Slowly, the church fills. The entire front right flank is taken up with Mayan women, the colours of their decorative tocoyal headresses glowing in the gloom. Hundreds of candles wax and wane in the draughts, depositing another sooty layer over the sombre oil paintings which bare down upon the congregation. The floor is awash with pine boughs and branches, and flowers, petals and kernels which crunch underfoot. Three simple stained glass windows cast cubes of suspended haze across the hall, but it takes time for the eye to adjust and details to be prised from the penumbra.
Children are eerily silent, or sleep, while the pews fill with shuffling feet.
The mass begins. The dour sermon seems at odds with the jolly singing of a girl choir accompanied by musicians which punctuates it. The words of work and sacrifice, of mea culpa and repentance jar with the sing-song innocence of the tunes played, as if the Old World was trying to sedate the New's childlike enthusiasm. The men of the cofrad as sit, fidgeting quietly on seats to the sides of the altar. Locals and tourists alike line up for the taking of the host.