Mexican magıc
A MODEST DOOR IN THE green-and-white facade of the church of San Juan Chamula opens into a vast pewless space lit by flickering candles, the floor covered with pine needles.
Down each side of the nave, plaster casts of saints observe the scene, each with a mirror to help the soul return to the body during prayer. Families troop in to worship, clearing themselves a space on the floor, lighting their own candles, praying, singing, making offerings and, in one or two cases, slitting a chicken’s throat to trail the blood on the floor.
Some of our group leave quickly, feeling too intrusive, while others walk among the people, all of whom are too absorbed in their worship to mind our presence. We have been requested not to take photos of the indigenous people in the village because they believe a bit of their soul is stolen with each photo.
San Juan Chamula is one of Mexico’s so-called “magical villages” and one of many extraordinary places I visited during a two-week holiday. Months before, I had decided to travel to Mexico on my
