Sitting in the Che Guevara Cooperative Store with my language-school teacher I ask him how long he plans to stay at the school and what he hopes to do afterward. He looks down, smiling and shaking his head, responding that he does not know. In the community here, plans for more than a few weeks in the future are rarely made or audibly considered.
I am in Zapatista territory in the mountains of Southeastern Mexico. In a 1994 armed uprising, the Zapatistas demanded indigenous rights and an end to economic exploitation. Responding to the repression by the government ever since, the Zapatistas have built a network of autonomous municipalities that follow their own laws and customs.
They have created a protective space that moves at its own pace, in which I can feel apart from the world outside. In this mountain escape, the clouds roll down from the hilltops at night and settle between the trees and scattered buildings. Just as the fog masks the path ahead, the future here is veiled in uncertainty. Only the next steps in the present are visible.
Time here is dictated by necessity, not by any external pressure. In rebellion, there is official Zapatista time, which is a different hour from standard Mexican time. And just as the clocks are set according to the needs of the community, everyday decisions are made independently of any outside expectations or standards.
The name for the Zapatista centers of governance is “caracol,” which means “snail” in Spanish. A poem by Spanish poet Antonio Machado is popularly quoted here: “Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace el camino al andar,” which roughly translates to, “For the walker, there is no road. The road is made by walking.” The governance of the caracol, called the Junta de Buen Gobierno, embodies this aphorism in its unique rotational structure.
Every week a different group of Zapatista men and women serves on the council. Each issue, large or small, is taken in stride and assessment is based upon what benefits the community as a whole. Because there is a new Junta every week, oftentimes details from previous weeks must be repeated and introductions made and remade.
It is bothersome at times to go before a masked committee and answer questions about my intentions for visiting. Every time I return to the caracol on my own. I want to say, “I’m safe, I’ve been living here for three weeks.” But instead, I have gotton over my impatience and accepted that each day stands independently from those that came before, and from those that will come after.
On each new day, there is a new group of foreigners making its presence felt in the local routine. Sitting on the ground in front of the Junta governing building, waiting to be interrogated and admitted, are Italians, Germans, French and the random few from the United States. Typically dressed in crusty hippie travel garb, the visitors arrive at the Chiapas highlands to experience autonomy in action. Though it is obvious who the visitors are, we are never made to feel uncomfortable or unwelcome. Until each person must go on her way, she is a part of this other world that runs by its own hour, and functions for its own needs.
In the future-oriented framework of my social sphere, individuals make plans based upon their needs and desires. There is a necessary disregard for the community since it is impossible to know what the future will bring. I will go to graduate school and make a community where I choose, rather than stay where my community already is. In this society, a place where the future is not mapped out, the present moment can be fully lived, shifting according to the changes that come up in life.
