Belching Out the Devil (37 page)

The population of Chamula is Tzotzil Mayan - it is an indigenous town, whose peaceful surroundings are constantly pierced by the loud screeching bangs of home-made fireworks and rockets that are set off as part of the religious rituals. And glancing around the surrounding hillsides and the stark blue sky you can see puffs of black smoke popping in the distance before the speed of sound catches up with a crack. Pitched on one side of the square the church of San Juan dominates the town, it has a high bell tower and large wooden doors - the kind that hunchbacks can gratifyingly bang on while calling for sanctuary.

‘Stick close to me please,' says our bearded guide as we enter.

 

From the bright light of the cloudless sunny day we pass into the dim church. There are no pews or seats but there is an intense smell of smouldering resin and scattered fresh pine needles that cover the ground. It is a big spacious building but
already the grey smoke has filled its entirety. Groups of worshippers clear a space of the green needles to sit, and drip wax on to the floor to stand their rows of burning candles upright. Some sit at the altar, some in the knave, some by the walls where row upon row of glass boxes house effigies of the saints. Some have a small band of drummers, guitars and singers with them.

‘When you walk around, do not intrude on the worshippers,' says the guide.

‘Is that a chicken in the bag there?' asks one of the tour party pointing.

‘Yes, that is a live chicken which will be sacrificed for a healing ceremony.' Then, turning to the group, he says, ‘Please, a few of you can walk around.'

‘But don't stare, right?' says one of the group.

‘Do not stare, just be quiet and if you are lucky you may see a chicken being killed for the sacrifice.'

 

There are plenty of Coca-Cola bottles, and Pepsi too, set out on the floor, and their metal caps mingle with the pine needles, as families and friends gather in groups sitting, drinking, lighting candles, praying and singing. One family sits with bottles around them and a wicker bag, while the mother and father pray, a grandmother holds a small child on their lap with a bottle of Coke in front of her. This is an image I particularly warm to and think of the memory of my own nan smoking and singing songs.

 

Wandering here it occurs to me that the Pope has about as much control here as he has over the Presbyterians and the sense of individual ownership here is quite moving. The models of the saints are gaudy and slightly disturbing - as they should be in a Catholic church - but the figure of Jesus is jaw-dropping. In a glass cabinet near the altar the prone
figure of Christ is being borne down from the cross by his followers. But Our Lord is not wearing the traditional loincloth. Our Lord is wearing a spangled powder blue glitter flower frock that comes up to just under his nipples, making Jesus look like a Thai transsexual fainting at a wedding.

 

And no matter how much I want to respect the Tzotzil families here, I find it hard to feel comfortable amidst high camp, low poverty and liberal tourists trying to sneak a peak at a chicken having its neck wrung.

Searching for a line of enquiry that involved a little less poultry and voyeurism we follow the curves and crumpled hillroads back to San Cristóbal. From the tourist centre of the postcard homes and tiled roofs, we step from the raised pavements away from the bars and hotels, past the markets and the stalls of Zapatista dolls, out on to dust tracks that all seem to have a single Toyota pick-up truck lunging from side to side as it trundles in a cloud of dirt; and then on to narrow lanes lined with ditches and weeds, where bulrushes sprout by wasteland ponds and plastic bottles collect around them at the edge of the mud. Out in the sun we wander to the shanty towns through the packed soil corridors and alleyways of wooden boards, with lone standpipes and packs of barking dogs, past the open family huts and homes, on to a long car-less street where children play chase in its empty lanes, twisting and turning from each other's flailing arms, while their parents sit by stalls watching and waiting for customers. And above, looking down on us from the distance are the newly built mountainside hovels, a hill of blossoming shacks and sheds on stilts. These are the newcomers fresh from the frontline of penury sprawling across to spread to the
upper reaches, searching for a foothold to cling to, searching for a moment's respite.

 

Under this gaze we arrive on the outskirts of San Cristóbal at the Mayan Medicine Museum. The compound houses not only a museum but is also home to the Organizacion de Médicos Indigenas del Estado del Chiapas (the Organisation of Indigenous Doctors in the State of Chiapas). Where, amongst other things, they organise Mayan midwives for the communities in these hills. The front steps of the museum are under the cool shade of a porch which proves a tempting place for folk to squat and chat. This is where I meet Miguel, a member of staff who works on the committee for the indigenous doctors as well as in the museum as a youth worker. He is going to talk me through the significance of the Coke in the Tzotzil church.

 

‘You can see Coca-Cola being used in the rituals and ceremonies of traditional doctors as it happens in San Juan in Chamula. But these happen everywhere, in communities, in small chapels, here in this museum…' In the religious healing ceremonies each component represent an element: the candles represents fire, pine needles the earth, prayers represent air and Coca-Cola symbolises water. ‘In this case the ritual process - the drink has another element, the gas,' he says, explaining that burping throws out the ‘bad energy, negative energy'.

