Chiapas Part Two by Kelly Fain

The ride to the village called Jose Castillo Tielman was beautiful. We stood in the back of the CIRSA truck, which took us through high mountains and into the region of El Bosque. There were about 15 of us in the back of the truck, some from our Equal Exchange group, some CIRSA workers coming along for the visit, and some folks who just needed a lift back to their communities along the way.

I stood next to a lady named Valentina, who was on her way back to her community with her daughters Territa and Lalaurita. The infant Territa was safely nestled in a sling on her mother’s back and Lalaurita immediately made herself comfortable on the floor of the truck next to some boxes of supplies. The ride was rugged and we made our way repeatedly through rivers, rolled precariously over rocks and negotiated culverts and washouts, but Lalaurita slept soundly the two and a half hours to her village. The road took us through a few communities, some were just a few buildings with a pig and chickens near the house, others were larger communities of perhaps 20 homes and dogs and children running about.

Occasionally we would pass people on the road, some carrying sacks of coffee strapped to their heads, or on horseback. If they were going our way we would stop and let them climb into the back of the truck. When the truck got full, a few folks would move to sit on the roof of the cab. It was hot, and in the back of the truck we all shared a bag of trail mix, some cookies, a bottle of mango soda.

Finally we arrived at the village of Jose Castillo Tielman. Children greeted us on the road and ran with the truck into the center of the community. The people had built a stage from banana trees and there was music coming from a marimba, a drum kit, and a violin player. As we unloaded ourselves from the truck, we were surrounded by the people. The old women were the first to approach us, grabbing our hands, hugging us and kissing us. Little girls as young as four and five had babies strapped to their backs and they met us with wide, dark, shining eyes. Most of us were so overwhelmed by this very warm welcome that we were sobbing as we greeted residents of the village. We tried to compose ourselves as we made our way to sit on the stage for introductions.

Introductions took a good while, as every farmer who is a member of CIRSA stood and introduced himself and welcomed us. After each introduction, the band would strike up and play a couple stanzas. After everyone, including each of us, had been presented, they took us into a building where they had prepared beans, wild greens, some chicken and gourdful after gourdful of fresh, hot tortillas. And coffee. Two big buckets of coffee into which we dipped our cups. Let me tell you, I used to be pretty sensitive to caffeine. Not wanting to ever offend anyone in Mexico, I can now down coffee with the best of them. Black, no sugar, strong coffee.

After dinner we headed to the church, which is in the heart of the community. On our way Don Pedro, our friend from CIRSA, insisted we take pictures of his bull, which was tied outside. We complied. We entered the church where the air was thick with the heady smell of amber. The nearest town Simojovel is the amber capital of the world. If you’ve ever smelled amber burning, you know that it is a full and glorious and sacred smelling substance. There was one very old lady and it appeared that she was in charge of keeping the amber burning.

Don Pedro presented the village elder, who gave us the history of the community. He spoke only Tzotzil, so Don Pedro translated into Spanish and Felicia, our Equal Exchange leader, translated into English.

Originally their land had been sold from under them to a European. They were enslaved by this owner, and they began to gather under the trees at night to discuss how they could get their land back. When the owner realized they were organizing he began to kill them. They continued to try to organize the people and joined with El Orteno, groups of people from other plantations who were doing the same thing. They founded a socialist workers party, but it did not seem to get them anywhere. They began to seek a larger group that included workers from all around Simojovel.

The Mexican government still would not give them their land back, so the group walked to Tuxtla Gutierrez, the capital of Chiapas. They were all barefoot. It took them 5 days. The government of Chiapas did not help them, so they walked to Mexico City. They arrived on September 25 of 1983. It had taken them a month. The government then sent soldiers to their village. These soldiers were not the help they were seeking. They killed entire families. “Blood was spilled everywhere.”

The group took matters into their own hands and began to rebel. This got the attention of the government. One landowner was forced to give them his land. The government paid this landowner for his land, but the people of Jose Castillo Tielman had to pay back the bank three million pesos. “But that is how the 77 people that were left here got a little piece of their land.”

Later that night after the ceremony in the church, we danced. All night. Dancing there is a little different than dancing here. You don’t dance at all suggestively, you don’t make too much eye contact with anyone, and you don’t touch anyone. During the dancing we learned why Don Pedro was so big on his bull. It was the only bull in the community. It was killed and butchered during the dance so that we could eat it while we were there. It was a great honor and even the vegan in our group felt humbled.

I slept in the house of Miguel, a CIRSA farmer, with two other Americans. Miguel has eight children, lots of chickens and ducks, a couple dogs and two pigs. He is very well off in the community. He gave us his blankets and we slept in the main room of his house. It gets so, so cold at night up in the mountains (the village is at around 9,000 feet), and I donned my silk long underwear and a woolen hat. I felt terrible in the morning to see that one of his sons had come into the room to sleep with us. He was about eight and all he had was a T-shirt and a burlap coffee sack on the concrete floor. It made me heartsick.

