Society

What a lame title. This was a catchall heading for the trends that stood out in my three weeks of observation. There are an absurd amount of dimensions to this—how can you lump religion and diesel fuel together? Not easily, but the anthropology major in me still sees things unique in both the displays of religious iconography and the process of getting crates of toilet paper on top of a moving bus.


I use the title society humbly way—these were the themes I caught most obviously, in no way an in-depth analysis of Central American ways and customs. What I could observe was as surface as the stitching of thread or the etiquette of bus culture. But the patterns were intriguing and beautiful.

 

He was begging, but dignified, outside of Mexico City metro station.

 

The variety, and frequency, of indigenous dress became more intense as we went south. In Guatemala, it was nearly universal for
women to wear—with wild, clashing patterns that varied in different regions. Occasionally, you could see men sporting woven suits.

 

In Chiapas, the typical embroidered blouse, sash, skirt, and braids.

 

In stark contrast to the tourists, women in traditional dress debarking from a boat in San Pedro and congregate in Antigua.

 

Washing all those garments created colorful backdrops, whether cotton separates or traditional woven ware.

 

Regal, earthquake-resilient cathedrals in Oaxaca and Mexico City.

 

One of Mexico City’s main, active cathedrals sported some non-religious covering.
I hope they were getting a commission from it.

 

The cake-like churches in Oaxaca’s countryside.

 

In war-torn Guatemala, evangelical sects had taken a firm root, especially in the rural areas. We saw a lot of “I love Jesus” stickers and heard sermons broadcasted from pickup trucks. Many, many children, especially girls, were enrolled in their schools.

 

A vendor of candles and other religious goods in Mexico City; a shrine to give luck and prayers to cab drivers in San Cristobal.

 

The devoted entered mass on their knees.

 

Preparing for a baptism in Chiapas.

 

It’s estimated that an eighth of the population of Mexico City drives Volkswagen beetles.
The green ones were converted cabs, and often their owners ripped out the front passenger seat for easier access.

 

Men congregating in groups in a Mexico City bus station.
I was told that they tend to wait to catch buses to the north with the hope of getting work.

 

 

A discount taxi in Oaxaca. They were all Toyotas, and each went on one specific route.
Expect six people per car, with the front, center passenger wedged next to the stick shift.
While the welts were painful, the fare was economical.

 

Everyone but Guatemala’s very rich take “chicken buses,” wildly colorful converted school buses,
some with their U.S. affiliations still written on the side. They had installed horns loud enough to
warn everyone that they were approaching on the sharp turns.
Average cost per hour of travel was less than a dollar, which made the experience of
cramming five people into a three-seater less painful.

 

 

Camionetas were the cheap, and similarly crowded, way to get between towns. Expect your luggage to be stored on the roof.

The men who secured the luggage on the roof were true gymnasts. They’d get a sack of corn flour or a case
of toilet paper up on a bus even while it was moving, and then climb back in despite the sharpest of turns. I
never saw anyone lose anything.

 

Public transportation supported a whole informal economy, including the roadside vendors of tamales and other homemade snacks.

 

Lanchas were rickety but the only means of transport on San Pedro lake.
We waited for an hour to get enough people to make our return trip profitable.

 

Newsstands were always crammed with periodical, ranging from the solid to the sordid. The tabloid covers, especially in Mexico,
were awash with bloody photos of car accidents or nudey pinups. But both countries had some descent daily papers.

 

With all those sensational covers, there were plenty of crowds, and strained necks, circling around the stands.

 

On our first night in Xela, the lovely ladies of the town’s beauty pageant surprisingly paraded through the city center.
Some donned modern dress, others wore indigenous costumes, but all were excited to see me taking photos.

 

Mexico had a national obsession with balloons—they were sold everywhere, at every hour, in huge quantities.
Tall slender ones were the current vogue, and kids would play with them in Oaxaca’s zocolo all night.

 

A Mexican chain drug store’s inventive marketing scheme—a man dressed up in a [most certainly] hot pharmacy costume danced
to very loud music in front of their stores. While attracting attention, I’m not sure if it yielded more customers.