We left Xela (the knickname of Quetzaltenango) on Friday afternoon and drove to Chichicastenango. The name means "the place of the chichicasta," which is a very common purple nettle flower in this area. It was another of those winding mountainous drives. "FRG" is spraypainted everywhere along the sides of the roads, on rocks, trees, electricity poles--it is the party of Rios Montt, the military president/dictator during the last years of the Guatemalan civil war. In places, the acronyms and symbols for other political parties are present, but FRG dominates. I would tell you what it stands for, but I don't remember and it's not in my notes...
On Saturday, we visited the rural community of Chontola and met with Pastor Diego of the Methodist church there and the widow's weaving cooperative started by the church. The walk down to the cooperative was on a hard-packed dirt footpath between houses, corn fields, orchards, and avocado trees. Pastor Diego told us about the history of the village and the cooperative-- many people were left homeless after the 1976 earthquake, and during the war the army came through the area and decimated the male indigenous population. The church began providing social assistance for the community and decided the people needed to find a way to support themselves rather than live off of charity, so a group a women got together and started Ruth ãnd Naomi's weaving cooperative in 1986. They now export many of their products to 1,000 Villages, a fair trade store in the U.S.
Saturday afternoon, we had free time in Chichi to explore the town and the pre-market market. Buying anything is usually a dificult process for me, but buying my new shoulder bag was even worse- -it was a difficult decision, and the first time I'd ever had to barter and bargain. That evening, I sat in the garden of a hotel full of blooming flowers with a fountain and listened to live marimba music--the national music of Guatemala. It was very soothing and relaxing after such a mentally taxing day.
Sunday is market day. In the morning, a few of us forged our way through the crowded market streets to the main Catholic church. The steps up to the church were full of people selling flowers, vegetables, and other things, talking, resting, and a little boy who kept tagging along behind us trying to sell us dolls. There were a number of Mayan priests outside the main doors waving inscense and muttering words I could barely hear and couldn't understand. Inside, at the back of the church, there were people kneelng on the floor by slabs of wood or rock with candles on them, and rose petals. The pews were full, and it was pretty dark, although the chancel was glittering white-silver-gold.
We walked through the market for a while, just browsing, but trying not to make very much eye contact with the vendors so as not to draw their attention and have them talk to us. I bought a wooden flute with a quetzal bird carved into it, and then headed to the cemetery and met some friends. The tombs were very colorful and beautiful. All of the cemeteries in Central America are similar, but the one in Chichi is much more pronounced. Walking through a cemetery here is nothing like walking through one in the U.S., which is rather dark, mysterious, somber, and mournful. Here, there is much more of a sense of joy and the celebration of life. I walked through the market on my way back and bought a beautiful skirt. By lunchtime, I had been completely overstimulated by the noise and colors and patterns of the market, and everything seemed to look like everything else, so it was a good thing that we left town right after lunch.