We had the bull for breakfast with tortillas and then set out on our day. The hike to Don Pedro’s coffee parcel the next morning was pretty brutal. And I say that being a pretty sturdy girl. It took us about three hours and we went up, up, up, up into the mountains until our village was just a distant group of buildings down in the valley. We could see two other villages out in the jungle as well.

We then learned about picking coffee. It’s much harder than you may think and you have to get the fruit off just right to be sure you don’t harm the tree’s chance of flowering and producing next year. We picked and picked and learned about grafting plants and keeping them healthy. Three of the women from the community came along as well, and we saw women coming back down the trail with coffee sacks and bundles of wood for cooking.

We loaded the fruit into huge sacks and started down the mountain. These sacks weigh about 150 pounds, and girls of 12 years were carrying them, barefoot, down the rugged trail. A couple of us gave it a whirl with a sack that was half-full. No one could carry it longer than about five minutes.

Back in the community, we washed the coffee and ran it through a depulping machine, which separates the juicy part of the fruit from the bean. We all took turns turning the crank. After that, the coffee is spread out on a patio, or a roof, or a piece of metal and raked as it dries. It has to be raked constantly so that it dries consistently.

That night we ate more of the bull in a flavorful soup seasoned with herbs we had seen on the trail, tortillas, coffee, and lo! a bottle of rum and a bottle of Mezcal. We then had a Mass in Tzotzil. Tzotzil is a beautiful language. The farmers and delegates of the co-op prayed for us a good bit throughout our visit. When they pray, one person will lead and the other people chime in and pray their own prayer, all aloud and all at the same time. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world and it moved me to tears every time they prayed.

I spent a good deal of time that night surrounded by children. We taught each other words in Tzotzil and English. I spent time both nights with a girl named Lucia, who is 12. She is extremely bright and spoke only a tiny bit of Spanish.

Our language barrier was no hindrance to our communication, however. We became great friends in just a few days and I wished more than anything I had a whole day to spend with her. The things this girl could teach me! I learned most of my Tzotzil from her and learned a lot about their community by spending time with her and her two best friends, who were both named Maria.

Our CIRSA hosts had brought a projector so that they could show movies (a film on the Zapatistas) on an outside wall of their church. The community members were very excited about this and crowded around while most of our group headed to our respective homes to sleep. We were exhausted. The community watched movies and danced and played music all night. Our being there was cause for great celebration.

It was hard to leave the community at daybreak the next morning. I was a little relieved that we left so early; it would have been excruciating to see the faces of the people, especially the children, as the truck left. I spent the ride back alternately teaching English words to the CIRSA members in the back of the truck and crying on the shoulders of Julio Caesar, a CIRSA delegate who had become like family to me. It hurt my heart to know that I was headed back to a city, with a bed and running water, and they would continue working so hard here.

After the ride to Simojovel, we hopped back in our van for the (paved) ride back to San Cristobal. Our van broke down. Not once or twice, but about every 10 minutes or so. We were all so tired and so grateful for our community experience that it was just hilarious to us. We got off the van and enjoyed some snacks near the Zapatista community of Oventic. Our driver got the van going and we piled back in for another 10 minutes. Eventually we worked out a system where one of our group members drove and our driver Pablo would jump out every so often and beat the fuel pump container back into place. It was pretty entertaining.

Our stop for the next day on our way home was at FIECH, the coffee cooperative in Tuxtla Gutierrez. FIECH is an acronym that stands for words that translate to the Indigenous Ecological Federation of Chiapas. This large cooperative works for the sustainability of its member, who are indigenous organizations and farmers, and their cultivation practices. Their mission is to form a group for indigenous people and farmers that is inclusive and tolerant, organized, and based on respect for the environment and each other.

FIECH accepts the members’ products, mostly coffee, cocoa and honey, and prepares it for international shipping. With coffee, FIECH weighs the product, removes the chaff (which causes a 25% reduction in weight), sorts coffee and classifies it by size and type. It then roasts the coffee.

We took part in a coffee cupping while we were there, which is like a coffee wine tasting and is used as a quality control method. The coffee is weighed, chaffed and sorted by size. Then the coffee is roasted and the beans are ground. The coffee is measured into six cups and each cup is smelled for discrepancies. Then hot water is added to each cup and it is again smelled. Then one breaks the “crust” formed by the coffee of top of the water and the coffee is simultaneously smelled and inhaled into the mouth for tasting. The cupper tries each cup, spitting between tastes. We were lucky enough to cup CIRSA’s coffee, which had less than 2% defects and was, of course, fragrant and incredible.

Since FIECH was formed in 1996, more than 2,000 producers have benefited and their quality of life has improved. They hope for more strengthening educational programs, the consolidation of a dry mill, a strong position in the world market, a community bank and educational shelters and the production of organic honey in larger quantities. Their slogan: Loving the environment is loving life.

I’m going to end this story here so that I have space for more pictures. I’m happy to answer any questions, you all know how to find me, or email me: Kelly@hendersonville.coop. Thank you for being a part of our cooperative. It means more than you know to more people than you may realize.