The last three-four days felt like months. And now it is so hard to fit this journal into this page.

Last time I wrote, we were in Juhitan, famous for its gays. We left there with feelings of love as we always had before. After then I think I had the longest drive of my life. Chiapas is a wonderful state. While we were driving on the winding roads, we passed through villages, gardens, like we were travelling in a Fakir Baykurt novel – a happier version though. If we take no account of the military check points with obnoxious guns and the speed bumps spilled around carelessly, everything was so beautiful.

It was pretty obvious that the military check points were showpieces because they were not mobile. I don’t think any bandit would fall for a fixed check point which never changes places for years. No, I don’t think so.

The speed bumps are another story. So many of them with so many names: vibrador, tope, redactor… I named them Hidalgo, the name of a state. It also means ‘proud’, and, oddly, ‘filthy rich’ at the same time.

As you see, I can’t bring myself to the subject. There is so many to tell and beginning is the hardest step. San Cristobal is a fantastic city. There are touristic parts but even those places are lively. And everywhere is full of kindness and joy.

On our first day, we became friends with Manuel Hidalgo Perez, an anthropologist and a writer, and he made it all better for us. (He didn’t know what Hidalgo meant for us, and being the gentleman that I am, I didn’t tell him, of course.)

Manuel picked us early in the morning and we hit the Mayan mountains.

The first Mayan village – or town – we visited was Chamula. We were so lucky to be there during the time of a carnival – and Nur believes it’s because her last name is Bayram (meaning ‘fest’ in Turkish) and it is so common for her to come across carnivals when she visits a place.

First thing we witnessed was a Mayan ritual. A small band consisting of an archaic guitar, another archaic instrument resembling the harp and a modern accordion, was playing nice and, naturally, spiritual music. Three “prominent” figures, whose names I couldn’t get to memorise and whom I will refer as priests, were conducting and setting the rhythm of the ritual with the help of the scissors in their hands.

They immediately welcomed us and served us drinks that were clearly methanol. Alcohol, filled in various bottles in rows that had crumpled papers as tops like molotov cocktails, was plenty and everywhere and of course in stomachs. We sat down right away and found ourselves carried on with the weird mood of this weirdly costumed ritual. Everything was so genuine, lovely, and everyone was so full of alcohol that, suddenly the ritual, which probably would have drawn us to the TV in bewilderment if were at home, became something normal. Everyone was high. And there wasn’t a bit of pretentiousness. The only bad thing to catch my eyes was that the women were piled in a corner. But then we realized that it was a passing thing that belonged to the moment. Women were right in the middle of the rituals we watched from then on.

Let me describe the dosage of drunkenness, ease, calmness and cheerfulness of these people we came across occasionally: There was this guy sitting opposite of us. He had his hands on one knee of a priest that was playing caracas, and he was coming and going in between stages of passing out and straightening himself. He was right across us. Then he fell over like a large column. We moved to help him… but then we realised it wasn’t necessary. Helping up was not a part of the ritual. He passed out and no one paid attention.

Another problem – which concerns you more, I’m afraid – was that the ambiance was terribly photophobic. I had been wandering from place to another for all these years and I had never come across people that hated photos this much. Everything is free in the Mayan villages: they invite you to their homes or sanctuaries right away, they never fail to satisfy with their treats, but when it comes to being their pictures taken, you can’t push the release button.

And there is a decent reason for that it seems. I mean, it convinced me. Yet it was a bit surprising to see that all the Mayan villages were convinced. Let me put it this way: Had Fikret managed to take photos during even one of the rituals, he could probably win a Pulitzer, or something like that.

And here is the decent reason: At a time when they gave permission to the photographers, they found their faces on the postcards sold in San Cristobal. It brought to my mind the honourable Laz villagers who didn’t want electricity in their village fearing that TV would harm the conversation between people.

We spent some more time finding hard to believe the costumes, people, etc. and lost ourselves in this turmoil without knowing what was ahead of us. Then we headed to the next ritual.

Our next stop was Juan Gallo’s home. He is one of the prominent figures I mentioned abowe. And yes, he is a friend of our dear friend Manuel. Thus, the treats that had already been surprising up to that point became mesmerising.

