June 13, 1994 LETTER FROM CHIAPAS: down and out in Mexico BY WARREN CARAGATA
Helmeted soldiers in camouflage fatigues patrol
the streets
of Ocosingo, a market town in southern Mexico. Indian
women in
multicolored blouses sell snails in conical purple shells,
and red
chilies, green jalapenos, golden mangoes and other fruits
and
vegetables from blankets spread in the dirt. Military
trucks rumble
down the dusty streets carrying troops, weapons at the
ready. Burros
amble along at their own pace. The market building's
roof has been
destroyed by grenades, its facade pockmarked by rifle
fire. A
butcher tests the edge of a newly sharpened knife while
unrefrigerated meat and offal sit in the open air and
his dog sniffs
expectantly under the table. ``Everything is normal,''
says Santos,
who will only give his first name. Nearby, a sergeant
with a warm
smile and an assault rifle offers similar reassurance.
``Everything
is calm,'' he says. ``Everything is normal.''
This is Chiapas, a state of pine-forested highlands,
tropical rain
forest and a fertile coastal plain of coffee and banana
plantations
that lies against Mexico's southern border with Guatemala.
Last
January, a brief peasant rebellion by the Zapatista
National
Liberation Army, led by the masked figure of Subcommander
Marcos,
put the state firmly on the map. At the same time, Chiapas
fell off
the edge of the earth. In the face of the fighting and
the uneasy
calm that followed, tourists who were once attracted
by the colonial
charm of San Cristobal de las Casas, Mayan ruins and
timeless
hillside Indian villages decided that discretion was
the better part
of valor--and stayed home. As one California resident
put it in a
recent message on a computer bulletin board, the Compuserve
travel
forum: ``I would not wander into Chiapas at this time,
nor would I
saunter into East L.A. in the evening without a tank.''
Bill English is an American expatriate in San Cristobal
who, with a
Mexican partner, runs a combined coffee shop and language
school
called El Puente. The operation caters to tourists,
and business is
down about 70 per cent, he says. Some shops that rely
on the tourist
trade have closed entirely, and many others have laid
off staff.
Even the people who are paid to be upbeat admit that
tourism has
dropped precipitously. Says Gabriela Guadino Gual, an
official of
the state tourism office in San Cristobal: ``Because
of the things
that happened at the beginning of this year that everybody
knows, I
think the tourists don't come because they are afraid.''
Of course, the possibility of violence does not keep
everyone away.
It attracts some, like Juliette Bot and her friend and
fellow
Montrealer Claire Darbaud, both in their 20s. According
to Bot, the
reasons are simple: ``Journalism, a tan and revolution.''
Pursuing a
story on Chiapas for their student paper at the University
of
Montreal, they have travelled to San Cristobal's 18th-century
cathedral to interview Father Pablo Romo, an intense
Roman Catholic
priest who is a leading advocate for the poor and downtrodden
of
Chiapas.
At El Puente, English says the rebellion will eventually
bring in
tourists once memories of the fighting fade away. The
Zapatistas,
named for a hero of the Mexican revolution, have captured
the
imagination of Mexicans and non-Mexicans alike. Nobel
laureate and
author Carlos Fuentes called the uprising ``the first
post-Communist
rebellion in Latin America'' because of its demand for
democratic
reforms. Zapatista chic is everywhere in San Cristobal.
On the
street, Indian women sell Zapatista dolls--a clever
bit of marketing
because they are the same dolls in black costume that
they sold
before the insurrection but with the addition of a mask
and a stick
for a gun. There are also T-shirts and gym socks with
the masked
face of Subcommander Marcos and, as the ultimate compliment
to one
of Mexico's newest sex symbols, condoms with his face
on the foil.
One of the women, who requested anonymity, said she
would willingly
follow the rebel leader into the jungle at any time
to do his
revolutionary bidding.
San Cristobal, a city of about 70,000 in the Chiapas
highlands,
shelters a permanent community of expatriates, mostly
Americans.
English, a native of Santa Rosa, Calif., moved to the
region in 1991
because he wanted to change his life, always a good
enough reason to
go someplace. In an earlier time, the foreigners would
have become
hippies and headed for Nepal, but today, English says,
most
foreigners go into business of some sort. There is,
though, a
lingering sense of counterculture in San Cristobal,
tinged with
political commitment. El Puente, for instance, shares
its space with
an Indian Women's Weavers Co-operative. Many foreigners,
English
says, sympathize with the Zapatistas.
