The streets rose and fell with gentle rolls... slanted red tile roofs above the narrow pavements... green mountains all around... the cloud flowed through... cool, clear, highland light... atmosphere a few degrees more sinister. A dark politic forms the foundations of the city. 500 years of segregation, corruption, violence... the extent of it nowhere more harsh than in Chiapas... the Indigenous spat on, shat on, fucked over for the dollar, for colour, for labour, land and power. Spanish dominance gave way to Criollo dominance, Criollo oppression to Mestizo masters... the culture of dominance remains strong. Hope came from the Zapatista rebels... a band of indigenous and subversive soliders, terrorists, freedom fighters... they dwell in camps around the Chiapas countryside. In 1994 they staged a failed revolution... took San Cristobal and others by force. They were driven out and their supporters liquidated... an army presence installed in the state... pro-government counterinsurgency groups established along with a facade of diplomatic negotiation. Reforms promised years ago have never arrived. The revolution was successful in as far as national and international attention has been drawn to the Mayan plight... since 1994 they've gained a modicum of respect. All along the streets of San Cristobal the native women sell their crafts... brightly coloured straps, belts, cloths... little Zapatista dolls with little guns and woollen balaclavas. In the shops... T-shirts bear the image of their leader... Subcommandante Marcos. It must annoy the powers that be.
In and around the narrow streets... great churches and cathedrals rise up with immense and ornate facades... tributes to the days of colonial elegance and 'splendour'...