Chiapas Summer

I was prepared for the absolute worst conditions: medicines, a small supply of food, purified water and a last minute addition--the "wedding ring" to feign I was married and not an eligible, single, foreigner. I was sufficiently scared by my friends' skeptical glances and explicit State Department warnings. On June 15, in Logan Airport, all I essentially knew about my plans for the following six weeks was that I was going to do thesis fieldwork in a small city called Comitan, in Chiapas, Mexico. The details of how I was going to reach Comitan, what exactly I was researching, and most importantly, what it was like there, were up in the air.

By asking for advice from taxi drivers, hotel clerks and a few fellow travelers, I directed myself through the two day journey to Comitan. The three plane flights and four hour bus ride transplanted me into an incredibly foreign environment. I am as far away from the high-powered connection-making summer-after-junior year jobs as you can be. I am seeing how people live in a part of the world that is essentially forgotten. No one hits it big here: the people don't discover cures, write amazing novels, or work 100-hour weeks.

The vast majority of the population of Chiapas lives in the countryside--many in dirt-floor houses, without electricity and running water. According to a recent statistic, over 60 percent of households still cook with wood--resulting in a high incidence of respiratory illnesses. But I am lucky. I am staying in a house with a stove and a refrigerator and (at times) hot water. (The water company distributes its goods in a Kafkaesque manner; when the tanks are dry--which happened for a span of four days during my stay--the community resorts to using buckets.)

People shop daily at an indoor market in the center of town. Amidst the whirl of reeling flies and screaming children, individuals bargain for just-killed, unplucked chickens and freshly-baked pan dulce (sweet bread) and giant bags of beans. Young street boys who want to sell you candy or shine your shoes approach you continuously. You see indigenous women dragging overflowing bundles of produce, while they have babies strapped to their chest and suckling at the breast.

Everyday, at 2 p.m., the entire city essentially shuts down. People walk home from work to eat the comida (lunch) and take a siesta. Although they return to work at "4 o'clock," this is Mexican time--so you must add at least 30 minutes.

Comitan doesn't attract tourists. The flocks of Europeans (there are conspicuously few American sightseers in Chiapas) visit the colonial city of San Cristobal or the ruins at Palenque. They usually just use Comitan as a stop-off point to obtain a Guatemalan visa or to take a colectivo to the Lagunas de Montebello, 52 km away. Thus, my being here has become known throughout town. People are curious as to what brought me to Comitan and want to know about life in the United States and try out the few English words they have learned.

There are ways, however, in which Comitan is like life back home. I exercise daily at a gym; I eat Quaker Instant Oatmeal; I can have my photos developed in an hour; I can check my e-mail daily. American marketing is everywhere. Coca-Cola (a.k.a. "Coca") and Pepsi have made inroads to even the most remote towns--towns which still do not have running water. (I even visited a Mayan village where the bubbly has been incorporated into a sacred healing ceremony.) If you walk through Comitan in the late afternoon, you can hear the loud cheers of the audience on the Mexican version of "The Price is Right." Tommy Hilfiger and Winnie the Pooh and American sports team regalia are popular in the small family-run stores. Their imitations are even more common: Tommy Halfmaker, sneakers with a "half Swoosh;" you name it--it's here.

The extensive presence of machine-gun equipped forces in the center of town certainly reminds me of the recent strife between the Zapatistas and the government. And at times, there are silent protests by supporters of the indigenous minority. Yet, only once in a while can you feel the tension in social discourse. Life has gone on in Comitan, and in fact, I believe it is a far safer city than Cambridge. Alongside the troops, are people playing the marimba and others sipping coffee at a cafe. Right now, the city is gearing up for its ten-day annual festival.

Nevertheless, the deep structures of social inequity persist. One of my first days here, my supervisor at work said to me, "Americans have the time to worry about everyone else. People in Comitan can't be bothered about events happening half-way around the world; they need to worry about themselves." Newspapers covering events beyond the state of Chaipas are scare here. Individuals have to worry about more immediate, personal concerns: clean water, food and some sort of health care. (At 6 a.m., there is a line outside the only hospital in the area.)

What has hit home the most for me was befriending Chelie, a 15-year-old girl who lives in my boarding house. She left school a few years ago to earn money for her family and is up at dawn each day doing domestic chores until late in the evening. As a Harvard student, I complain about excessive homework, the lack of social life at school and what was served in the dining hall for dinner. The disparity between livelihoods is just so unbelievably vast. Who's the adult here? And this week, with this pained awareness of the grave injustices that linger, I am returning home to my own fortuitous life.

Samantha A. Goldstein '00 is a social anthropology concentrator in Dunster House.