Mmmmm, mangos!
Carol
Chris's Diary from Mexico - updated April 24
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Jerry Freeman
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AnnaDMartinez
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- Tell us something.: Good to be home, many changes here, but C&F is still my home! I think about the "old" bunch here and hold you all in the light, I am so lucky to have you all in my life!
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ChrisLaughlin
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Hey there friends -
It's been a long time since I've updated you about my life in Mexico, so
here goes, a report about Holy Week in San Cristobal de Las Casas.
There's no way I can tell you about all of it, so a little will have to
suffice. All Easter Week was wild. The city was packed with people, the
churches were open all the time, singing and praying could be heard on
the street, fireworks went off all night long every night...
On Friday, in San Cristobal, the Romans crucified Jesus. At 11 in the
morning half the city met in a plaza in front of a church to see Jesus
condemned to death. There were men dressed as Romans; men, women and
children dressed as Jews; two other condemned men in cages. Jesus was the
spitting image. The entire affair was expertly orchestrated with fine
actors, music, brilliant costumes, a narrator... amazing.
After receiving his sentence, Jesus was given his crown of thorns and an
enormous wooden cross that must have weighed at least 200 lbs. Then,
marched through the street by Romans on horseback and on foot, two
jailers, who whipped him as he went, and thousands of people, dressed as
Romans, Jews, Mexicans and tourists, Jesus carried his cross through the
town. For four hours, in blazing sun and humidity, Jesus dragged his
cross through the streets, perspiration running from his face down his
entire body. Many times he almost fainted and the Red Cross, whom were
fortunately on the scene to help him out (had only they been there when
he was really killed), ran to give him water and wipe the sweat from his
brow. This was the first year in town memory that Jesus didn't faint and
collapse while dragging his cross.
At three a clock in the afternoon, having dragged his cross in a huge
circle through the city, Jesus arrived at the site where he would be
crucified. Accompanied by guards and surrounded by a loud, eager and
impatient throng of spectators - Romans, Jews, Mexicans and tourists
alike... Jesus and the two criminals were tied to crosses and crucified.
No, there were no nails. Yes, there was a little blood. It was intense.
It was loud. It was hot. It was emotional. Never have I seen someone go
through something so close to an actual crucifiction. Seeing it drove the
point home, so to the speak... Jesus was tortured over the course of an
entire day, had enormous nails driven through his limbs, hung up on a
cross to bleed to death, speared though he couldn't defend himself,
mocked and spat at. He died a slow, horrible, torturous death. We still
haven't learned much.
That evening we went to the Zocalo, the Spanish name for the main city
square. Their, as every year, were hanging 15 effigies, representative of
Judas, that were to be burned amongst much fanfare. Out of 15, 9 had the
face of Bush. Here, in Mexico and in San Cristobal, Bush has fated
himself to be the most hated man in the world - more than Saddam, more
than Osama bin Laden, more than Judas. Bush's face became the focus of
everything wrong in the world. One giant paper mache effige depicted Bush
as a giant, baby-eating spider, with glowing red eyes and fangs, the body
of a spider, but Bush's face. In his mouth and claws were dismembered and
bleeding babies. Hands and faces of those trying to escape slow and
torturous digestion pushed their way out of his belly, grasping for
freedom and screaming in pain and suffering. This is, without question, a
very, very real image of how the people I've met here think of him and
his actions.
When the sun went down and thousands upon thousands of people thronged
around the effigies, hanging in a long line in the center of the crowd,
cheering, jeering and booing, calling for their destruction, a fireman
came out and the first, a devil holding a bottle of oil and a decapitated
baby, was lit on fire. The crowd went wild. Sparks, fire and ash flew
everywhere, landing in the crowd, blowing onto buildings, as the devil
himself was consumed by his own fire. After a moment or so of raging
fire, the devil began to explode from the inside, stuffed with fireworks,
which shot every which way, narrowly missing those in the crowd, who were
only fifteen feet away at the closest point. The fire, nearly out of
control, blew to the next effigy, and like that, one by one, they burst
into roaring flame, consumed in heat and the anger of the fire. With each
one the crowd went wild once again, but the greatest cheers, the greatest
boos, the greatest excitement was saved for Bush, the child eating
spider. When the giant spider went up in flames and subsequently blew
into a million flaming pieces, the crowd could hardly contain it's own
energy. We'd all been waiting to see that moment for years! That night
was, without question, one of the wildest, most instense things I've seen
in my entire life. I know I will never forget it.