There were pictures hung on the wall painted by Juan, and Manuel explained the meaning and the importance of the rituals with the help of those paintings. It was at that point that I strolled around and communicated with the village people, starting with the children and the dogs. It wasn’t easy, though, since the words in our vocabularies don’t match at all. So I spent more time with the dogs.

After the explosives that looked like manure beat up my ears, I went back to Gallo’s. Then we went back to the centre and ate a bit and then went to the ritual being held in a sanctuary next to Gallo’s house. This time with our rakı, of course…

It was more impressive this time. It was a closed space. Everyone was drinking. There were bison, jaguar, etc. shaped shamanic statues in the middle with giant incense sticks on them. There was a crucified Jesus figure right in the middle but covering less space hierarchically.

Like all the Mayan villager rituals, this too was a sort of a Christian liturgy, but it was more of a shamanic, totally autonomous, extended and calm version.

The three priests were changing their post. And this I have to tell you. The ambiance was terrifically theatrical. Yet it was miles away from the theatrical seriousness and pretentiousness common for the religious rituals we know. For example, I didn’t count the drinks Juan had during the praying. And Miguel sent a boy many times to fetch a drink. Then he went on with his prayer. It doesn’t make sense to think almighty God would be bothered with him, you know. On the other side the villagers who were trying to say things to us that we didn’t understand kept occasionally going outside to fire a sparkler and then coming back.

Then came that precious moment… We brought out rakı. And this sentence will show how much it was favoured: I kept time, and 2 litres of rakı ran out in 13 minutes! Of course, Juan had already started drinking rakı after finishing his prayer and joining us. He and I waited for the ritual to end with one ‘double’ of rakı each that we could save in our hands.

I shouldn’t skip this detail: When we started handing out rakı, they warned us about some important ladies who should be served, too. I think they meant all of them.

In fact they drank rakı so fast that it seemed like they had forgotten to drink alcohol a loooong long time ago.

The almost pure alcohol they kept serving us is called “posh.” We learned that means something like the most beautiful of flowers. They believe it gives happiness naturally. It can be produced from many things. In this village they produce posh from sugar canes.

Since they could pronounce rakı, thus Yeni Rakı, they named it almost immediately: Turcoposh. So our darling rakı got another name that befits. Don’t think that it was named this way as a joke. They kept asking “Can you give Turcoposh?” From then on, we introduced rakı as Turcoposh in the other Mayan villages we visited.

Then, with the privilege we had for being friends with Juan and Manuel, we got the permission to picture the moment we drank rakı with Juan and his wife, who arouse natural-born-motherly feelings in all of us. And Juan said such a thing (permission to take photos) had never happened before. A thrilling kind of privilege…

Juan and his wife invited us for dinner, but we really, really regrettably had to turn this kind invitation down. Because we began to feel like looting Westerns taking advantage of their hospitality. This wasn’t bon vivantism anymore.

And this should also be mentioned: We were able to drink so carelessly, thanks Manuel who didn’t drink and drove the car.

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Zapatista Autonomy: Ya Basta!

After we saw a few more rituals and watched around a bit more, we headed for Zapatista autonomy. And immediately we were in the middle of cultural, geographical, atmospheric, and political contrast.

First we dived into fog with our lovely car La Kukaracha, and what a fog it was. Visibility range was varying between 30 and 5 metres. And it was raining constantly.

Once we were on the border of a Zapatista patrol, we were filled with excitement. You know, we were about to witness closely the revolutionary movement that appeared as the most sincere of them all and that managed to keep our attention for many years from 15 thousand kilometres away.

Zapatista movement is a peaceful movement that aims to be a starting point and an example for the survival of the world. When I say peaceful, I mean it. After many years of preparations they had only one armed conflict for 12 days in 1994, and started an autonomous organisation on the lands they gained. And they have never fired even one bullet in the last 15 years. They own their power to being genuine and the support they get from the people.

A third of Mexican army is deployed in Chiapas, thanks to Zapatistas. And the state’s actions are not limited with that. Yet, I am not sure if this is the place to mention those details. There is a bunch of information on this, if you take time to investigate it on the Internet.

