Burning

Wednesday, November 26, 2014
San Cristobal de las Casas

    I’ve been in San Cristobal for several days now.

                It’s been good. Two days ago or so, I went for a run. I ran up a long flight of steps to a mirador (lookout) and a church. There was also an outdoor gym and even a rock wall! When I saw that, I thought, “I can stay here for a little while. I might belong.”

                Yesterday, I saw a man on fire. Before that, I went shopping with Raul and Silvi. It was fun to hang out with native Spanish speakers. Vendors that had stone faces seemed to come to life once they understood that they would be understood.

                We were looking for warm things, and I wanted to buy a locally made scarf, so Silvi suggested we go to Zinancantán, a nearby town known for its textiles.

                When we arrived, we walked around a little before deciding to look for a young girl that had approached us before, offering to take us to “where the textiles were made.” We found her near the same place we met her. She was maybe 12, and she wore the traditional clothes and colors of many of the other women nearby. In fact, it was at first difficult to find her because so many other young girls were dressed nearly or exactly alike.

                We asked her to take us to where the textiles were made, and unbeknownst to us, she was taking us to her home. We walked along behind her, up through residential streets and past many houses and gardens. Corn was growing in the gardens, and dogs and chickens were milling in the streets. There were small churches, and political party slogans were stenciled onto fence walls and crumbling buildings. The buildings were a white cement, that seemed to be made of a crumbling chalk, because the streets were dusty with the same color. A brightly painted door or window shutter here and there stood out in stark contrast.

                Our guide led us between two cinder block walls, forming a narrow alley, and we emerged onto the back patio where her two sisters and mother were weaving and sewing, and a little boy was playing.

              

               While we three browsed, the young girl, demure but sure of herself, brought to us a bottle (a 16 ounce plastic water bottle, with the label peeled off) of cinnamon posh.

                I bought a green scarf and Raul bought an orange one. Silvi couldn’t find one she liked.

                We walked back to the square with big hungers, and caught the collectivo to San Cristobal.

                On the ride back, Silvi and Raul were commenting on the cold fog that lay on the mountain, and comparing Mexican Spanish with Spanish Spanish.

                Traffic slowed down when we neared the city, and the views of the mountains and valleys disappeared from my window, replaced by a conveyor belt of the common 10 foot cinder block privacy walls. I was staring at those walls as they blurred and passed when an entrance and a driveway to one particular property came into view. I was listening to Raul and Silvi speak in Spanish, and there were a couple of groups of locals on the collectivo, too (the collectivo is a van that follows a set route).

                As I began to be able to see the opening of the wall, I saw flames dancing and wisping off the ground. It looked like a gasoline or oil fire. For a second, I had a chance to think about the situation; if it was normal or an emergency.

                It seemed tranquil. The sound track of the van’s buzzy engine and Raul and Silvi’s chit-chat continued unbroken, yet here was this scene of uncontained danger. I saw the flames were dancing outside of a guard shack, positioned outside of a wrought iron gate.

                Then, as the van continued past the gate, a man came into view. He was wearing a uniform-white shirt and black slacks. He was stalky and dark haired, and he was running up the driveway. It was then that I saw those same flames were dancing on his neck and shoulder, and he was swatting at them with both his hands. Then he passed out of view.

                I was startled.

                I said to Raul and Silvi, “There’s a man on fire!” and they looked just as he passed out of view. There was just a wall again. Blurred cinderblocks.

                Immediately after, I was confused, and I looked around at the faces of the people in the collectivo with me. Did they see it? Did they see a man burning? Their eyes were glazed. Maybe they hadn’t been looking, and they couldn’t understand me.

                But Raul and Silvi could understand. Surely, they would want to do something, I thought. Should we stop? What had happened? I didn’t know. The van kept plodding along.

                The most disturbing observation that remains with me from that story is the lack of empathy, or reaction from anyone in the van. No-one actually cared, in fact, as far as I could tell, they ignored the whole incident.

                I felt almost panicked, yet no-one else even commented on seeing a man running away, on fire.

                Raul, seeing my distress after  I persisted on talking about it, said, “Sometimes people are burned here—as punishment,” as if to excuse what we had just seen.

                It’s been several days, and the thought that I was present to witness someone on fire, burning, still disturbs me.

                I felt very isolated when I perceived that I was the only one empathizing with a stranger.

                I got the impression that the prevailing attitude was: if it isn’t happening to us, it’s not our problem; everyone should mind their own business.

                I think about that man, running, swatting at the flames licking and scorching his skin. Me, impotent and unsure, watching from a window. I am haunted.

I want to specially acknowledge the financial contributions from Alexandre Nguyen, Manny Rangel, Michael Pang, my mom, and my aunt Julie, as well as Kate Phillips and Ian Wheatland for helping make these words and pictures possible!