Sunday, Easter, we went to the bullfight. I went with my host-family, and
three American friends, one a vegitarian. We didn't know what to expect.
We were almost sure we'd be disgusted, but we knew it was our one chance
and that we should see it. So we went.
We got there at 3 and found seats in the crowded stands. In the blazing
sun we sat for two hours, waiting for the fight, while a mariachi band
blared Mexican music, vendors hawked tortas, beer, popcorn and potato
chips (the chips were being sold at 15 time their street price), and the
excitement grew and grew. At five o'clock sharp a bugle blew and the
matadors took to the ring. Dressed in tight, gaudy clothes, with black
hats and gaudy pink capes, the matadors strutted around the ring waving
and preening themselves to the cheers of the crowd. After a minute or
two, all but four left the field, the bugle was blown again and the bull
caming roaring in.
A bullfight is difficult to describe. First, you must know that the crowd
does not want to see blood... the less the better. They want to see a
dance, an act, a graceful, if devestating, battle of wills. They want the
bull to win. If a lot of blood is spilled unnecessarily, or even
necessarily, the crowd will boo, throw trash and make fun of whoever is
responsible. So, when the bull is let onto the field, maddened by a hard
poke to his rear as he's let out of his pen, he charges after the first
pink cape he sees. The matadors take turns taunting him, getting him to
charge around the field in a counterclockwise circle until he is angry as
can be and frothing at the mouth. After maybe five minutes of this two
men ride in on horses. Their job is the worst, and I'm not quite sure why
anyone would do it, since they are almost always booed off the field. The
men carry long spears and their horses are blindfolded (so they won't
bolt when they see the bull) and protected with an enormous suit of
padding/armor. One of them, I don't know how they choose whom, attracts
the bull, who charges at him. The man with the spear lowers his spear and
plunges it into the bull, right inbetween his shoulder-blades. The crowd
wants to see a clean strike and withdrawal of the spear, but it rarely
works that way because the bull usually continues to try to gore the
horse and the man with the spear is forced to spear the bull several
times, until the bull turns away and the man is able to exit the ring
with his horse. It is at this point that the most blood spills. Blood
gurgles up and gushes out of the bull's wound, sometimes flowing in
spouts. Again, the less blood the better, and if the bull bleeds a lot
the crowd gets angry. Four out of the five fights the spearman was booed
off the field and had trash thrown at him.
Let me explain why the bull is speared between the shoulder blades. There
are two important reasons. First, the bull is stronger, faster and
fiercer than anyone in the ring, man or animal, and without weakening the
bull, the matadors would end up dead. Second, the fight is meant to be
humane, at least somewhat. The point of spearing between the shoulder
blades is to gradually weaken the front legs, so that instead of having
to slowly bleed to death, the bull's front legs will eventually collapse,
at which point he will be killed quickly and mercifully, with a minimum
of suffering. So, back to the fight.
