Semana Santa 2014: Regreso a México y Bonampak

El viernes me tocó madrugar. El transporte de San Juan Travel pasó por mi a las 6am para emprender el viaje de regreso a México, con el pirata de nuevo como guía. Recuerdo ver gente a tan temprana hora armando alfombras de aserrín de colores en las calles de Flores. Por supuesto hicimos una parada en la oficina de migración en Bethel para que nos sellaran el pasaporte de salida. Casi llegando a La Técnica nos topamos con una procesión. Claro, era Viernes Santo.

Al llegar al embarcadero nos avisaron que las lanchas rumbo a Yaxchilán habían partido hacía una hora.

¿Pero cómo? Si apenas eran las 10 am.

En Guatemala. En México eran las 11 am. 

Mierda. 

No sabía que Guatemala no hace cambio a horario de verano y en los últimos dos días jamás me di cuenta de la diferencia de horario. Venga, con tanto viaje se me iban las horas, además que el reloj del celular se actualiza solo.

Éramos 2 viajeros en la misma situación. Preguntamos el precio de una lancha a Yaxchilán. 

Mil pesos. 

Cabrones. 

Se me hizo un nudo en la garganta del coraje. Ya no conocería esa zona arqueológica. El pirata hace el viaje a cada rato, ¿cómo diantres no iba a saber sobre la diferencia de horario?

Sin más que hacer, cruzamos el río Usumacinta para llegar a Frontera Corozal y nos llevaron a un comedor comunitario. Mínimo el almuerzo estaba incluido. 

Entablé conversación con el otro viajero, un australiano llamado Wayne. Autodenominado "The Solonaut" (así se llama su blog), se encontraba de viaje por México y Guatemala. Entre varias anécdotas, me contó de su reciente aventura en la selva guatemalteca con guías que solo hablaban español y maya quiché. Sin embargo, la historia que se me quedó grabada fue un recuento de su estancia en Sarajevo, cuando atravesó un campo minado como parte de un tour sobre la guerra en Yugoslavia.

La plática ayudó a que el tiempo pasara rápido. Eventualmente regresaron los grupos de Yaxchilán y nos llevaron a todos a Bonampak. A mitad de camino nos tuvimos que bajar de la camioneta del tour para transbordar a un transporte manejado por los locales que te lleva hasta las ruinas. Ellos controlan la zona, así que no queda de otra.

Cuando uno entra a la zona arqueológica, se aprecia cómo de entre la selva lacandona sobresalen la acrópolis y la gran plaza (los únicos conjuntos explorados). Exploré primero los dinteles y estructuras en la acrópolis, para después dedicarle toda mi atención a la sala de los murales. De hecho, Bonampak significa "muros pintados" (no se conoce su nombre original).

En el estudio de la casa en Coatza hay una serie de libros de Time Life llamada "Las grandes épocas de la humanidad". De pasta dura con preciosas ilustraciones, mis favoritos eran Egipto Antiguo y América Precolombina. De este último, el capítulo sobre los mayas incluía reproducciones de la sala de los murales en Bonampak, hechas por artistas durante la primera expedición en 1946. Las imágenes cautivaron mi imaginación y desde entonces quise verlas en persona.

Los murales, que cubren una superficie de 150 metros cuadrados, han recibido diferentes interpretaciones; sin embargo, la más aceptada asegura que narran una sola historia, que incluye una batalla, sus secuelas y la celebración de la victoria.

Tras hora y media de visita en el lugar, era hora de volver. Nos subieron al transporte de los locales hasta regresarnos a donde estaba el chofer de nuestro grupo. Ya en la camioneta del tour, pasamos a recoger gente al campamento lacandón, donde me reencontré con Raquel y Esther. Con todos a bordo, emprendimos las 3 horas hasta Palenque, llegando alrededor de las 7 de la tarde.