The name Zapatista comes from the legendary Emiliano Zapata. And Zapatista leader Marcos is called as Subcommandante, meaning second in command, in respect to first commander Zapata and also due to the fact that he doesn’t like the concept of being a leader. I think this is a good anecdote that shows Zapatistas’ peaceful ways: In the first years of the campaign, a general that was accused of being a torturer was caught and taken to people’s court. And he was sentenced to living a life of shame among people and was released.

I had even dreamt of Subcommandante Marcos. It was an odd dream but since I wrote this long, I intend to tell about it too. I get interviewed by Marcos, to join Zapatistas. And he says to me “It is not possible. Let alone being from Chiapas, you are not even from Mexico.” And I say, “Well, that’s a shame, Marcos. Doesn’t that mean that first I have to get residency from the Mexican government you are at war with and then come back?” Unfortunately, I wake up at that moment. I couldn’t Zapatistas join even in my dreams. Of course Nur and Fikret mocked me a bit about this dream – that I didn’t stand up to Marcos.

Chiapas Mayan Zapatistas take our passports at the check points and take records. They wear masks but they are not scary. They are very warm and very tired. Everything is rambling. But those rambles have an aesthetic of their own which you can follow easily. That aesthetic, along with their belief, hopeful faces and warmth, takes away all the negativities of poverty. At least in the eyes of us, the strangers in comfortable beds…

After we got authorization at the check point, two Zapatistas told us about their campaign. I am not writing things you can find during a Google search. Only observations. The female Zapatista was so ill and strange that she barely could stand up. The young mother continuously apologized to Nur for her bad Spanish and her illness while telling about Zapatistas, and she didn’t only win our hearts but left Nur speechless.

Then we started wandering around the Zapatista autonomy freely. Passing through the chuckles of the cheerful students staying in the dorms built with construction timbers, we saw a bunch of places that educational, cultural, agricultural, etc. activities were coordinated. They were rambling huts all dressed with wonderful graphic works. The fiesta area was just as impressive as the secondary school they proudly spoke of. We were there in the wrong season, though. Manuel told us about what the fiesta area looks like during the fiesta time, giving a festive description.

Nur was so impressed with the ambiance that she offered to stay as a volunteer. They told her about the living conditions that involved consistent dry beans and rice, and a house that had heating problems only, and asked if she was ready for that.

Zapatistas are very careful about the volunteers. This is both due to security problems and to the fact that the conditions in which they struggle is harder than seen from the Western view. They generally find the volunteers through various organizations. They need them but at the same time they are extremely selective. But they took Nur’s application seriously with regard to her sincerity, her master degree in psychology, and her experience on volunteer work.

We shopped a while from the Zapatista women’s collective and hit the roads again.

We left the Zapatista autonomy silently but of course with warm feelings in our hearts.

When we reached San Cristobal through the fog, the only thing we needed was a simple rakı table and a bed.

We prepared our table in front of our ‘almost suite’ in our hotel Posada De Juana’s garden that looks like a flower garden, and opened our rakı.

Of course we served some to Manuel who was tired of watching us eating and drinking all that time and not touching anything. And at last he had the honour of tasting the almighty Turcoposh which turns to white when mixed with water. And like most Mexicans, he drank it uncontrolled and fast. Immediately grasping the method, he started saying ‘şerefe’, ‘tamashked’, ‘salud’ in Turkish, Mayan and Spanish respectively, while we all drank our second ‘doubles’.

The photos are credited to Fikret Bekler, as usual. (Fikret: I’d like to add a few words and tears at this point… Never in my life have I had such an appetite for taking pictures and come across a situation making it all so impossible. It was so hard. We entered in so many interesting houses and churches in Mayan villages before noon. We saw rituals we will hardly ever be able to witness again in our lives. Yet, since Mayan villagers asked us not to take pictures under any condition and we respected that demand, we weren’t able to picture those colourful moments. In the Zapatista camp we went in the afternoon, they let us to take pictures only in outdoor spaces. But then it was so foggy and it was impossible to get views. What can you say? Fate…)

Hopefully we will write about the second day of our trip to San Cristobal and its surroundings tomorrow.