The Sumidero Canyon and Chiapa de Corzo: Part 8 of South East from Mexico City

The Rio Grijalva and the Oldest Spanish City in Chiapas State

Mexico

State of Chiapas

On another chilly San Cristóbal morning we set off with Al and his driver heading for a boat trip through the Sumidero Canyon. As we descended towards Tuxtla Gutiérrez, mist sometimes swirled around the toll road, sometimes blanketed the valleys below, but the boat station on the Rio Grijalva was almost 2000m lower than San Cristóbal and we confidently expected proper tropical temperatures to reassert themselves.

On a map of this scale, these events take place ever so slightly west of San Cristobal de las Casas in Mexico's bottom right hand corner (as geographers call it)

The Sumidero Canyon

The mist had indeed evaporated and the sky was blue by the time we reached the river…

Boat station on the Rio Grijalva

…. but Lynne did not yet judge it warm enough to remove her sweater.

Waiting for a boat by the Rio Grijalva

After a short wait we joined a mixed group of Mexicans, Americans, Israelis and Slovenes (and, very possibly, others) aboard a speed boat that followed the river west then north under the Panamerican Highway and into the Sumidero Canyon.

The bridge and the entrance to the Sumidero Canyon

It may have been warm by now, but zipping along the surface of the water the cool and occasionally damp wind kept the temperature down.

We were not far beyond the bridge when the speed suddenly slackened and we swung right towards the bank. The driver sitting on an elevated gantry at the stern had spotted something. ‘Crocodile,’ he said. Lynne had a better view of the beast than I did, but Señor Croc was not interested in visitors and waddled off into the vegetation. I am not proud of my photo, I have the arm of the man next to me in better focus than the partly hidden reptile, but there is a clear tail on the beaten earth and a body can be made out through the grass. American Crocodiles range from the southern tip of Florida down to Peru and Venezuela, in both salt and fresh water, with the average male around 4.5m in length and females a little smaller. Scary beasts.

American crocodile, just about, Sumidero Canyon

I prefer my photo of a heron which briefly accompanied us.

I am fairly confident it is a heron, but it could be any one of several species

We sped along for a while, deeper into the canyon…

Deeper into the Sumidero Canyon

…the walls becoming higher, the defile narrower and the bends sometimes as much as 90°. 13km long, the canyon is between 1 and 2km wide with often vertical walls mostly between 200 and 700m high, though reaching as high as 1,000m.

The Sumidero Canyon

Spider Monkeys

Again the boat slowed and turned towards the bank. This time the driver had spotted a group of spider monkeys. Much friendlier characters than the crocodile, one came to have a good look at us…

Mexican Spider Monkey, Sumidero Canyon

…demonstrated his skills…

Mexican spider monkey, Sumidero Canyon

…then, to show he was completely at ease, he sat on a boulder and had a snack. Despite their enormously long limbs and tail, there are moments when they look disturbingly human.

Mexican spider Monkey, Sumidero Canyon

There are seven species of spider monkeys, all living in Mexico, Central America and the northern third of South America. I am fairly confident this is a Mexican Spider Monkey (a subspecies of Geoffrey’s Spider Monkey) and not just because we were in Mexico. They are critically endangered, loss of habitat having caused an 80% population decrease in the last 45 years, but in the 200km² Sumidero Canyon National Park they should (provided the law is enforced) be able to live unthreatened by human activity.

For a while we enjoyed the cool breeze..

Really enjoying the cool breeze, Sumidero Canyon

…but then noticed our way seemed to be barred.

A Garbage Slick in the Rio Grijalva

Something bars our way, Sumidero Canyon

Closer, we could see a garbage slick, mainly plastic bottles but with all sorts of detritus caught up in it, 30m wide and strung out across the whole river. Along the way we had seen occasional bottles floating on the stream, and this is the place where topography and fluid dynamics demand they all end up.

Rubbish slick on the Rio Grijalva.

La Cueva de Colores

The driver carefully nosed the boat through the debris and soon the river was back to its pleasant self. Ten minutes later we reached the Cueva de Colores (Cave of Colours) one of several small caves in the rock wall. The Virgin of Guadalupe looks after the cave and is usually surrounded by fresh flowers and lighted candles.

The Virgin of Guadalupe, Cuerva de Colores, Sumidero Canyon 

The actual colours, reds, greens and pinks from minerals in the rock are less than vivid, but they are visible, just.

