We were taken to a second nearby Tztozil community… the village of Zinacantan just over the hills. We stopped at the house of a family of weavers… observed their bold and colourful wares. Weaving is an ancient art and has served as a vehicle for religious ideas from pre-hispanic times (through the repressive colonial and upto the present). Woven artifacts are laden with symbolic representations… patterns that depict myths, stories and prayers. The process of weaving itself has specific denotations… pace and rhythm for example, define aspects of the end product. We examined the wares and took a gulp of cinnamon laced moonshine… a tortilla with crushed pumpkin seeds. Then we all headed to the main plaza. Zinacantan was deep in festivity also… the square consumed by carnival… a plethora of costumes and numerous comatose participants. The general attire of the population is embroidered cloth of swirling dark blue, deep turquoise and black. Elders wear a grey piratical scarf. As we entered the square we were immediately offered a coke bottle full of liquor… the man had bloodshot eyes… it would have been impolite to refuse… so we all had a swig and continued. The ritual costumes were bizarre… men with painted black faces, others with enormous trailing wigs of moss. One man was dressed as a jaguar… his job was to climb a stark orange tree while people tossed ‘squirrels’ into his knapsack. Another was dressed as a bird with a cob of maize stuck in its beak. We continued on and filed into the church. The affair was more low key than Chamula… Catholic yet distinctly Pagan in slant. The altar was supremely decorated with an immense arrangement of flowers. A group of men were in the process of raising a beam to the ceiling… it was lavishly adorned with bananas… lush tropical vegetation. Attendants sat in groups praying… or else dancing with simple sidewards sways… left to right, right to left……
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