The pepsi purge

We left Oaxaca city silently humming Perry Como's 'Magic Moments' via the rich (first class) bus station, which in comparison to the one we arrived at was more like walking through the final scene of Kubricks 2001. Bright lights, white interiors and many 5ft female security guards armed with whistles and guns. After being frisked by these ladies, finger prints taken, irises scanned, we boarded the coach, which I soon noticed was full of like-minded stunned looking travellers, not a single Mexican on board. The butch security woman storms up the isles shooting us with a Sony camcorder just incase we caused a raucous.



It was another night bus where an external alarm was sounding, this got worse until it bore holes in everyone’s slumber states. The driver pulled over and after about 10 minutes the sound of gaffer tape being torn was the only promising solution. The bus had stopped at a roadside café about 4am. I was awake, when I soon noticed a skull in the opposite window staring back at me. This skull had big hollows for eyes and had only the upper jaw and teeth in tact. I thought this was some warning that the gaffer was not going to contain the problem and my end was neigh, with my final seconds caught with a bunch of strangers on film footage sent from the caring staff at OCC tours and the Mexican government with condolences for my dearest back home. I then looked out the window to see what reflection this could possibly be. It turned out to be a crisp packet display on a semi-circular up stand. As I looked at the stand then at the skull, I couldn’t quite believe the stupidness of it. It really freaked me out for a while as I swear it was a real demonic looking skull.



San Cristobel is 7000ft above sea level, which after 3 months battling the heat was light relief, my idle jeans and warm hoodie came out of hiding and a momentary thought of being wrapped up in a duvet in English winter came to me, but quickly went. As I ate take-away pizza and scanned the internet (for free), time lost bohemians, new world families and other non categorised travelling folk passed our hotel courtyard gates all looking like they are going somewhere important. This is a strange very old town, its believed that the indigenous residents, (one million of whom are of direct Mayan descent) speak mainly Tzeltal and Tzotzil languages, which is a head ache if you're Dyslexic, sadly most people in the region can not read nor write. These people have a strong protective community, photos are not allowed in certain areas and their medical and spiritual traditions have withstood the tests of time, these treasures have been exported to other nations by white shamans and word of mouth twitters, these whispers have then been heard by multinational organisations such as big wig pharmaceuticals and a certain fizzy pop company. 10 km northeast out of town is the smaller villages of San Juan Chamula, this is one zoo everyone wants to visit as it is alleged they have many strange traditions. One such custom being the coca cola guzzling soul purification purge belching ritual, many also wish to find out what actually does go on inside their very busy and active sacred catholic 18th century church building? As the catholic religion has not breathed a single Amen or sworn Hail Mary’s for many a decade using the more widely used Christian calendar year.



We had a great guide named Alberto from the Hotel Margarita calle real de Guadalupe. He took us to the village and into people’s homes, which were Mayan holy places, 16th century replica builds of traditional mud huts, some had sacred shrines these were hand picked by elders after the towns youth who are now grown men had put their names on lists many Mayan years back to take temporary residence as the town religious leaders called ‘cargo’ meaning burden for 18 months of 20 days this is counted using the Mayan calendar which is very different to ours and is currently the top topic around the world as to what may or may not end/happen/change in the Mayan prophecies within our own calendar year 23rd December 2012! On that date over here the calendar simply goes back to zero and starts all over again. These special newly promoted religious cargos transform their lives and homes in to sacred shrines for one particular saint and it costs mega cash to do with no lotto government funding to help out. They must offer festivals, music, food and drink, incense, flowers, the whole shebang, but daily. St. John of the dead lake named above, did this 8 times in his life and was promoted to ‘mayordomos’ then the highest order of ‘principles’. Imagine getting ready for, then doing Christmas day every day for 13 months of 20 days…unthinkable stress. I managed to sneak a photo inside one of these huts of a shrine, which if I was caught my camera would have been thrown to the ground and stamped on and I could have been beheaded… I got away with it.



I saw many people all guzzling fizzy drinks, but no one was really belching in any ceremonial ways that was note worthy. I can personally belch the alphabet to at least G, sometimes H on a particularly windy day, which does feel amazing and cleansing. I demonstrated this as a bit of a ‘while in Rome’ thing and for a bit of a laugh in the mini bus after the tour but the Israeli and French couples didn’t find it charming not like Stu and some geek in the back seat from Spain did. Alberto told us it was just hyped up bollocks anyhow, it all started many years ago when some groups of people were low on sugar levels and energy, they functioned for many years on natural stuff called ‘pox’ made from pineapple and sugar cane, then the fizzy drinks thing kicked in and gave them back the sugar and salts needed to sustain life in an easy to get hold of bottle and it was now possible purging personal evil with more dramatic effects, you 'Can't beat the real thing'



Our whole life is energy; everything we see, touch, do and be is energy. Balance is what is needed to be understood and this is what is so important to these people. The religious men, shamans and chosen curanderos are the energy channels for the people. Their healing talents are based upon the individual’s energy; your pulse speaks volumes about not only physical well-being but spiritual too. Your dreams are looked at and discussed, all relationships are vital to well being and state of minds. Then we went onto the finale, inside the church itself. This was a sight to see, even for me, I was frothing at the mouth desperate to take a photo but this was a lot more dangerous to consider than a single thought of taking a stolen snap.



On the outside this 18th century church stood tall and strong in foundations, just like many churches in this country. After finally deciding not to risk my camera or myself being stamped on in public show of humiliation, I stepped inside the church and the sight before me, I swear, took my breath clean away. The strong smells of fresh pine and incense devoured my nostrils. The pine needles had been freshly scattered on the floor in the morning, symbolising one step nearer to heaven. The floor was cleared of all pews and fonts, there were no grand organ or a single bible to be seen and nothing remotely related to a normal catholic church remained within. The white marble floor was a clear space and yet tucked between the pine needle swirls were rows of burning candles, incense and glass bottles. One man clearly displayed his life purpose to me, with his scraper and tin can in hand he kept order by clearing up the discarded melted wax, incense ash and wilted flowers, helping keep the area clear for the next family or individual to set up another momentary shrine and so it moved very quickly onwards. As I walked through this oddness, balanced upon numerous painted wooden tables and along both walls left and right of me were glass coloured shrines of saints gone by, framed with bunches of sweet smelling flowers, flowers are an important commodity in this Chiapas area, the ‘curanderos’ is identified in the towns by wearing one big flower on a red poncho.



In between, sat families in huddles around numbers of assorted candles and offerings. The light from the candles flickering off the glass saint cabinets and fizzy drinks bottles was like being in my heaven. There were rows of fanta, Coke, Pepsi glass bottles but no tin cans and not necessarily with these secret recipes inside them, some looked like urine, and im not saying it was urine, it could just be out of date stuff or original ‘pox’ pineapples (sounding like ‘posh’..!) People were drinking from some of them but not a gaseous syllable left their chanting mouths. The prayers heard sounded centuries old in dialect. I’ve spent time in Nepal and it was so similar in many ways to that. The elderly were rocking, praying, singing and being. The young were pretending to be rocking, praying, singing and being very curious at all of us gauping back at all of them. At the very end of the church where the vicar and choir should be sitting, I thought I had spotted some oddly dressed belchers in action, but it was 6 painters and decorators on their break sharing a coke, as builders do anywhere in the world today, all sat beneath scaffolding, life goes on. I did wonder if this was this some massive publicity stunt from the Coca cola regime.

And that was it. The twists of time, religion and perfect product placements all neatly folded in to one modern day.

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