The underwhelming colours, Cueva de Colores, Sumidero Canyon

As we saw at the Maling Gorge in southwest China, streams tumbling over the edge of the canyon leave their minerals in the foliage below which gradually turns to stone. As he guided the boat through the falling mist – waterfall would seriously overstate it – the driver assured us that a little bespattering would ensure longevity. Staying even longer offers immortality through petrification.

Falling spray and petrified vegetation, Sumidero Canyon

Lake Chicoasén

After the ‘waterfalls’ the river widened, the rock walls became lower and we emerged from the canyon and its national park into Lake Chicoasén.

Into Lake Chicoasén

The lake is formed by Chicoasén Dam (officially the Manuel Moreno Torres Dam) and it was only when I found the dam was not towering above us that I realised we had been travelling downstream. As we reached the Rio Grijalva by descending the southern edge of the massif from San Cristóbal, the river must obviously be making for the Pacific coast, but the obvious is not always true. There are more highlands to the south where the Grijalva rises and flows down their northern flank, before exploiting a crack in the area’s crust to create the Sumidero Canyon on its way to the Gulf of Mexico.

The dam, built between 1974 and 1980, is an earth-filled embankment dam, with Mexico’s largest hydroelectric station on its downstream side. Concrete arch dams always look more impressive, but at 261m the Chicoasén is actually the tallest in North America. Beside the dam is a statue dedicated to the workers who built it.

Approaching the Chicoasén Dam

We paused to admire the pelicans decorating the floating oil drums, turned and headed back south.

Pelicans, Lake Chicoasén

Michelada

As we departed a smaller boat drew alongside bearing two enterprising young men and a supply of cold drinks. I mentioned michelada when we saw it on sale at Teotihuacan; now seemed the moment to try it. Invented only in the 1960s, michelada was originally beer with salt, lime and chilli sauce but now all sorts of things may be added. Stacks of plastic glasses had been prepared with salted rims and three fingers of red liquid in the base. I watched the young man empty a can of beer into it and hand it to me.

Michelada salesman, Lake Chicoasén

Apart from beer I am uncertain what was in it, a little chilli probably and other flavours I did not recognise and did not particularly like. Lynne had a sip and grimaced; the photo shows I drank most of it, but what remains in the glass went into the lake (sorry fish). Like everyone my age I tried lager and lime in the late sixties, but thus forewarned eschewed the short-lived 80s fashion for Mexican beer with a slice of lime rammed in the neck. Fifty years of drinking experience have taught me this simple truth: if you think your beer would be improved by putting something else in it, buy better beer. And why put salt round the rim of the glass? How does that improve anything?

I do't know why I am holding the glass up like that, my next action was to dump the contents into the lake
Michelada, Lake Chicoasén

Our return journey was swift and unremarkable, apart from when the motor spluttered to a halt amid the rubbish, fortunately the boat was equipped with an emergency fuel can. I was no less appalled by the slick on the way back so here is another picture. I asked why no one cleared it up and received two answers: 1) it is always cleared at the end of the rainy season – but the rainy season is already over - and 2) they used to but found it too expensive. Can I respectfully suggest to the relevant authorities that they get their arses in gear and sort this out! (A lesser man would have resorted to caps lock there).

That rubbish slick again, Sumidero Canyon

Having dumped the latter part of my drink in the lake I disposed of the glass as responsibly as I could on my return. I cannot guarantee it did not end up back in the river.

Chiapa de Corzo

When the town of Chiapa de Corzo, a few minutes from the boat station, was founded in 1528 it was the first Spanish city in Chiapas State, though the site has been occupied since 1400 BCE.

Chiapa de Corzo’s Fiesta Grande de Enero (Great January Festival) honours the local patron saints and was first held in 1599. The highlight is the Dance of the Parachicos, who wear elaborate headdresses and carved wooden masks. To ensure even November visitors are aware of this a parachico statue stands at the town’s entrance.

Parachico, Chiapa de Corzo

The locals boast that their zócalo (main square) is bigger than Mexico City’s.

The Zócalo, Chiapa de Corzo

We enjoyed the unaccustomed warmth as we strolled through the relaxed streets…

Chiapa de Corzo

…and toured the shops in the 18th century portales.

The Portales, Chiapa de Corzo

On the edge of the zócalo is a huge and aged kapok tree, allegedly the very tree under which the Spanish founded the town, and…

Me (left) and the aged kapok tree (right), Chiapa de Corzo

...and in the centre is La Pila, a Moorish-style fountain and occasional watchtower built in 1562.

