On the other side of the sun

June 22, 2017

Elena Huegel

San Cristóbal de las Casas

México

The Other Side of the Sun

            I had spent the day thinking about the back and forth flow of migrants through this historic city known to this day by the Mayan Tseltal and Tsotsil people as "Jovel" or "Jobel"  (The Valley of Tall Grass) and registered on maps as San Cristobal de las Casas.  Each new wave of residents over the centuries has renamed the city. 

            The Mexicas, natives from Central Mexico, called it "Hueyzacatlán" ("Beside the Tall Grass" in Náhuatl) while the Spaniards, who took the valley away from the Tsotsiles, named it "Villa Real de Chiapa" (Royal Village of Chiapa) after the indigenous Chiapan  people who preferred to jump off a cliff rather than submit to the conquistadores.

            Colloquially, the city was called, "Chiapa of the Spaniards" while the nearest town down from the lush, cool, mountains and in the sweltering lowlands where there were large plantations was called "Chiapa of the Indians."

             Those who can claim Spanish heritage in this city are still part of the inner power circle and call themselves "los auténticos coletos" (the authentic pony tails - after the male fashion of long, tied back, hair in colonial times.)

             I don´t know why in the year 1529, the city was renamed "Vicious City" or "City of Vices," but I can imagine... 

            In 1531, it was decided, understandably, to change the name again to San Cristóbal de los Llanos (plains) after the patron saint of the town. 

            The name was changed again to the "Royal City of Chiapa", then to the "City of San Cristobal."  This name was then modified to "San Cristobal de las Casas" after Friar Bartolomé de las Casas, who was "converted" by the cruelty he saw during the conquest and so became a defender of the rights of the original peoples and one time Bishop of Chiapas.

            Again the name was changed to "Ciudad de las Casas" and eventually back to "San Cristobal de las Casas," the name that remains to date.

            For nearly five hundred years, people have come and gone from San Cris, as the tourists fondly call it today, migrating in and out for different reasons.  On any given day, as I walk down the main street, closed to vehicular traffic, I can hear people speaking Tsotsil, Tseltal, German, Italian, French, English, Chinese, and a wide variety of accents from the different Spanish speaking countries. Some are permanent residents while others are tourists or merchants who come into the city to sell their wares. There are people from Guatemala, el Salvador, Honduras, Cuba and other Caribbean and Central and South American countries making their way north, through Mexico, in what is considered the most dangerous leg of their painstakingly slow journey to the United States.  Now a days, the flow is reversing, and people either forced or choosing to leave the United States are seeking more favorable living conditions in Mexico. Some are settling in San Cristobal while others are  trying to return to what used to be home in countries further south.

            After I had spent a morning last week writing materials on dignity for the local migrant shelter, I walked down the pedestrian street on the way to my Tseltal language and culture class.   First I came across a little boy, maybe 5 or 6 years old, sitting in front of an outdoor cafe on top of  a large cardboard box wrapped in newspaper, a folded piece of paper with a couple of coins on it laying on the pavement in front of him.  With great vigor and showmanship, he was wailing out a song and banging on the box as if were a drum.  His mother, with the dress of a woman from one of the Tsotsil communities, was selling crafts nearby.  Some of the patrons of the café were smiling; some dropped another couple of coins on the paper.  What he lacked in musical ability, he certainly made up for with serious dedication in helping to earn a living for his family.

            Along the next block, I came across another singer.  This young man with his unmistakable Argentine accent, was singing "The Other Side of the Sun" by Albert Louis Hammond and Janis Ian in a beautiful "folksy" voice while skillfully playing the guitar.  Sitting next to him  on the curb and singing along in a wide variety of keys and rhythms was a very intoxicated man, toothless and in tattered clothes.  The Argentine was not in the least bit fazed by the discordant accompaniment.  He smiled at the man beside him, swaying in sync to the music, and then in an instant, smiled up at me, locking his gaze with mine as if to say "I honor this man´s dignity as well as yours."  

            I stopped and listened to the words and was reminded that in one way or another we are all pilgrims on the path, migrants trying to find a way home, through the tall grass, and back from the other side of the sun.

            Even as I'm leaving I'll never stop believing you are the one
            Who can make me laugh and can bring me back
            From beyond the other side of the sun,
            Beyond the other side of the sun.

Tsajtayamel jbeel - Take care of yourself  your path.  (Tseltal good-bye)

Elena