Hicimos check-in de nuevo en el hostal, ya que había hecho una reservación distinta al no dormir las 2 noches anteriores ahí. Los recepcionistas, a quienes apodamos Chano y Chon, eran todo menos eficientes. Se habían confundido con las reservaciones, agendando 11 chicas en un cuarto con 10 camas. Para resarcir el error, ofrecieron acomodar a una de nosotras en una habitación individual con cama matrimonial. Como Raquel y Esther no querían separarse, me sacrifiqué a dormir sola en mi propio cuarto. 

Casi fue una buena noche, si descontamos que la cama era tamaño maya y el techo de la habitación era tan bajo que me sentí dentro de la tumba de Pakal.

Hortobágy: traditional herding in Hungary

Facebook and its algorithms. I like attending cultural events and my internet searches reflect that. Such was the case that one day scrolling through my timeline in Facebook, I got a recommended event about the "puszta" or hungarian steppe. As much as I pasted and translated the text in Google Translate, I just didn't understand it, so I asked my Hungarian Culture teacher to explain it to me. She was not aware of the event but at least gave me a correct translation and apparently I aroused her curiosity because that evening she sent me links with more info about the festivity.

Until a day earlier I was undecided about whether to go or not, since that was the week where temperatures dropped in most of Europe and it snowed in the surroundings of Budapest. Fortunately that day dawned cloudy but without rain in sight, so I decided to go. Getting there is relatively easy. Every 2 hours a regional train departs from Keleti station.

Just like in Mohács, I arrived way early to the small train station in Hortobágy and walked towards the esplanade where the fair would take place. There was music and some stalls were open, but there were still few people around, so I decided to go to the visitor center to ask for info about what else to do in the area.

The visitor center

A typical inn

They didn't tell me anything new but I grabbed a lot of flyers. Afterwards, I went to the local museum and learned a lot about local traditions. In the olden days, livestock was not foddered, but kept on pastures until the snowy season. The herders did not own the flock, but reported twice a year on the feast days of St. George (April 24th), when the stock was tallied and taken out to the field, and of St. Catherine (November 25th), when they returned to the stables. Herders were differentiated by the kind of flock they attended -  horses, cattle, sheep, goats, pigs - as well as by hierarchies.

Actually, some of those herders or cowboys, are known in hungarian as "gulyás". Since they were always on the fields, they depended on foods preserved for a long time, such as dried meat. To eat, they prepared it in a cauldron over an open fire and cooked for a long time, in order to soften it. That is the humble origin of the now widely known "goulash".

What they celebrated that day was precisely Saint George's Day, when cattle is traditionally is taken out to the pastures. The landmark is the Nine Arch Brigde, emblem if the Hortobágy National Park and built in 1833. Local lore has it that when a known bandit escaped from prison, 9 women laid down between the 2 banks of the river and he could thus cross.

On the grasslands you could see the herds of gray cattle, famous for their meat, and a type of sheep with spiral horns, called racka. Around them, the shepherds, always on the lookout.

As the parade and official event had not yet started, I returned to the fairground, where they had traditional dances.

I also walked around the stalls, where you can find from wicker baskets to furs, hats, ceramics, goulash cauldrons... everything for your favorite herdsman.

Puli, a hungarian shepherd dog

By that time I was damn hungry and ordered a lepény. For desert, I surrendered to home made cherry rétes (aka. strudel). Between my scarce hungarian and that most people didn't speak English, it was quite a feat to order food. Nothing that pointing out, nodding and typing numbers in a calculator cannot solve.

Lepény

Rétes

Finally, people started moving towards the bridge. The parade was going to start. All different types of herdsmen rode across it, herding their flocks.

They gathered in one of the open areas, where they made tricks on horseback. Personally, I was fascinated to walk near them and admire their typical dresses. This effort to preserve these traditions reminded me a lot of Mexico.

The sun started to set when the event came to a close. I walked back to the small train station, taking again the regional train. Once more in Budapest, nightfall greeted me on my way home.

Mohács and the Busójárás

Cow bells clanging, loud rattles, huge furs, hideous masks. The Busós might scare away the winter but standing in the middle of Mohács main street, I could only feel exhilarated.