La Pila, Chiapa de Corzo

Back to San Cristóbal

In yesterday’s San Cristóbal post I noted Al’s comments that although many indigenous peoples have real grievances, they go about solving them the wrong way, and the authorities reactions are equally inept. We found that the toll gate on the highway had been taken over by such a group and they were collecting the tolls for themselves. The police were nowhere to be seen, so our driver shrugged, paid and covered his transponder so he did not pay twice.

Back in San Cristóbal it was too late for lunch so we lingered in a coffee shop before taking a walk past a market and interesting sweetshop….

Sweetshop, San Cristóbal de las Casas

…to the Iglesia del Carmen. I am sure we photographed the 17th century church, the earthquake cracked tower and the adjacent (now closed) convent but although I do not remember deleting them I have no photos now. Strange. In 1993 an electrical fault caused a major fire in the church. According to the story (which may or may not be true) the fire was put out and the nuns settled down for the night, then some bright spark turned the electricity back on. This time the church was gutted.

In the restored but plain interior a service was in progress. There was a small congregation but no priest, the service being conducted by a recording with pauses left for the responses.

As usual the temperature plummeted even before night fell. Again we ate in the Italian restaurant seated by the pizza oven, I had had enough pasta, but it was the only place we could eat without shivering.

South East from Mexico City

 Part 1: Mexico City (1): Celebrating a Revolution

Part 2: Mexico City (2) Centro Historico and Teotihuacan

Part 3: Cholula, a Big Pyramid and Fresh Grasshoppers

Part 4: Puebla, Cinco de Mayo and Street Food

Part 5: Oaxaca (1): Monte Alban

Part 6: Oaxaca (2): Cooking a Mole

Part 7: San Cristóbal de las Casas. Chamula and Zinacantán

Part 8: The Sumidero Canyon and Chiapa de Corzo

Part 9: San Cristóbal to Palenque via Toniná

Part 10: Palenque and Back to Mexico City

Part 11: Mexico City (3) Kahlo, Rivera and Trotsky

THE END

San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chamula and Zinacantán:Part 7 of South East from Mexico City

An Old Colonial City and Two Towns of the Tzotzil Maya Indigenous People

25-Nov-2017

From Oaxaca to San Cristóbal las Casas

Mexico

We enjoyed a leisurely start, our airport pick-up not arriving until 10.30. Women professional drivers have been a rarity on our travels and today’s was the first to be accompanied by her twelve-year-old daughter. Saturday morning childcare can be problematic.

Oaxaca’s small, smart, new airport is thirty minutes south of the city and we were there far too early - no taxi company wants to risk a client missing a flight. Although our driver had less English than we have Spanish and was probably less familiar with airport procedures, she was determined to be helpful, accompanying us to the (closed) check-in desks, finding out what time they opened and showing us to seats where we could wait - all unnecessary, but we appreciated her kindness.

After a long wait we took off on time, heading east and a little south. The visibility was perfect as we flew over the lagoons and islands of the Pacific coast. The turbo-prop ATR-42 (always a comfortable plane, though on this occasion the air-conditioning was overly aggressive) covered the 500km to Tuxtla Gutiérrez in less time than we had spent at the airport.

Tuxtla Gutiérrez, the Capital of Chiapas State (which occupies Mexico's bottom right corner), is three times the size of San Cristóbal - but it is not marked on this map. On this scale it is a few mm west of San Cristóbal de las Casas

Chiapas
State

At Tuxtla’s equally small and new airport we almost had the baggage carousel to ourselves, and Al, our guide for the next few days, found us easily. The airport was swarming with police, which was worrying until one of them pressed a leaflet into my hand and we discovered they were all there publicising a campaign against domestic abuse of women. ‘Fair enough,’ I thought, but why target the airport?

Tuxtla Gutiérrez airport, 20km south the city, was the southernmost point of our Mexican sojourn and the lowest so far, so we traversed the car park basking in tropical warmth. It would not last. Once inside the air-conditioned car we set off for San Cristóbal de las Casas, an 80km journey, and every one of those kilometres took us further from the balmy Pacific and higher into the mountains.

San Cristóbal de las Casas: Arrival and a Chilly Dinner

San Cristóbal

Our first impression of San Cristóbal was of an attractive, tidy colonial city nestling among the hills. When we arrived the sky was blue, the sun was not quite thinking about setting but at 2,200m (7,200ft) there was already a nip in the air.

Our hotel was in the main square…

Main square, San Cristóbal de las Casas

…at its heart, surrounded by grass and trees, was a café that might once have been a bandstand. On the edge of the square we paused to watch a street entertainer doing remarkable things with a diabolo...

