Zongozotla, Mexico

A Pentecostal Preacher Outside his Afternoon Service


A man spreads coffee beans - the staple industry - to dry outside his house

In Febs, after a month in northern Mexico, I headed to the urban metropolis of Zongozotla, Puebla - home to 4000 people, and 13 Churches of various sects. With homies Deborah Bonello and Monica Campbell (and armed with a grant via the BBC to look at a different side of religion in Mexico), a rare chance to work together on something multimedia - Monica leading the reporting charge, me and D taking fotos and video respectively.


Zongozotla's main street

A man listens outside a packed Evangelical service

A preacher mid-service, at Zongozotla's newest Pentecostal church


I think it worked out nicely - nice work to the eds at PRI's The World for trying out something new, and setting it up nicely. Check out the whole thing here, and click on the photos to get into the rad videos, or listen to Monica's report below.

74-year old Juvencio Domingo looks for coffee beans on his plot

A family of converted Evangelicals come to work for the day on Juvencio's land

Men gather at the back of their Pentecostal service

Splattered around this blog post are a bunch of photos that did not make the cut for publication, but that I like nonetheless.

Socks hang in a drizzly afternoon in the highlands

An Evangelical minister steps out for a break mid service

Retired Evangelist Miguel Cano contemplates a question about his faith

Zongozotla at dawn

When the Circus Comes to Town

The pasero edges through the late afternoon traffic of downtown Mexico City. Four pesos to cram into these mini-buses that creep through the horns, exhaust, gray noise.

An old man in a brown sweater contorts through the standing passengers, offering cigarettes and gum from a wooden box under his solemn face. He's followed shortly by a young man selling cumbia disks from his backpack speakers. Morose faced commuters looking at the streets. People pile in and out.

Three clowns in yellow jump suits, big shoes, painted faces. One's juggling oranges, another's dancing and yelling back and forth to the third guy who inexplicably pulls a large red bag over his frizzy red hair, painted face and red nose, and keeps shouting nonsense.

Sweating, the bag guy comes down the line, asking for 'coperación,' as the other two continue. He comes back and shows the measly collection to his colleagues: a few 1 and 2 peso coins, nada mas. They react in surprised horror.

"Let's try something new," shouts one, feigning anger at the low return. The other two applaud in absurb clownliness. "Jokes!" More exaggerated clapping and some screams.

"What did the Burro say when the mouse stepped on his foot?"

"what?"

"Ouuch!"

Exaggerated laughter.

"Why did the cat say to the dog?"

"what?"

"wooooof-wooof!"

Exaggerated laughter.

"What did the raton say to the putamadre pasajeros who didn't want to donate a few coins?"

"What?"

"This is a shakedown mutherfuckers!!! [guns come out] Empty all of your fucking pockets, put it all the bag and shut the fuck up!!"

Exagerrated laughter, gunpoint collection of goods.

Three clowns exit stage right with a stuffed red bag and full pockets.

[NOTE 1: raton means 'rat' or 'mouse' in Spanish, but it is also used colloquially to denote any kind of common criminal. Making THAT a bit of a play on words...

NOTE 2: The skeleton of this story was told to me last week over cantina beers with some guys who cover nota roja, or crime reporting, for a major DF tabloid. Details added for fun, and cuz its a blog post]

San Judas Follow Up

With the Pope coming next week, lots of interest in religion in Mexico these days. So, after putting up some old photos last week, sent Global Post a quick email, and biked down to San Hipólito to do some interviews.

Here's the intro, or full link to the story here:

As dusk falls outside this city’s colonial-era Temple of San Hipolito, Daniel struggles to carry a life-size statue of San Judas Tadeo. He stumbles through a vibrant crowd of food sellers and believers who come out on the 28th of each month to pay their dues to the saint.

With slightly glazed, squinted eyes, Daniel, a 27-year-old beer vendor, tries to explain his devotion. He tugs nervously at his baggy black jeans and cocks his hat further to the side, before finally stammering a response.

“San Judas does favors for me, so I come down here. He makes sure I have work, and that I stay in good health. That’s why I bring him here, to say thanks.”

His friend Jesus (who, like Daniel, asked only to be identified by his first name) says he too owes a lot to the saint he’s been worshipping each month for the past six years.

“I was taking drugs, robbing people, walking down a bad path. I’ve turned things around, thanks to [San Judas],” Jesus says. “Two or three times, he’s fulfilled some important requests I made.”