Each January since 2001 Mary and I have gone scuba-diving in Cozumel. We go for the diving, but also for the immersion in another culture, another way of life. We stay at Hotel Pepita, an old, family-owned hotel favored by divers, set a few blocks away from the tourist section of San Miguel. We shop for fruit at the bustling market in a big warehouse a few blocks farther back from the tourist section; and we dine where we see the locals eating. And, last January, I went to mass at the church of San Miguel Arcangel; this is part of a report of that experience.
The people have Sunday Mass
at 9:00 a.m. in the church of San Miguel Arcangel, here in San Miguel, Cozumel, Quintana Roo, Mexico. It is a warm morning in January. Actually there are four Masses on Sunday, and two Masses a day the rest of the week in San Miguel but now it's 9:00 a.m. Sunday and the people fill the church - all the pews, the benches along both sides, all the standing room.
All the women in the pews are in dresses or skirts. The dresses have mostly floral patterns - black and white flowers, or colored ones. Many of the women standing at the back are in slacks, some of them in black slacks. White blouse or shirt, black skirt, slacks, or pants - these are a standard uniform for many of the people work in Cozueml. Standing at the rear entrance to the church, one adolescent girl with hair tinted somewhat red wears a bright shirt with "SEXY" in white letters across her developing bosom; this is not standard uniform, rather it calls more attention than most of these folks seem comfortable with.
The people are a gentle people. Last night as we walked late in the streets, among all the young men still out and about, I felt as safe as I do in Fairwater. There were women and children in the streets as well, fathers, families, young lovers arm in arm. These are a fine and lovely people, welcoming and sweetly disposed, more given to kindness than violence.
If any peoples of the world mirror their past in their physical presence, the people of Cozumel are chief among them. Here in church this morning, an Aztec nose; there, the Mayan cheekbones; and over there, the fine smallness of their stature.
The people fill the church of San Miguel Arcangel this morning. I stand at the back. Above me, in the choir loft, the strum of guitar, then a break of voices. Two altar boys enter the church from the rear, carrying candles atop tall poles; two other altar boys carry censer and incense. They followed by a boy with a staff and a girl with a large scarf on her head and shoulders and the baby Jesus in her arms. Then the priest. They march the center aisle to the altar. The people sing, mixing their voices with those floating from the choir loft above, mixing with the changing chords of the booming guitar.
In a community where nearly every fellow seems to play fancy guitar for the tourists, the guitar-playing in church is solemn and square and decidedly plain. In Cozumel no one shows off in God's house. The music sounds like folk music; this is one of the people's hymns, and they sing it heartfelt.
To be continued....
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