Day 4 in Chiapas. I find myself here a bit earlier than originally planned, in time to catch an old, dear friend at the right moment. It is very different from what I remember. I came over 25 years ago, in 1997 or thereabouts with an EZLN caravan. That was an invaluable, transformative experience, though not for the reasons I had set out with in mind. The caravan was infiltrated by the police and/or intelligence services and without realizing it at the moment, had befriended two of them. Towards the end of the trip, I realized what they were, and my eyes were forever open in ways only possible with experience.
I also remember how silly all of us were. We were all in our early twenties, from Middle Class families, wanting to live out a romanticized version of the political movements of the 60’s and 70’s. True to the Marxian paraphrase, “the first time a tragedy, the second time a farce”, my fellow revolutionaries all went by 60’s era handles such as “Fidel”, “Ernesto” “Lucio” and the like. Naturally they all assumed my name, Camilo Ernesto, was also a handle. “Nope”, I told them, “that’s my name”. The caravan was mostly pointless. I’m not entirely sure what the point of it was, what the organizers had actually hoped to achieve. It was soon after the Acteal massacre so it is possible we were there as witnesses and human shields. The most we actually did, however, was clean bathrooms.
But the beauty of the area wedged itself in my mind and I remembered the region full of clouds, color, languages and the smell of burning wood from the chimneys. It is very different now. The colors, from the traditional clothing of this region’s peoples, seem mostly gone. So too the smell of the wood burning chimneys. The presence of the area’s linguistic diversity is still present, but it comingles with English, Italian, French and German. San Cristobal is inexplicably gentrified. It has become one more stop for bored, white westerners. One can now find decent espressos and New York style bagels. What you won’t find is the beautifully overwhelming presence of the colors of the Tzotzil, Tzeltal or Tojolabal peoples.
The clouds and the surrounding hills are still here. So is the crisp winter air and the deep blue sky. It is beautiful. But I miss Oaxaca’s trees, butterflies, flowers and birds.
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