After the bull has been speared, a matador comes into the ring carrying
two spikes, probably as long as an arm, decorated in ribbons. The
matador, after dancing (it really does look like dancing) with the bull
for a time, approaches the bull face to face and, in a split second,
jumps up, forwards and backwards in one graceful move, stabbing the two
stakes into the same spot, just between the shoulder-blades, where the
bull was speared. I can't emphasize enough what an act of grace and
courage this is. It would be so easy for the bull to charge and gore the
matador, and in fact, in one case he did. The matador was an older
matador, a former champion and a crowd favorite. He moved slowly and with
a little limp, but it was clear he knew what he was doing and had seen
many years of glory as a matador. Just as he lept to drive the spikes
into the bull's spine the bull charged, catching him in the air with his
forehead, tossing him in the air and hitting him once more before
throwing him to the ground and charging forwards to trample him. Thanks
to the quick work of the other matadors, the bull's attention was
diverted and the matador narrowly avoided near certain death. He lay
there on the ground, on his back, not moving. Nobody knew whether he was
alive or not, seriously injured or allright. Slowly, after what seemed
like an eternity of silence, he lifted himself off the ground and rose to
his feet. The crowd went wild, cheering, whistling, throwing flowers and
hats. The band played a triumphant tune. The matadors ran to support the
matador. Smiling, waving, limping and clutching at what were almost
certainly broken ribs, he walked around the ring to the adoration of the
crowd. He, and that bull, were the heroes of that day. When the bull was
finally killed, he was given it's tail and both ears as a reminder of
that fight.
So, back to the course of a fight. After the four spikes are driven into
the bull's back, the main matador of that fight comes out with his sword
and cape, strutting and smiling, to the great enjoyment of the crowd. For
the next ten or so minutes he proceeds to, quite literally, dance with
the bull. The stand face to face, challenging eachother. The matador
waves his flag to anger the bull, he turns his back to the bull, walk on
his knees, stares it down, until eventually, enraged, the bull charges
and the matador, gracefully, much like a ballet dancer or a football
player, steps aside with a swish of his cape, to the applause of the
crowd.
Finally, after putting on a show, the time comes to kill the bull. The
matador draws his sword and approaches the bull, staring him in the eye,
pointing his sword at his target, and with a daring and graceful leap, he
plunges the blade to it's hilt inbetween the bull's shoulders. If the
blade goes all the way in and stays the crowd applauds. If the blade goes
only part way in, or falls out, the crowd boos. Within moments the bull's
front legs fail and he falls down, at which point another man comes up
behind the bulls with a dagger and stabs it into the back of the bull's
brain, killing him instantly. But sometimes it doesn't work as planned.
The final battle was between the best bullfighter - a graceful, cocky,
preening and absolutely wonderful fighter - a brilliant performer - and
the best bull - huge, angry, loud, tough and energetic. The matador,
gracefully, drove his sword to the hilt in the bull's back, but the bull
wouldn't die. He stood, staring down the matador. He wouldn't die, but he
wouldn't fight either. Nobody knew what to do. The matadors didn't know
what to do. The crowd didn't know. The band didn't know. The bull didn't
know. Finally, after probably five minutes, the bull lay down, presumably
to die. But it didn't die. It just layed there, staring at the matador.
Now what? The matador couldn't drive another sword into him while he lay
there. There was no courage in that. All they could do was wait. Two of
the matadors decided to try to get the bull to get up and continue
fighting, so they waved their capes at him for several minutes, until he
got up. But still he wouldn't fight. How was it that this bull wasn't
dead? Eventually, the bull decided to fight once more. He faced the
matador, loud out a mighty bellow and charged. The matador leapt and
drove his other sword clean into the bull. The bull fell dead on the spot
and the crowd went wild.
What a crazy, crazy day. After six bulls in 2 hours we left, blood
pumping, excited, elated, confused, angry, happy.... we didn't really
know how we felt, but we knew we felt, intensely, the adrenaline pumping
through our bodies and the blood pumping through our veins. We left not
knowing what we thought of the whole spectacle, but all of us, even the
vegetarian, were happy we went. I'm going again this weekend, with my guy
friends, to see one of Spain's best bullfighters and the best fighter in
all of Mexico go up against the best bulls Mexico has to offer. It will
be intense.
Your pal,
Chris
_________________________________
It's been a long time since I've updated you about my life in Mexico, so
here goes, a report about Holy Week in San Cristobal de Las Casas.
There's no way I can tell you about all of it, so a little will have to
suffice. All Easter Week was wild. The city was packed with people, the
churches were open all the time, singing and praying could be heard on
the street, fireworks went off all night long every night...