The central square, San Cristóbal de las Casas

...and then strolled up a pedestrian street lined with cafés, restaurants and tourist shops – and the odd impromptu stall laid out on the pavement.

San Cristóbal de las Casas

We dined in a restaurant on the square. Margaritas and a mole seemed a good idea, but the temperature had plummeted, the restaurant was unheated and the door open, so we found ourselves concentrating on the cold more than food. The mole, covering a piece of pork rather than chicken, was probably the poorest I had eaten, it certainly did nothing to raise my opinion of moles, and the slishy ice in the margaritas melted reluctantly in the arctic atmosphere. Not a great night out.

We stayed at the Hotel Cuidad Real in the main square of San Cristóbal de las Casas

26-Nov-2017

San Cristóbal de las Casas: A Walking Tour

Breakfast in the hotel’s covered hall was an extensive buffet but again there was no heating. I ventured a taco with a bean filling in the hope that I might be adjusting to corn dough. Lynne chose fried plantain with vegetables, which she pronounced good. There was plenty of fruit and some delicious little pikelets.

Al arrived to conduct our walking tour, but first we paused to watch a procession in honour of the retiring bishop wind its way round the square. We might have popped into his 18th century cathedral, but it was closed and covered in scaffolding after the recent earthquake. The surrounding corrugated iron fence was a source of local controversy; donated by central government as earthquake relief, there were many who thought it would have been better employed as emergency roofing for the poor. As ever in Mexico, the corrugated iron had attracted graffiti, tags at the end of the church….

Scaffolding on the Cathedral of St Christopher, San Cristóbal de las Casas

….but more artistic endeavours along the side.

More artistic graffiti outside the Cathedral, San Cristóbal de las Casas

The charms of San Cristóbal de las Casas lies less in places to visit than in the streets, which were strangely quiet on a chilly Sunday morning.

San Cristóbal de las Casas
Do not be fooled by the blue sky and sharp shadows; at this height the day warms up slowly

The centre, where the majority of the 160,000 inhabitants live, retains the original 16th century grid pattern and many of the original colonial buildings. Some still have single occupiers, other have been divided up…

Colonial building, San Cristóbal de las Casas

...while yet others have been converted into hotels with attractive gardens lurking behind the façades.

Hidden garden, San Cristóbal de las Casas

Further from the square we reached the market, passing stalls selling fruit…

Fruit stall, San Cristóbal de las Casas

….shoes, clothes and more fruit…

Fruit, clothes, shoe stall, San Cristóbal de las Casas
The black skirt of the woman walking out of the picture left is typical of Chamula (see below)

…shiny things and much more.

Stall selling shiny things, San Cristóbal de las Casas

The market is expanding from its official site and colonising the pavements. Ad hoc stalls are not always welcomed by shopkeepers and regular stallholders - I doubt the pharmacy (below) is delighted to have a fruit and veg stall sprawling across its doorstep.

Impromptu stall outside a pharmacy, San Cristóbal de las Casas - and more of the black skirts of Chamula

Since 2003 San Cristóbal has been one of Secretariat of Tourism's pueblos mágicos - others include Cholula (visited last Monday) and Chiapa de Corso (tomorrow) – and was declared the 'most magical' in 2010. Much of the ‘cultural magic’ is associated with the indigenous peoples who comprise a third of the city’s population.

The traditional hierarchy - Spanish at the top, mestizos (those of mixed descent) in the middle and indigenous people at the bottom – remains largely intact. Mestizos have increased vastly in number and importance since the 16th century and almost everybody we have come across so far on this journey is probably of mixed descent but before San Cristóbal we had not knowingly encountered anyone claiming to be indigenous. Here they account for about a third of the population and in the neighbouring municipalities of Chamula and Zinacantán almost 100%. Most are Tzotzil Mayas, but the Tzotzil are not a homogeneous group, women from Chamula wear skirts of heavy, black, hairy wool (‘they look like turkeys' said Al, somewhat ungraciously) those from Zinacantán wear more colourful clothes while some from both communities have abandoned traditional dress, yet still consider themselves indigenous.

Street corner, San Cristóbal de las Casas

From the market we turned left and left again to return the way we had come, but a couple of blocks over.

The Santo Domingo steps were also the venue for an unofficial market. The church and former convent were built in 1546, but a later makeover turned it into a fine example of colonial baroque. Like the cathedral it was closed after the recent earthquake.

