Comitan, Exiting Mexico

On The Way To Comitan

It’s a three and a half hour bus ride from Tuxtla to Comitan. Along the way there are numerous military check points staffed by the Mexican “Policia Federal”. The bus is passed by scores of army trucks full of soldiers patrolling the highway as we approach San Cristobal. They are dressed in green military fatigues with shiny new assault rifles swung over their shoulders. These areas are a Zapatista stronghold. The Zapatista are a rural indigenous group who in January 1994 declared war against the “Mexican State”. They are seeking indigenous control over their land and local resources. Armed clashes are temporarily suspended. Currently there is a tense stalemate between the group and the Mexican government. Periodically, I observe soldiers stop cars and trucks, pull the Mayan drivers and passengers out, and interrogate them, as other soldiers search their vehicles.

Zapatista supporters

The landscape is rolling hills and steep mountains covered with a dense forest of pine trees, thick jungle shrubs and overgrown grasses. There are occasional clusters of homes with corrugated tin and tile roofs. They look like basic dwellings, many in need of a fresh coat of paint. I see most of these homes have outhouses for toilets. Mayan people are walking with machetes on the side of the road. They are bent over and look tired, probably from laboring all day in the fields or clearing jungle.  They look downward to where they’re stepping to avoid rain and mud puddles. It’s lightly raining and I smell the sweet odor of pine trees, smoke from burning pinewood, wet mud, and bus exhaust. 

Zapatista country

Land and resources in dispute

Homes in the rural countryside

Modest dwellings

Rich productive farmland worth fighting for?

I meet Jairo on the bus, sitting on the seat next to me. He is a college student from Comitan and studies business administration in Tuxtla. He is going home for a short vacation during a break from classes. He’s twenty years old, a couple of inches shorter than me, light skin color, handsome with curly medium length light brown hair. He looks very different from the Mayan features shared by most of the people on the bus. He’s dressed in blue jeans and a maroon pullover cotton shirt. He enjoys his studies and is doing business math homework as we travel. 

When Jairo finishes his assignments, I strike up a conversation with him. I asked him what he thinks about the Zapatista. Before he answers, he looks over his shoulder at the other passengers on the bus. He lowers his voice. He talks softly and tells me, “I don’t want to talk about the Zapatista. They’re all corrupt. They are just after what is best for themselves. I don’t vote, never will. They’re all alike. All politicians, leaders, and so called revolutionaries are corrupt. There will always be corruption in Mexico. It will never change.” He says he would like to go to the United States and work, but would have to do it illegally, and it’s very dangerous. He’s seen on television abuses and death that immigrants face when crossing illegally into the United States. After his studies, he hopes to get a job in a big city like Tuxtla with an established company. Maybe a US company because “they pay better and usually have superior working conditions.” 

Will it ever be distributed equitably, or 

"They're all corrupt . . . It will never change."

Jairo asks if I have a hotel reservation or know my way around Comitan. I tell him I’ve never been there, don’t have a reservation, and am hoping to find an inexpensive hotel for the night. He tells me that currently schools are on a brief vacation and many people are traveling. It may be difficult to get a hotel room and offers his parent’s couch for the night, if I’m unable to find a room. He says at least he can help me negotiate my way to the central plaza area where the hotels are located. I thank him and take him up on his offer.

When we arrive in Comitan, Jairo’s girlfriend is waiting for him in the bus station with a loving embrace and a passionate kiss. I feel a little awkward and embarrassed with this public show of affection. When we go outside the bus station, the girlfriend’s mother, father, and older sister are waiting. They all have strong facial and physical Mayan characteristics. They do not seem happy to see Jairo. I sense tension between Jairo and the young woman’s family. I ask Jairo about this observation and if it’s on my account. He laughs and says no, that he’s been “living” with his girlfriend for a couple of years, is not married to her, and that “there’s family problems that he can’t discuss”. He insists on escorting me to the central plaza and help me find a hotel room. Both he and his girlfriend lead the way walking, and I follow. The rest of the family goes in the other direction.

We walked for about twenty minutes. It was a longer walk then I wanted to take. When I asked how much longer and should we take a taxi, Jairo insists that the hotels are close by, “look see the yellow church over there on the hill, that’s where the plaza and the hotels are located”. With a thirty pound backpack and another six to eight pounds in my messenger bag, it taxed me. If alone, I would have taken a taxi. I don’t want to insult or seem like an ungrateful guest. If there are no rooms available, I want to at least have the option of sleeping on Jairo’s couch. After another fifteen minutes hiking uphill, we arrive at the Hotel Delfin (less than $28 dollars a night), situated on the side of the central plaza. The room is clean, safe, with a wireless internet connection. I’m not carrying the backpack another step. I take the room. I thank Jairo and his girlfriend for their help. We exchange e-mail addresses, say good-bye, and they leave holding hands. After removing the backpack, I collapse on the bed fully clothed.

We're in the plaza of Comitan, I can see the yellow church

Following a brief siesta I’m refreshed and ready for a meal. It’s starting to rain heavily with large raindrops coming down in waves, so I hurry across the plaza to the “Pollos y Antojitos del Centro” restaurant. Since chicken (pollos) is in the name, I order half of a roasted chicken, served with beans, rice, a mild red salsa, and homemade, thick corn tortillas. It is tasty and the salsa adds just enough spice to remind me we’re in Mexico. The delicious tortillas are fresh, warm, hearty, and make me think of my mother’s homemade tortillas I grew up eating in New Mexico.

Two sides of the restaurant are open to the street and I watch people coming and going. Most people look Mayan. They’re under or around five feet tall. To me they look like miniature people. Proportioned correctly, compared to me, but in a smaller package, very stocky, built with big, strong muscles. Many have flat, broad noses. A few posses long, eagle like noses. Most have dark skin, large calf muscles, short limbs, broad shoulders, and both men and women have wide chests.