On Friday, in San Cristobal, the Romans crucified Jesus. At 11 in the
morning half the city met in a plaza in front of a church to see Jesus
condemned to death. There were men dressed as Romans; men, women and
children dressed as Jews; two other condemned men in cages. Jesus was the
spitting image. The entire affair was expertly orchestrated with fine
actors, music, brilliant costumes, a narrator... amazing.
After receiving his sentence, Jesus was given his crown of thorns and an
enormous wooden cross that must have weighed at least 200 lbs. Then,
marched through the street by Romans on horseback and on foot, two
jailers, who whipped him as he went, and thousands of people, dressed as
Romans, Jews, Mexicans and tourists, Jesus carried his cross through the
town. For four hours, in blazing sun and humidity, Jesus dragged his
cross through the streets, perspiration running from his face down his
entire body. Many times he almost fainted and the Red Cross, whom were
fortunately on the scene to help him out (had only they been there when
he was really killed), ran to give him water and wipe the sweat from his
brow. This was the first year in town memory that Jesus didn't faint and
collapse while dragging his cross.
At three a clock in the afternoon, having dragged his cross in a huge
circle through the city, Jesus arrived at the site where he would be
crucified. Accompanied by guards and surrounded by a loud, eager and
impatient throng of spectators - Romans, Jews, Mexicans and tourists
alike... Jesus and the two criminals were tied to crosses and crucified.
No, there were no nails. Yes, there was a little blood. It was intense.
It was loud. It was hot. It was emotional. Never have I seen someone go
through something so close to an actual crucifiction. Seeing it drove the
point home, so to the speak... Jesus was tortured over the course of an
entire day, had enormous nails driven through his limbs, hung up on a
cross to bleed to death, speared though he couldn't defend himself,
mocked and spat at. He died a slow, horrible, torturous death. We still
haven't learned much.
That evening we went to the Zocalo, the Spanish name for the main city
square. Their, as every year, were hanging 15 effigies, representative of
Judas, that were to be burned amongst much fanfare. Out of 15, 9 had the
face of Bush. Here, in Mexico and in San Cristobal, Bush has fated
himself to be the most hated man in the world - more than Saddam, more
than Osama bin Laden, more than Judas. Bush's face became the focus of
everything wrong in the world. One giant paper mache effige depicted Bush
as a giant, baby-eating spider, with glowing red eyes and fangs, the body
of a spider, but Bush's face. In his mouth and claws were dismembered and
bleeding babies. Hands and faces of those trying to escape slow and
torturous digestion pushed their way out of his belly, grasping for
freedom and screaming in pain and suffering. This is, without question, a
very, very real image of how the people I've met here think of him and
his actions.
When the sun went down and thousands upon thousands of people thronged
around the effigies, hanging in a long line in the center of the crowd,
cheering, jeering and booing, calling for their destruction, a fireman
came out and the first, a devil holding a bottle of oil and a decapitated
baby, was lit on fire. The crowd went wild. Sparks, fire and ash flew
everywhere, landing in the crowd, blowing onto buildings, as the devil
himself was consumed by his own fire. After a moment or so of raging
fire, the devil began to explode from the inside, stuffed with fireworks,
which shot every which way, narrowly missing those in the crowd, who were
only fifteen feet away at the closest point. The fire, nearly out of
control, blew to the next effigy, and like that, one by one, they burst
into roaring flame, consumed in heat and the anger of the fire. With each
one the crowd went wild once again, but the greatest cheers, the greatest
boos, the greatest excitement was saved for Bush, the child eating
spider. When the giant spider went up in flames and subsequently blew
into a million flaming pieces, the crowd could hardly contain it's own
energy. We'd all been waiting to see that moment for years! That night
was, without question, one of the wildest, most instense things I've seen
in my entire life. I know I will never forget it.
Sunday, Easter, we went to the bullfight. I went with my host-family, and
three American friends, one a vegitarian. We didn't know what to expect.
