Posts
All Comments
Chiapa de Corzo
Last week saw the festival signed off with a grand carnival, bringing together all the elements of the chaos and debauchary over the last month. The teaching staff and vaious different families with which we were affiliated took up station on the second storey of my familys´ shop, cameras poised to snap anything that moved. The procession was led by the "Annuncio" crowd, an exciteable gaggle of children dressed as ranch hands mercilessly harassing a man with the effurgy of a bull on his back, who took great delight is stampeding said children into the front rows of spectators to roars of approval from the crowd. For those who are unsure, an Annuncio is an event designed by some of the greatest minds in known event management history; a party whose entire existence serves to bring attention to an upcoming larger party. I am not entirely sure if this concept has been further extended to encompass Annuncios for Annuncios (infinite regression is entirely possible here), but judging by the attitude of the townsfolk this month, it is entirely possible.
Next came the Chuntas, led by the same racially questionable gentleman present at my night of cross dressing. The Chuntas were a force to be reckoned with, spraying the surrounding crowd with confetti and, bizzarely, root vegetables.
A series of carnival floats followed, each intricate in its own design and showcasing a range of "carnival queens", who waved regally to the crowds (an adorable sight in the case of the chubby 7 year old versions) and dispensed a range of candies, money and corporate merchandise. Every community group seemed to have their own float, from the cheeky "forest pixie" primary school childrens float to the beautifully presented and noticably aloof chinese society. 
The Chinese Societies` float was supplimented with a Chinese dragon procession and entusiastic percussion, which came to blows somewhat with the following masses of Parachicos, eager to blow off steam before their dormancy for the rest of the year. Squabbles and bickering spread among the two different factions due to the commonly held perception that the Chinese lot were moving too slowly, and finally with a display of restrained democracy the dragon moved to one side as the Parachicos thundered past them, spreading everyone thin in their overcooked desire for progress and concluding with a rather sweet and confused regrouping a short distance down the street. Meanwhile the the dragon and the rest of the Chinese Wannabe Mexicans re-established their cohort with a lot of unecessary reversing of vehicles, shouting and pointing and, to the cheers of the crowd, proceeded to enthusiastically charge up and down the street once more, scattering pedestrians and spectators in all directions.
The carnival queen followed this debacle, smiling and waving to the onlookers laden with chocolate, money and vegetables and, finally, it was over. In retrospect, I wonder what I would have made of the bizzare cow baiting, cross dressing and masked antics if I did not have the benefit of a couple of weeks orientation with the various different components of the wonderful events of the last month. I can only think that, as opposed to being consumed by the randomness of it all, I was able to appreciate the synergy of the various different elements of the traditions and truly appreciate the pride and passion of the participants, as well as the perceptable sorrow that they would, for the next 11 months, sink into a state of expectant longing for next January.
As you may have gathered from one of my previous posts, I was (mis)fortunate enough to be featured on Mexican national television in my first week dressed as a lady. Well, thanks to the wonders of modern technology and the openness of the TV networks here, you can now view my TV appearance.
The rest of the gang arrived in dribs and drabs and within minutes we were standing in an Aladdins Cave of costumers; the same place room which I´d previously been rejected in my application for a Chunta costume. After trying on a range of elements of the Parachico outfit that we were required to wear to participate in the procession and reflecting with hilarity on the excessive diameter of my head, unsuitable for all but the largest hats, we dispersed with the intention of reconvening to dress at around 11.30; I went straight back to sleep.
Donning our costumes somewhat later than expected due to the tardiness of our group that was to become characteristic of the day, it became immediately apparent that the outfit, thick and heavy, would be uncomfortable worn as intended in the heat of the mid-day sun; a thick blanket, trousers and long sleeves, a gigantic hat that resembled a blonde afro and a heavy wood carved mask were all conducive to immediate and extensive perspiration. The mask, in particular, induced instantaneous pain as it was tightened into place, mashing my nose into an unnatural shape and pressed tight into my forehead by my giant hat. The other logistical issue was my field of vision, abysmal through the tiny apertures in the eyebrows.
Armed with "chin-chins", a metallic rattle, we blundered out into the street and attempted to locate the procession. Incubating my illness behind my mask and within my heavy, hot clothes I began to feel grumpy.
We eventually located the procession, a huge convoy of similarly dressed people dancing to the familiar sound of drums and whistle flutes. Still flailing around with a non-existent field of vision we plunged into the procession and lost each other almost instantaneously in a field of ornate masks, everyone indistinguishable from everyone else. I doggedly laboured forwards within the press of bodies, shaking my chin-chin, attempting to dance and pick out the words within the muffled cries that emanated from callers within the crowd as the relentless sun beat down upon our insulated shoulders, cursing my hangover, illness and willingness for participation. It was a strange, unsettling affair, the movement and dancing constricted by the costumes and the sounds repressed by the masks. I began to experience a strange feeling as I moved with the costumed and faceless multitudes, one that I heard echoed by the others after talking later with them. They described it as a spiritual feeling, a moment of acute awareness of the self. Within my costume, anonymous to the outside world, I felt safe and introverted in the knowledge that no-one knew who I was (the antithesis of the night of the chuntas) but I was surrounded by a great crowd of similar people, all isolated in the same way as me with no hope of connection with their external similarities and suppressed field of vision. I was alone, but felt overwhelmingly to be an intrinsic part of something much greater.