‘Some people say it is throwing out bad spirits?'

‘It's all the bad energy, the ghosts, the nightmares, everything bad in that spiritual part.'

 

Considering parts of these ceremonies go back hundreds of years, it begs the question how did Coke muscle in on an ancient ritual?

‘Before the famous soda was introduced there was atole which is made of corn. You have to leave it to ferment for eight days. After that you grind it and you make sour atole.'

 

This was the original burp juice. However, people began to realise you could get the same effect with Coca-Cola or Pepsi, and you didn't have to ferment corn for eight days. According to Miguel, ‘Step by step Coca-Cola has started to be involved in religion and the indigenous communities and it started at the beginning with very cheap prices [for a bottle of Coke].'

 

This is a practice that carries on today: the price of a Coke in an indigenous community is half the price it would be in San Cristóbal, because in this poor community they can only buy what they can afford. Miguel looks up at the shantytown on the side of the mountain. ‘Even in the small shops on the tops of the hill - they transport it up by donkeys.'

 

Some of the men sitting on the porch have listened to us talking and take this opportunity to pipe up, ‘You can have a healing ceremony conducted for you here.'

‘Oh really?'

‘Yes, if you want,' says Miguel.

‘A healing ceremony,' repeats one of the men.

‘I'm sure it is very good but there is nothing physically wrong with me.'

‘That is what you think but this heals your spirit.'

‘Do you think my spirit needs healing?'

There is silence. Then the man nods. ‘Yes - you will see how much better you feel after it.'

‘OK, then, I would like to do this…' I clap my hands together and smile awkwardly while mentally rationalising, ‘It's all OK. It would be rude not to. I should respect this culture and after all what is the worst that can happen?'

I turn expectantly to Miguel, who says, ‘First you will need to buy some big bunches of basil and an egg.'

Fifteen minutes later a shaman is instructing me how to order the rows of lit candles on the floor while he places the egg and a cup of water next to them. Our spiritual guide for this particular healing journey is a stocky small man with a paunch and cropped hair, dressed in a blue denim shirt. Although I didn't have a fixed image of a shaman in my mind, I somehow did not expect him to look like a night watchman at a Parcelforce depot.

 

This ceremony does not involve Coca-Cola and burping, so my bad spirits are staying put, but a couple of local folk are having the same healing ritual and tell me as we line up in the small chapel that this is a protective healing ceremony. Figures of the saints inhabit the alcoves, including the Virgin of Guadeloupe in crown and gown, Saint Anthony looking lost in the corner and John the Baptist with his head still on his shoulders. There is one figure that stands out from the rest, a cross, chubby man holding a stick in the air wearing a frock - though it could be a toga - and I wonder if John Belushi has been canonised.

 

The stocky shaman sits upright on a small stool, rocking back and forth with his hands on his knees, intoning place names and saints in a sing-song monotone. Rising with a laboured breath he motions for me to come forward and he starts walking the length of the chapel chanting in Tzotzil, brushing the basil against the saints, evoking their names each in turn, before arriving at the corner where I wait by my egg and candles. The stocky shaman stands before me, coming up to my nose in height and as he intones his prayers he brushes
the swatch of basil over my face, first once, then again. Then he taps my shoulders with basil, first one side then the other - all the while continuing his chant. Next my stomach and sides are hit, each time harder than the first. Bending down he starts working on my calves whacking them with such force that he is beginning to pant with the effort of the blows and the chanting. The air is now thick with a peppery smell and as he returns upright he starts all over again, with even greater energy - smacking my shoulders with such vigour that leaves begin to fly off the branches. As he hits my stomach the air becomes a blizzard of basil and I want to shout, ‘This isn't healing, this is seasoning!' but I am speechless in the face of the serious conviction held by everyone in the room. Suddenly he stops and stares as leaves flutters to the ground. Stooping he picks up the egg waves it over my body, breaks it into the cup of water which he holds to the light to examine the floating yolk. Then he says: ‘All the jealousy people have towards you is gone - you will return to San Cristóbal one day.' And with that he motions it is over and I to return to my seat.

 

Outside one of the local folks walks with me back to the city centre.

‘Well?' he asks expectantly, breathing in deeply to show his own contentedness ‘Did you see the way the plant turned black?'

‘The basil?'

‘Si, it turned black. It is the plant taking your bad energy. Some things science cannot explain.' He nods wisely, breathes another deep sigh of contentment and says, ‘So, how do you feel?'

‘I feel like I have been beaten up by pesto.'