 
Zuzka's Journal Chiapas 2003
from Zuzka Sabata Chiapas spring 2003
Coming from the States, a place of much fear and apprehension
at this moment, proved to create an interesting perspective
on this tour for me.
Getting past the country tranquility and steep geography
of this highland region was a welcome respite from newspaper
headlines. Arriving in our first village, Acteal, we descended
into it via a steep staircase leading from the road above,
well-guarded by elders in traditional white dress and the
owners of the stores along the road. We had a huge audience
that watched quietly and with great attention, being roused
only when we ventured into their midst, typical of many of
the audiences we encountered.
Afterwards we were invited to stay in an unoccupied house,
and we slowly moved our belongings from the community building,
where we had set up, into our room. At the same time, a lecture
had begun under the tent in front of the chapel. In the last
rows sat the old women and women with babies, and I snuck
up and crouched behind their benches, out of my curiosity.
One shrunken, toothless grandmother was laughing and pointing
at me. She was the image of my clown character, La Abuelita,
and I heard her say as she winked in my direction "look, she
is just a girl!"
In front, a christian pacifist group was teaching about
other communities in struggle in the world, a map of the world
spread out on a whiteboard. The subject: Iraq. Some of questions:
How far away is it? What culture do they have, what language
do they speak? What religion do they belong to? I thought
I could hear the people listening trying to translate their
lives into the desert landscape.
In the evening I visited La tienda de mujeres with Heather
Pearl, which was the village«s store of handmade wares. One
of the smaller purses had this embroidered phrase: Tierra
sagrado de los martires. There was also a book printed in
english about the massacre, whose majority of victims were
women. The woman serving us in the store showed us a photograph
of her sister in the book and she told us they don«t know
where the bodies of the dead are.
That night we all spent a little time socializing with another
group of extranjeros, about five young men from France, who
were travelling through the region acting as observers in
these villages. I understood that having foreigners present
is an important component of protection for these places.
They are the manifestation of a connection with the world
as well as providing communication with other communities
of the world.
Moving on!
Nuevo Yibelho is a town carved out of a brown slope, dusty
and hot, and I was taken out of my shyness by a man, an uncle,
who embraced me upon sight. We were immediately treated to
food in the house of a newly-made mother and given a room
in a hut to rest in afterwards. The performance was a play
of two strange looking groups enjoying the sight of each other.
Rudi, in his schoolboy suit and wrecked black felt hat, pulled
red hankerchiefs out of the ears of jug-shaped women covered
in rainbow thread. Que« extra–o!
The only show we had scheduled that wasn«t so well received
was a contradiction in terms. The village of Los Platanos
(or "The Bananas", not "Bahamas", but "Bananas")was a very
conservative town with its community life strongly focused
in the activities of the church. The building of the church
stood high on an outcropping of the slope where this town
was located, and we were invited to change and rest in the
brothers«quarters, a small separate building off to the side.
Looking out the window facing away from the church I saw it
was all downhill from there. Heather and I made up a patty-cake
song for a girl peering into the barred window (Clau-Dia!)as
we waited for the church service to end, as we were performing
in the open area en frente de la iglesia.
Our spirits were very high and Rudi and I threw ourselves
into the pre-show warm-up with much butt-kicking, but I was
distracted from Rudi«s magic by the spectacular sunset playing
right behind a part of our audience. Because of the smoky
atmosphere from the fires burning in this unusually dry season,
the sun was a neon orange, and it was framed by a cascade
of almost vertical slopes topped with blunt nubs. Long story
short, in this otherworldly place, we took an opportunity
during the show to sneak into the church and disappear into
its cool darkness with giggles and clown glee. We closed the
doors and waited a moment, only to emerge with nothing to
show for our actions. We were told later, after we ended the
show early, that most of the people didn«t like the performance,
because it was "of the world". So the bananas rode out of
The Bananas with food for thought and a forlorn cry: "Adios!
Los Platanos!"
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