We were assigned to the Caracol of La Garrucha (one of 5 zones of autonomous governance) without a clear idea of where we would end up. It is always an interesting experience meeting with the Junta (The Board of Good Governance). The Zapatistas are attempting to create a democracy that is directly participative, as opposed to the representative model that the Mexican government follows. Thus the Junta rotates every 2 weeks, and authority is shared by everybody sooner or later, As opposed to specialization, everyone learns the same skills and inthis way no one is given more power due to their position or experience.
This is a great in theory, but also has its shortcomings. The organization has been functioning for 14 years, but when one visits the Junta, the administrators have only been there for a week and are still learning how to write and speak Spanish. At this point, one encounters the phenomenon of 'Zapatista Time', which operates slower than we are used to. One can wait hours to meet with the Junta, days to receive a response to questions, and weeks or months to implement plans. Being some of the poorest regions in the country, there is a lack of technology and infrastructure, so communication is done in person and work is done by the light of day.
Although CAPISE has been sending weekly brigades to the Caracols for years, the Junta that had supposedly requested us didn't know who we were. They told us to head to a municipal center and ask the people there where we should go. We realized we were just one of many groups of white people with "truly important purposes" in Chiapas. It was humbling to not be the priority for once in our lives. We got up at 4:30am to catch a truck to the first intersection. The system of public transport is mostly composed of locals driving their trucks around and picking up people on the side of the road. You could wait 5 minutes. We waited 5 hours. I didn't realize at the time that days of travel (usually only covering between 20 and 30 miles) can take from sunrise to sunset.
It is a challenge to make conversation in the back of the truck. Being very white, it is obvious that the only reason we could possibly be
traveling in these parts is to do political solidarity work. At times we ride in the back together with government supporters and paramilitaries. When someone asks where I'm going, the best I can do is give vague and insufficient responses. "Oh we're just passing through" My questioner glances over at my friend sporting the Spanish revolutionary flag as a bandana and nods at me. Luckily we didn't have any confrontations…but I've heard stories.
When we arrived at the municipal center, we were put to work. The compañeros were just finishing a new basketball court they've been working on for the past month. We took up brushes and started to paint the signature red stars onto the backboards and the three-point lines on the blacktop. They were gearing up for the municipal tournament on Thursday. Knocked out from the jungle heat, we headed for the river. Later they would bless the blacktop in a religious ritual involving candles, Coca-cola, chanting, and a chicken. A hole was left in the center of the court, and at night the whole community gathered as a local religious leader drained the chicken's blood into the whole. The hole would be filled in the morning, and properly sanctified, the court put to use.
The river was indescribable. Dense throngs of trees compete for sunlight and vines dip lazily into the raging current. The men and women bathe separately, men in nothing but little underwear, and women in full-length dresses. Teenage cowboys ride horseback across the river, glancing nonchalantly at the girls as they pass. As always, we were an unwitting spectacle, especially our female component, which attracted pubescent voyeurs conspicuously crouched behind bushes.
We arrived at the next community during school hours. The community has 10 families, 50 children, and one teacher. The Zapatistas have their own autonomous education system to replace the government schools, which they believe ignore indigenous culture and history and fail to be sufficiently critical of the government. The children here are taught, along with writing and mathematics, how to take care of the environment and struggle against racism and oppression. It feels like indoctrination to some extent, but then again, isn't that the case with all education?
We became the playmates of these 50 little ones after school, and played every improvised game known to man. As any of us would approach, twenty children would scream and start running away. This became very, very fun. I adopted the role of Godzilla, and stomped around the village, flocks of the helpless criss-crossing my path of destruction. We taught them hide-and-seek in pantomime, unable to communicate in their native language. Tseltal is the largest of 8 indigenous Mayan languages in Chiapas. A huge percentage of the Mexican population doesn't speak Spanish, but because their languages are largely unrecognized by the government, they are unable to make informed political decisions, defend themselves in court, or participate in the mainstream economic system.
However, many of them don't want to anyway. The Mayans of Central America are one of the best preserved indigenous groups in the world, in large part because they value their traditions. Capitalism threatens the very way of life in rural Chiapas. Indigenous communities
traditionally hold land in common, but when land is titled, it makes it something that can be bought out of the hands of the people who live there. To the populations here, land and natural resources are basic human rights. Their people have been living there for thousands of years, and as the saying goes "the land belongs to those who work it". As life because progressively worse, the youth develop individualistic mindsets and abandon their communities to work in other states or in the US. It is quite ironic for us to say that immigrants are coming to take advantage of our wealth. The reality is that our economic policies are making it impossible for them to survive and be happy in their own homes.
It was incredible to talk to communities about what is happening. The government offers land titles and public projects to certain members of a community, but not others, to seed inter and intra-community divisions, and crush the resistance from within. Certain groups, such as the OPDDIC (Organization for the Defense of Indigenous and Campesino Rights) appear to be civil organizations, but in reality have paramilitary arms trained by the Mexican army. Our job was to document the resultant threats and offenses. In one community, neighbors burned a field and ruptured a water tank. In other towns, neighbors will seek legal papers for the Zapatista recuperated territory or simply invade it with their cattle and build houses. It is no longer an ostensible battle between the rich and the poor. It is much more effective to turn the poor against themselves and then buy them out once they are feeling completely hopeless.
Every community had something truly special to offer. We slept in the schoolhouse that night. To reach another community we had to cross the jungle river, with our pants, shoes, and notebooks raised above our heads. Another community we slept in an abandoned finca, bricks crumbling, weeds poking through the cracks, the ghost of a wealthy estate. One other time a group of 10 year old boys took us down the road on horseback to beat the sunset. At times I would ride on the top of trucks swinging and contorting by body to avoid the low-hanging branches.
Like at any other point in life, we came back for the party. April 10th remembers the assassination of hero and historic social fighter, Emiliano Zapata. The party lasted for 2 days and included about 400 campesinos from the municipality. I wasn't surprised when the band played until the early hours of the morn, but was a bit startled when they started back up again at 6am, scarcely hours later. "The dance" is an interesting anthropological phenomenon. Almost all men I've spoken with tell me they met their wife at the dance. When you view
the dance, it makes perfect sense.
It works like this. When a song starts, pairs of teenage girls go out onto the floor, maintaining a nervous distance. When all of the pawns
are in play, about 50 teenage bachelors invade the scene, in their cowboy hats and half unbuttoned shirts and surround the girls. Each
pair of girls is accosted by at least 10 boys, getting in their faces, trying to pull them away. And sadly, there are a few girls on the periphery that don't get any attention and watch all of this go down, song after song. When the song ends, the scene is deserted and then it starts all over again.
In the jungles of Chiapas there is another world, and despite our presumptions, they don't really want a whole lot to do with ours. They want to speak their language, meet their future wives/husbands at dances, and work and live on their land without their water being stolen so it can be sold back to them in the form of Coca-Cola. As much as we say that capitalism gives everyone the choice, it doesn't give these people the choice to not be a part of capitalism. Although there are many flaws in their practice of autonomy, I am heartened by their bold request to live their lives in peace.