Reaching the town from Budapest had been no problem. The Busójárás festival, taking place at the end of February during carnival season, is so well known in Hungary that the bus company added extra buses with several time slots to choose from. Wanting to take advantage of the day, I decided to take the very first one leaving at seven in the morning.

Three hours later, the bus dropped us off at a small parking lot between the main street and a fairground. The place was still fairly empty, there being only two other parked buses. To my good fortune, the people at the information stand were early risers and I was able to get a copy of the day's program in English, where I learned most activities started until noon. Not sure what to do on so early hour, I set on to lazily roam through the town.

Stalls lined the streets all the way to the Danube. My eyes wandered through diverse crafts such as leather belts and wallets, colorful embroidery on white clothes, souvenirs both pretty and cheap and of course, the intricate wooden masks. 

My nose feasted on roasting kürtőskalács, freshly baked rétes, smoking grilled meat and slowly cooked stews. My mouth watered at the wide sort of cookies and sweets, all kind of cheeses, hams and salamis, even the better if I could have a free sample. My stomach could not stand it anymore and let out a growl. I succumbed to a poppy seed-filled rétes.

 Happily munching, I made my way to the Busóudvar, which throughout the year holds an exhibition about the festivity. However, as I would experience the real deal, I did not enter and instead walked to the Serbian church. A stage had been set on its courtyard, where several dance groups performed and a couple of Busós fooled around between presentations.

A bit after midday, I set out towards the river promenade in order to see the Busós cross the Danube. Wriggling my way through the crowds, I found a spot with a nice panorama view. Unfortunately, the crossing place was at the Sokac haven, a lot more to the north than where I was, so I only got a small glimpse of the boats.

 While the Busós landed and got ready to start the parade, I walked back to the main square, snatching a ham and cheese lépeny on the way. Right in the middle of Széchenyi tér, the actual name of the square, was a huge heap of hay, ready for the bonfire. 

Bordering one side lays the city hall, in front of which a raised stage hosted several folk music and dance groups. I enjoyed seeing how they proudly wear the traditional costumes, whistling at one another upon a display of footwork skills. Absorbed watching the dancers, the rustle of people moving to the edge of the square brought me back to reality. The Busó parade was finally arriving.

Traditionally, only the men wear the Busó costume of mask, sheep skin and white trousers. Tied to their belt hang cow bells and bottles of some drink, out of which they take sips from time to time. I doubt it's only water. In their hands they carry rattles and pitchforks. Some of them have donuts pierced through their pitchforks and horns, to comedic effect. A few others throw flour to unsuspecting female tourists. They are the vivid definition of a buffoon.

 

In contrast, their women companions look tidy. Their hair is tied in a tight bun with a red ribbon, complementing the traditional Sokac dress, which consists of a skirt, an embroidered apron, a white blouse and a black knitted shawl. A black mask with a white veil covers their faces, their eyes accentuated by the contrast. Whole families take part in the walking, with the little ones dressed just like their elders.

 

 Divided into guilds or clubs, each group has its own allegorical car with decorations ranging from the funny to the irreverent. Nevertheless, all of them are decorated with hay, wood, dried stalks and green weeds, possibly to augur a good harvest. Some of them also pull along cannons, which puzzled me.

Once the last group arrived on the square, it was a free for all celebration. The locals mingled with the visitors, with the Busós posing for pictures as well as playing pranks. Cannons thundered constantly; the louder, the better. I could feel my head pounding from all the noise. A feeling of mischievous playfulness hung in the air.

As soon as the sun set, two Busós climbed the hay heap and raised a big mannequin. They danced around it to the beat of the music while carrying torches. Then, with the burst of a firecracker, everything was set alight. A gasp surged from the crowd and hundreds of cellphones tried to capture the moment, while the rest of us spectators stood there mesmerized by the fire.

Suddenly I snapped back and checked the time. My returning bus to Budapest would depart in a few minutes, so I walked back to the small parking lot. This time it was overrun with buses and visitors who also wanted to go back home. After struggling to get on the right bus, I finally sat down and dozed off, tired from the long day but smiling from all I had experienced.