View from restaurant with two open sides to let the public look in

and me look out at life in Comitan

When I finish my meal, a Mayan looking man of about thirty years old comes in with his eight year old daughter. He’s hold her hand and in his other hand has a plastic grocery bag with a bottle of orange soda sticking out. It looks like they just came from a super mercado (grocery store). He orders a whole roasted chicken to go. As he’s waiting he notices me looking at him. I look different from everyone else and stand out because of my height. He comes over to my table, asks where I’m from and welcomes me to Comitan. He wishes me an enjoyable visit and says he’s happy I’m visiting his town. With a dignified, noble attitude he proclaims, “I’m Mayan”. I respond with a “gracias” (thank you). He smiles, begs his pardon, pays for and picks up his chicken, and off he and daughter go. He wasn’t trying to sell me anything or ask me for any favors or money. He just wanted to welcome me to his town that he obviously is proud of.

There’s a television on in the restaurant showing a Mexican telenovela (soap opera). Everyone in the restaurant is mesmerized by the show. Even the workers are watching with avid interest. People (men, women, children) walking by the restaurant, stop, are captivated by the show, watch a while until a commercial comes on, then move away. The story is about infidelity, a presumed dead male spouse who miraculous returns from being lost and missing, and questions of child paternity. Like most “soaps” it’s melodramatic, over acted with exaggerated facial and body expressions. Mexicans in Comitan love and enjoy this stuff. While everyone around me is Mayan looking, all the actors on the show are light skin, some with blond hair, attractive facial and body features by US standards. They look very different from the people in the restaurant. The show features modern furniture, new American cars, modern homes, and fashionable clothes. This must all be very foreign to the residents of Comitan. But, they just can’t turn away.

The rain is still coming down, but not as heavy as before. There’s a cold breeze, the first since leaving Creel in the Sierra Madre Mountains. I’m a little cold. I’m going to run back to the hotel, after I leave the waitress a big tip. The dinner with it’s enormous portions and tasty food, including a freshly squeezed orange juice only costs me five dollars. I leave her a 50% tip ($2.50). A large smile comes across her face. She graciously thanks me, calls me a “cultured gentleman”. Given the inexpensive fulfilling meal, inviting atmosphere, her kindness, I feel I received the better deal. I’m off on a run through the rain.

The next morning I return and have a huevos rancheros for breakfast -- excellent. I walk around the plaza before getting ready to catch a local “collectivo’ (mini-van) to the Guatemala border. The colonial plaza is shady, quiet, and well maintained. I see no trash on the walkways. On one side there are vendor booths selling locally made handicrafts like jewelry, reproduction Mayan artifacts made of stone, plaster, wood, and handwoven textiles and garments. A marimba band composed of elderly men are setting up to play in front of the church. A very relaxing, safe place. I’ll have to come back and spend more time in Comitan.

Huevos rancheros: inexpensive, wonderful flavors,

highly recommended

Comitan central plaza

Next morning waking up in a quite little town

Very clean and safe

Colorful and welcoming

Well maintained Comitan

How Pigeons Treat Each Other 

(US & Mexico relations)

Today is my last day in Mexico. Later this morning I cross the border into Guatemala to continue on my quest south to the end of the Americas. Yesterday at the Plaza Central in Tuxtla Gutierrez, I observed a flock of pigeons eating crumbs left by people passing by. Two birds stood out from the flock because of their behavior towards each other.

One pigeon looked robust, oversized with full clean feathers, large breast, and standing inches above others in the flock. He appeared to be the strongest, certainly the powerful leader. He strutted his gray chest and underbelly on long red legs, charcoal color on his head and back, with iridescent green, pink, and streaks of white feathers. He looked well feed, healthy, confident, and in command.

The second bird was undersized, compared to the general population. Next to the leader pigeon, it was significantly smaller. In the middle of its back it was missing plumage, and a three inch hole of raw skin was exposed and was oozing light red blood. It’s remaining feathers were a dull gray color, with ragged edges. It looked hungry, even though there were plenty of crumbs on the cobble stone walkway. I was eating a “pina empananda” (flaky crust pineapple turnover), and feeling sorry for the bird, tossed a piece of the crust for it to eat. 

Immediately, the leader bird skipped over and peaked the smaller bird on its open wound on its back. It chased the littler bird away from the crumb. The bigger bird snagged the piece of crust and devoured it. The smaller pigeon chirped in distress, missed the meal, and look to me for help. I attempted to shoo away the “super bird” to no avail. It was not afraid of me. It was confident in its power, authority, and place in the world. He went back to peaking on the smaller bird. The small pigeon ran away, not flew away, with the bigger bird chasing it and peaking its wound. I lost sight of the two and their struggles, knowing that there is no changing their behavior.

I was left sad, a little angry, and disappointed. Of course this is the state of the natural world. No subjective judgements or illusions that external intervention could change the dynamics of the struggle of existence, only adherence to genetic memory past from generation to generation. These birds are of the same species. They are of the same family, only one is strong, the other weak. They can’t change their predicament, positions, their preprogrammed, instinctual responses. 

Will the US and Mexico ever change their past and current relationship? It’s dynamics? Is peaking and being peaked always going to characterize their interactions? Can human populations and societies move beyond following the nonjudgmental natural world’s example? Is a superpower inevitably going to demand subordination, fear, and adherence to its rule from the rest of the flock? Only time will tell, and time is running short.

I hear the swoop of pigeons above and look up as the sky darkens from the flock flying overhead, blocking out the sunlight . . . .