a makeshift net.

Local resident, Diego, shows us how the people tried to escape when the firing began. He points to a ravine where they fled only to become trapped and hunted down by the paramilitary men. Most, he says, were executed at point blank range.

Regional leaders were later prosecuted for the crime and the event led to the resignations of both the governor of Chiapas and Mexico's national interior secretary.

Community in Rebellion:

Diego says the paramilitary group wanted to keep the pacifists from joining the Zapatista movement. It may have done exactly the opposite. After the killings a new village was built close by for the survivors and their families. It's a gated and guarded community. The sign in front reads, "This is an autonomous community in rebellion." Painted on it are images of Marcos and armed Zapatistas.

Chillote, Chillote, Chillote:

Back in San Cristobal, I buy a cheap lunch at the bustling marketplace that surrounds the 14th century Santa Domingo Church. For about 40-cents I get corn on the cob roasted over charcoal and smeared with chili salt and a steamed vegetable called a chillote, which looks like an avocado but which you peel and eat like a banana.

As I sit down to eat, I hear a chant of "chillote, chillote, chillote." It's coming from a nearby tree. I look up to see three young Indian children hanging from the branches. They're cheering me on as I eat. I tell them they're loco. When they don't stop, I join the chant, "chillote, chillote, chillote." I draw stares from those who see me sitting alone, talking to my food. But I've gotten comfortable with looking foolish and I've been rewarded for my efforts.

Why Do I Want to Stay Here?:

Later, sitting in the courtyard at Federico and Marina's house, I talk with another guest, an American named Lori Benson, an expert on indigenous weaving and the collections manager for the Minnesota Museum of Science. She travels here three to four times a year and is trying to buy a home in the city.

At first she has a hard time explaining why, but then leaves me a note before flying out the next day. It says: "San Cristobal is a place of contradictions. On the one hand it is friendly, on the other hand it is a place of cruelty and prejudice. Why do I want to stay here? Maybe it's the constant battle between love and hate surrounded by beauty. Maybe one day I will know."

Ya Ganamous:

I sit on a green metal bench in San Cristobal's central park on Monday, the day after the election. I'm reading...trying to read a newspaper with the voting results. The headlines are easy enough. The Alliance candidate, Pablo Salazar has beaten the PRI candidate Sami David. The breadth of Mexico's political corruption has been so complete that in the past elections were simply considered the punchline to a national joke. Today no one is laughing.

The margin thus far is about a 100-thousand votes. Enough to make it irrefutable. A well-dressed older man sits on the bench to my right. He looks up from his paper as a friend, shuffles by. "Ya ganamos," the friend says. "Ya ganamos," he says in return. We've won.

Yo Voy Con Pablo:

I head over to the Human Rights Commission office to talk with Alejandro Sauso again. In his position he's been privy to details of some of Mexico's darkest and most unflattering moments. Today he's optimistic.

"With an independent national elections commission I don't think we'll ever go back to the corrupt ways of the past. To quote Thomas Jefferson, ‘we now have the roots of democracy.'"

I want to quote him a line from a famous Mexican politician, but ignorance limits me. All I can think of is the brochure, "Yo Voy Con Pablo." On this day it's good enough.

Palabras Malas:

At Centro Bilingue, it's my last inter-cambio. A woman named Nadxieli has joined Heber and I. Her English is as good as my Spanish is bad. We talk about the election. I tell them about Palenque and Acteal. That I almost let Julio drown. That Federico won second place for one of his sculptures at the Amber Expo. I tell them how much I'll miss San Cristobal and Chiapas. Finally, I'm communicating in Spanish, but I know at this point it's as much about charades as speech.

Toward the end of the session I realize we've forgotten to cover something; palabras malas. The bad words. I tell them it's important to know when you're being insulted in any language. Heber is puzzled. Nadxieli enthusiastic.

I learn the ten meanest fighting phrases in Spanish, which all include some variation of slights against motherhood. I explain to Heber and Nadxieli the versatility of English swear words--which, depending on tone or delivery, can be used as nouns, verbs or adjectives.

We smile at each other, gratified that together, we've clearly whacked the language piñata. And now, having broken through barriers of understanding we scurry to write down our new words as they spill over us like candy.

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