We were almost sure we'd be disgusted, but we knew it was our one chance
and that we should see it. So we went.
We got there at 3 and found seats in the crowded stands. In the blazing
sun we sat for two hours, waiting for the fight, while a mariachi band
blared Mexican music, vendors hawked tortas, beer, popcorn and potato
chips (the chips were being sold at 15 time their street price), and the
excitement grew and grew. At five o'clock sharp a bugle blew and the
matadors took to the ring. Dressed in tight, gaudy clothes, with black
hats and gaudy pink capes, the matadors strutted around the ring waving
and preening themselves to the cheers of the crowd. After a minute or
two, all but four left the field, the bugle was blown again and the bull
caming roaring in.
A bullfight is difficult to describe. First, you must know that the crowd
does not want to see blood... the less the better. They want to see a
dance, an act, a graceful, if devestating, battle of wills. They want the
bull to win. If a lot of blood is spilled unnecessarily, or even
necessarily, the crowd will boo, throw trash and make fun of whoever is
responsible. So, when the bull is let onto the field, maddened by a hard
poke to his rear as he's let out of his pen, he charges after the first
pink cape he sees. The matadors take turns taunting him, getting him to
charge around the field in a counterclockwise circle until he is angry as
can be and frothing at the mouth. After maybe five minutes of this two
men ride in on horses. Their job is the worst, and I'm not quite sure why
anyone would do it, since they are almost always booed off the field. The
men carry long spears and their horses are blindfolded (so they won't
bolt when they see the bull) and protected with an enormous suit of
padding/armor. One of them, I don't know how they choose whom, attracts
the bull, who charges at him. The man with the spear lowers his spear and
plunges it into the bull, right inbetween his shoulder-blades. The crowd
wants to see a clean strike and withdrawal of the spear, but it rarely
works that way because the bull usually continues to try to gore the
horse and the man with the spear is forced to spear the bull several
times, until the bull turns away and the man is able to exit the ring
with his horse. It is at this point that the most blood spills. Blood
gurgles up and gushes out of the bull's wound, sometimes flowing in
spouts. Again, the less blood the better, and if the bull bleeds a lot
the crowd gets angry. Four out of the five fights the spearman was booed
off the field and had trash thrown at him.
Let me explain why the bull is speared between the shoulder blades. There
are two important reasons. First, the bull is stronger, faster and
fiercer than anyone in the ring, man or animal, and without weakening the
bull, the matadors would end up dead. Second, the fight is meant to be
humane, at least somewhat. The point of spearing between the shoulder
blades is to gradually weaken the front legs, so that instead of having
to slowly bleed to death, the bull's front legs will eventually collapse,
at which point he will be killed quickly and mercifully, with a minimum
of suffering. So, back to the fight.
After the bull has been speared, a matador comes into the ring carrying
two spikes, probably as long as an arm, decorated in ribbons. The
matador, after dancing (it really does look like dancing) with the bull
for a time, approaches the bull face to face and, in a split second,
jumps up, forwards and backwards in one graceful move, stabbing the two
stakes into the same spot, just between the shoulder-blades, where the
bull was speared. I can't emphasize enough what an act of grace and
courage this is. It would be so easy for the bull to charge and gore the
matador, and in fact, in one case he did. The matador was an older
matador, a former champion and a crowd favorite. He moved slowly and with
a little limp, but it was clear he knew what he was doing and had seen
many years of glory as a matador. Just as he lept to drive the spikes
into the bull's spine the bull charged, catching him in the air with his
forehead, tossing him in the air and hitting him once more before
throwing him to the ground and charging forwards to trample him. Thanks
to the quick work of the other matadors, the bull's attention was
diverted and the matador narrowly avoided near certain death. He lay
there on the ground, on his back, not moving. Nobody knew whether he was
alive or not, seriously injured or allright. Slowly, after what seemed
like an eternity of silence, he lifted himself off the ground and rose to
his feet. The crowd went wild, cheering, whistling, throwing flowers and
hats. The band played a triumphant tune. The matadors ran to support the
matador. Smiling, waving, limping and clutching at what were almost
certainly broken ribs, he walked around the ring to the adoration of the
crowd. He, and that bull, were the heroes of that day. When the bull was
finally killed, he was given it's tail and both ears as a reminder of
that fight.