I continued on for a while, caught up in the feeling until the intolerable heat of the costume forced me to the roadside to lift my mask for a short while and see if I could identify any of my friends. While I was standing watching the tide of Parachicos passing by I noticed one particular participant shuffling forward, head moving side to side and noted, with a degree of perverse satisfaction and delayed inevitability, as they walked smartly into the back of a parked truck.
Incredibly, I managed to pick Abi out of the crowd from her shirt and we shuffled and shook our way to an undercover contraction in the street where a marimba band was serenading the passing Parachicos. The noise, heat and crush of bodies were too much, and it was with a degree of relief that we eventually emerged to a crossroad where the procession seemed to dissipate. We removed our masks and hats and, red faced, sat in the shade to take lunch and watch the world pass.
It was a wonderful spectacle. Strings of flags flutter ed overhead in the breeze framed by clear blue skies. Groups of parachicos strode past, shaking chin-chins and uttering muffled cries, caught up in some purpose beyond my comprehension. Groups of women and children in beautiful traditional dresses and stunning with their hair held back with headpieces showing their clear, dark skin flocked about the scene. Music drifted from bars and stages and mariachi groups resplendent in their matching suits wandered amongst the chaos. Everybody was clearly taking such pride in their involvement, looming fathers and their diminutive sons comically standing beside each other in identical costumes. The energy, commitment and natural dancing movement of the children was a sight to behold; an inspiration to apathetic English youth.
We eventually came upon the others, engaged in heavy drinking having abandoned their masks some time before and we proceeded to fritter the rest of the afternoon away in a haze of tequila, dancing and people watching. As Laura and I walked to a taco stand in the growing dusk still in costume, the rest of the group having fragmented to get changed, we received warm smiles and requests for photos; with our masks removed we were once again in the spotlight, but there was an overwhelming sense of respect from the Mexicans for our commitment to participating in their traditions.
Chiapa de Corzo
19th January 2009
On my arrival at the shop, Madre Tone rushed me around the corner to a seamstresses house where we were duly rejected (no more clothes for a man of my size), thus leaving me standing, clad in traditional women's garb of a long flowing purple skirt with floral print and a low cut cream blouse with frilly sleeves and lace lining in the house of Tone`s sister some ten minutes later. The occupants of the house watched with glee as extensive makeup was applied to my face, my hair was gelled back and a floral headpiece duly clipped in place. Tone and her sister spared no expense; beauty spots, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick - my first experience of being made up was thorough to say the least.
We rounded the corner by the base of the steps below the waterfront Church and suddenly encountered the procession of the Chuntas. It was a vast, pulsing mass of colour, noise, movement and pure, powerful energy, preceded by a single figure covered from head to toe in black body paint and cut off jeans, sporting a broom with which he swept the streets in a shuffling, hopping dance before the mob. Licha and I were swallowed up by the procession, and I found myself surrounded on all sides by jubilant dancing cross dressed Mexican men. The procession was driven by the relentless pounding of marching drums and whistle flutes, groups of three or four musicians interspersed throughout the spectacle, and elevated to incredible proportions by the rhythm that came from every single member of the party, stamped out with their feet as they danced and from the thousands of maracas shaken simultaneously. It was a beautiful, jubilant racket, punctuated by wild cries from indiscriminate callers within the crowd, most indecipherable to my ear but some like "Viva Chiapa de Corzo!" conveying the passion of the night, and answered with a roar from the rest of the crowd within earshot. |
| From Jon Chiapa de Corzo January 09 |
My initial feelings, aside from complete overawe and detached amusement were of inhibition. I didn`t understand the words of the people around me, felt intimidated by the passion and intensity and was very self conscious about all the attention I was attracting from my fellow party goers and the army of spectators; I really was the only white guy in a dress.
Icha suddenly took me by the arm and pulled me inside an empty house whose doorway faced the street. Before I knew what was happening, the single, empty room with a huge alter at one end that constituted the interior was packed to the rafters with Chuntas and wild dancing, as in the church before, ensued. At some point the beat slowed and Icha bade me lower the maraca that I`d been shaking relentlessly for the last hour and a half. Only the dancing persisted until, without warning, the beat quickened and the assembled revellers cheered and the maracas were sounded again in earnest. As quickly as it had filled, the small room emptied leaving only a tiny wrinkled elderly woman with nut brown skin sat on a chair before the alter, head bowed.
Tucked away in the corner of the central plaza is the "Heladaria y Paletaria", or Ice Cream and Lolly Shop; the lynch pin of my daily routine. For a paltry ten pesos (roughly 50p) you can procure a nice chunky ice lolly crafted entirely from 100% pulped fruit. Mmmmmmm.