The city, founded seven years after the completion
of the Spanish
conquest in 1521, is on the Maya route, a focal point
of fascination
with a culture that used the wheel for religious artifacts
but not
for work or transport, that mapped out the heavens,
built great
cities and pyramids and then mysteriously died about
1,000 years
ago. The best-known Maya site in Chiapas is 190 km north
of San
Cristobal at Palenque. Farther afield, along the border
with
Guatemala, are two other sites, Yaxchilan and Bonampak.
They can be
reached by air charter, by a river called the Usumacinta
or, more
adventurously, by truck or four-wheel-drive vehicle
along a dirt
track that masquerades as a road.
Even by Mexican standards, Chiapas is poor: the per
capita gross
domestic product is about half the national rate of
$3,800 and every
year hundreds of children die from diarrhea or other
ailments that
would be considered mundane by any Canadian parent.
About a third of
the state's 3.2 million inhabitants are illiterate,
and some 40 per
cent of the Indians cannot speak Spanish. As part of
its
modernization drive, the Mexican government has lavished
money on
the southern state, with federal spending increasing
more than
tenfold between 1988 and 1992. But not all the money
has managed to
get where it was supposed to go. The Mexican government
has been
trying to end rampant corruption, but not always successfully.
A
glaring example of the failure is the new airport 20
km outside the
provincial capital of Tuxtla Gutierrez. By a freak of
geography, the
airport can be fogged in even on days when, in town,
there is barely
a cloud in the sky. The facility was built, residents
grumble, on
land bought from a high-ranking state official.
The poverty is most extreme outside the major centres,
in Indian
communities seemingly frozen in time, where corn is
grown on steep
hillside plots, along the verges of roadsides or on
communal lands
known as ejidos. Farming practices have changed little
over the
centuries, and the acrid smell of burning corn stubble
fills the air
as the straw from the old crop is reduced to ash fertilizer
for the
new. On the highways and back roads, the few private
half-ton trucks
are filled to overflowing, inside and out, with people
and
provisions and bags of textiles to be sold in the city
markets.
Small vans operating as communal taxis stop in the middle
of nowhere
to let passengers off. On foot, they head into the forest
carrying
their burdens--women with cardboard boxes in their shawls,
men with
furniture on their backs.
On the track to the Indian village of Altamirano,
far into the
Chiapas highlands, an old man was bent nearly double
carrying
firewood in a sack, held on his back by a leather strap
across his
weathered forehead. Struggling to communicate in Spanish,
he
expressed confusion about the political turmoil that
had overtaken
Chiapas. ``Why would they bother us?'' he asked. ``We
are poor
people, we are not rich.''
While the Zapatistas obviously had a following in
Chiapas, such
expressions of opposition are not uncommon. Farther
up the road in
Altamirano, where armored personnel carriers share the
route with
burros, the local auditorium has been converted into
a refugee
centre sheltering about 250 people who left their communities
because of the fighting, or the fear of fighting. ``They
wanted to
give us arms, but we were not prepared to face the Mexican
army,''
said Carmelino Velasco Gomez. ``We were not prepared
to die.''
Velasco made the eight-hour walk from the ejido of Santio
with his
family of eight in early February. Afraid to go home,
they have
remained there ever since.
Despite the military checkpoints and the inescapable
presence of
soldiers with guns, there is no great sense of personal
peril in
Chiapas. Paradoxically, the two things most at risk
are the Indians'
way of life and the power of the land barons, who for
centuries have
dominated politics and the economy. The implementation
of free trade
with Canada and the United States, and the Zapatista
uprising, will
hasten the end of both. The government plans to set
up
community-owned textile mills in the villages to take
advantage of
the North American Free Trade Agreement. Government
billboards
remind people that ``Authority has its limits.'' The
governor of
Chiapas, and the former governor, were both sacked.
Even advocates
for the Indians like Father Romo say change must come,
jobs must be
found in the cities, in industry, for people who cannot
be supported
on the land. ``We don't want to keep them in a Jurassic
Park posing
for the tourists,'' he says of the Indians. When the
change comes,
it will be a less colorful Chiapas, a place with fewer
ties to a
rich past. But it will also be a place where children
do not die so
easily from diarrhea. The loss would not be mourned. |