So, back to the course of a fight. After the four spikes are driven into
the bull's back, the main matador of that fight comes out with his sword
and cape, strutting and smiling, to the great enjoyment of the crowd. For
the next ten or so minutes he proceeds to, quite literally, dance with
the bull. The stand face to face, challenging eachother. The matador
waves his flag to anger the bull, he turns his back to the bull, walk on
his knees, stares it down, until eventually, enraged, the bull charges
and the matador, gracefully, much like a ballet dancer or a football
player, steps aside with a swish of his cape, to the applause of the
crowd.
Finally, after putting on a show, the time comes to kill the bull. The
matador draws his sword and approaches the bull, staring him in the eye,
pointing his sword at his target, and with a daring and graceful leap, he
plunges the blade to it's hilt inbetween the bull's shoulders. If the
blade goes all the way in and stays the crowd applauds. If the blade goes
only part way in, or falls out, the crowd boos. Within moments the bull's
front legs fail and he falls down, at which point another man comes up
behind the bulls with a dagger and stabs it into the back of the bull's
brain, killing him instantly. But sometimes it doesn't work as planned.
The final battle was between the best bullfighter - a graceful, cocky,
preening and absolutely wonderful fighter - a brilliant performer - and
the best bull - huge, angry, loud, tough and energetic. The matador,
gracefully, drove his sword to the hilt in the bull's back, but the bull
wouldn't die. He stood, staring down the matador. He wouldn't die, but he
wouldn't fight either. Nobody knew what to do. The matadors didn't know
what to do. The crowd didn't know. The band didn't know. The bull didn't
know. Finally, after probably five minutes, the bull lay down, presumably
to die. But it didn't die. It just layed there, staring at the matador.
Now what? The matador couldn't drive another sword into him while he lay
there. There was no courage in that. All they could do was wait. Two of
the matadors decided to try to get the bull to get up and continue
fighting, so they waved their capes at him for several minutes, until he
got up. But still he wouldn't fight. How was it that this bull wasn't
dead? Eventually, the bull decided to fight once more. He faced the
matador, loud out a mighty bellow and charged. The matador leapt and
drove his other sword clean into the bull. The bull fell dead on the spot
and the crowd went wild.
What a crazy, crazy day. After six bulls in 2 hours we left, blood
pumping, excited, elated, confused, angry, happy.... we didn't really
know how we felt, but we knew we felt, intensely, the adrenaline pumping
through our bodies and the blood pumping through our veins. We left not
knowing what we thought of the whole spectacle, but all of us, even the
vegetarian, were happy we went. I'm going again this weekend, with my guy
friends, to see one of Spain's best bullfighters and the best fighter in
all of Mexico go up against the best bulls Mexico has to offer. It will
be intense.
Your pal,
Chris
_________________________________
-
ChrisLaughlin
- Posts: 2054
- Joined: Fri Jun 29, 2001 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
-
chattiekathy
- Posts: 793
- Joined: Fri Jul 05, 2002 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Tell us something.: Well dang, I just want to change my password. looking for that correct page! Thank you! Ohh good grief, I get it, you have to be careful who you let in because of spammers, but sigh.... I'm in a hurry, can we move this along please. :)
- Location: South Central PA
It sounds like your having a great adventure down there Chris. 
I am really enjoying reading your diary. Keep updating. I will probably never get to experience this myself so I can experience it vicariously through your adventures.
Cheers,
Kathy
I am really enjoying reading your diary. Keep updating. I will probably never get to experience this myself so I can experience it vicariously through your adventures.
Cheers,
Kathy
~*~Creativity is God's gift to you. What you do with it is your gift to God~*~