 Chiapa de Corzo 12th January 2009 |
Strolling through the streets of CDC in the early evening with my fellow TEFL prototypes, Martin and Laura, last night I found one of the amiable smiles and nods that I was endeavouring to exchange with any willing Mexican returned with gusto by one particular elderly gentleman. He was positioned in the open driveway of a particularly well appointed house, grinning at me with the few select teeth remaining in his head. He was gesturing wildly down the street and, beset by curiosity, I herded my hesitant course mates towards him with the intention of using their superior language skills to find out what all the fuss was about. It transpired after a brief discourse that a procession of some kind was being instigated further down the street with the intention of arriving for some sort of celebration at the house outside which we were currently residing.
Before we knew it, we were swept up in the procession, a spirited and thoroughly confusing affair involving lit candles, projectile fireworks set off from the hands of the participants and a liberal, sporadic application of firecrackers during the proceedings. The procession moved slowly down the street with the three of us brandishing live fireworks, sparklers and cameras trying to preserve the moment until we reached the gateway to the house. At this point a lit firework was thrust into my unsuspecting hand by none other than my host mother Toni, who was also apparently the procession. I grasped the cascading shower of sparks at arms length until it became clear from the forceful sounding monologue from my surrogate parent that I was in danger of burning my fingers off, upon which point I hurled the flaming tube onto the impressively sized pile of firework detritus that marked the output of the procession.
Taking the opportunity to bumble around the town in the heat of the day (I`m not due to start the TEFL course until Monday) was a wonderful assault on the senses and my poor, travel tired brain. The hustle and bustle of the weekend market pushed me past stalls purveying a range of fabrics, clothing, food and fantastic tat on to the long, shallow steps that fronted the west facing facade of the huge, colonial church, resplendent in a coat of white paint, edged by a deep terracotta red.
Wandering down the steps, I came upon the banks of the river that we`d crossed earlier, furnished with a range of restaurants, or "cantinas". In the true spirit of opportunism , each one of these establishments had seized upon the realization that providing a trio of marimba musicians (a drummer and two keyboard players, both installed on the same huge wooden instrument) to furnish the patrons with music would bring more business. Any of these musical groups playing alone would have been a delight, as all the musicians were clearly very skilled, but unfortunately every single establishment had its own group, each of which were sometimes no further than ten feet of one another. The net result of this phenomenon was akin to the drawn out collision of two, marching band carrying, flatbed lorries. Hilariously, every single diner refused to acknowledge the hideous jumbled racket that ensued, and incredibly each separate ensemble managed to maintain perfect timing on its respective tune.
As I walked back from the river, I glimpsed a wonderful range of enterprises and activities through the multitude of open doors and windows of the back streets, fling wide to counter the heat of the day; a man cutting beams to length beside intricate carvings of Jesus; racks of coffins shrink wrapped and presumably awaiting owners; a room full of men sitting beside broken televisions, staring into space, a wedding with two hundred people dressed in their finery, green ribbons wrapped around tables and decorating the hall. At each of these, I glanced briefly and hurried past, feeling somewhat alienated by my surroundings and the acknowledgement of my inability to communicate and achieve a deeper understanding with these people.
I`m sitting in the central plaza of my new home town, chiapa de Corzo at some indiscriminate time in the morning, all the clocks here either seem to be broken or defining their own unique time zone. It`s a warm cloudless morning, and groups of Mexican tourists and locals drift by as a steady stream of traffic circumnavigates the square while I sit in the shade of one of the many trees dotted around the plaza.
We cut a right off the highway and with a verbal flourish Enrique pronounced "Welcome to Chiapa de Corzo!". The first thing that struck me about the town as we drove through it was the colour. CDC is a colonial settlement about 500 years old, and viewed as a rather special item in Mexico`s cultural portfolio so the residents seem to have made efforts to present the town well; residential houses dotted around the narrow streets through which we drove were painted in a wide range of vibrant colours which, despite a seemingly callous disregard for the laws of palette matching, combined to create a wonderful spectacle.
With my head spinning with the orientation and sights of the (admittedly rather small) town, I was almost slightly relieved when I was dropped off at the family house and introduced, over the course of a couple of hours and a variety of locations about town the the entirety of my host family; Padre Javier, Madre Toni, brother and sisters Javier Jr, Toni Jr (easy enough) and Andrea and Dolly the Dog, one and a half years old and in possession of a rather unfortunate combination of a dislike of strangers and an astounding capacity for forgetfulness. Since my arrival they have all been incredibly welcoming, giving their food to me at the dinner table on my first rather jet lagged day instead of unleashing me into the community to find something and, despite an obvious aptitude for English tenaciously persist in speaking to me in Spanish; presumably a frustrating exercise as my contribution to these conversations is rusty and limited at best and seems to revolve around the verbs "to be" and "to have"...