Santo Domingo, San Cristóbal de las Casas

Further along the retiring bishop had just finished saying mass by the cross on the cathedral square.

The cross and the Cathedral Square, San Cristóbal de las Casas

The sun had now worked its magic in the cloudless sky, and as our hotel was nearby we dropped in to deposit unwanted clothing before continuing further south, passing the house of Don Diego de Mazariego who founded the city in 1528 (or perhaps the site of his house – the phrase ‘sitio y casa’ on the plaque seems ambiguous).

'Sitio y casa' of Don Diego Maraziego who founded San Cristóbal in 1528

Al's driver was waiting for us at the Iglesia del Carmen and took us to Chamula, in the hills some 10km to the north.

Chamula

The small town/big village of Chamula is the main population centre of the much larger Municipality of Chamula where 99% of the 77,000 citizens are indigenous people speaking Tzotzil as their first language.

We stopped by the graveyard, which looks almost Christian, but not quite despite the white painted chapel. The planted pine fronds come from traditional beliefs while the crosses are colour-coded – black for old people, green or blue for adults and white for children or women who died in childbirth.

Chamula cemetery

The Mayan Cross and the Church of St John the Baptist

Outside the house opposite was a green-painted Mayan cross, indicating the inhabitants had some standing in the community. The cross has been used since antiquity as a representation of the Mayan World Tree. I wish I knew more, but anything on the internet by proper archaeologists or anthropologists lies drowned beneath an ocean of drivel about Mayan astrology and pseudo-Christian speculation that the cross indicates the Mayan's special deal with God (it is all in the Bible if only we read it correctly).

Mayan cross, Chamula

The market square is dominated by the Church of St John the Baptist. We realised St John’s might not be a bog-standard Catholic church as we approached past a stall selling chickens for sacrifices.

Sacrificial chickens, Chamula

Below is a photograph of the outside, but photos inside the church are strictly forbidden – as in 'don’t even think about it'. Entering the church was one of those moments when you realise you have stepped outside your previous range of experience. There were no pews, or seats of any kind, the floor was covered in pine fronds, fresher and greener than those at the cemetery, the few windows let in little light and the intense gloom was pierced by the twinkling of hundreds, possibly thousands, of candles.

St John the Baptist, Chamula

Along the walls, glass cases containing crude images of the saints sat behind spaces for candles. Some of the saints were plaster images, others papier maché, some but not all, had names we recognised. ‘They are the old Mayan Gods,’ said Al, ‘made to resemble Christian saints.’

Some individuals had swept aside the pine fronds and were sticking lighted candles to the floor one by one, until eventually they were kneeling behind several rows of ten or a dozen thin, flickering candles. Other people were consulting their shaman, sitting on the floor while the shaman murmured incantations or chanted while feeling their pulse, or casting bones, depending on their preferred diagnostic tool. Coca Cola and a local firewater apparently called posh were sometimes involved as were chickens, their condition being terminal whatever the human's prognosis. Al informed us they were not permitted to kill the chickens inside the church.

The only regular services are baptisms held at the font. Occasionally, Al suggested, a priest will stand at the front – the altar is not the focus it is in other catholic churches – and lead a service, though most will ignore it and continue their consultations with the shaman.

At Chamula the veneer of Christianity is so thin as to be transparent, and we left the church feeling privileged to have been allowed to peer through it.

Chamula Market

Outside in the market place the hard certainties of commerce were more familiar. It would be full of tourists, we had been told, but today we were the only foreigners. Al warned us that the locals dislike tourists and hate being photographed and then sent us off to take some pictures while he wandered round the stalls greeting friends.

As markets go, the produce was not the most interesting…

Chamula Market

….but we were fascinated by the traditional black skirts, some hairy some not so.

Traditional Tzotzil skirts, Chamula Market

The material could be bought at many stalls….

Textile stalls, Chamula Market

….and everyone else seemed to be selling oranges, piled into neat little pyramids.

Oranges and a hairy skirt, Chamula Market

A few men were also in traditional clothing, a long shaggy tabard, black for most but white for village elders.

Chamula elder outside the church

Meeting up with Al, we returned to the car. Despite appearing to have many friends here, he had little respect for the indigenous people, having earlier been snarky about the hairy skirts (and they are not flattering!) he now pointed out the comfortable houses and large cars on the village outskirts. ‘Drug dealers,’ he said, ‘You don’t get those from subsistence farming.’

Chamula has its own police and its own rules, acting like an unofficial autonomous district, but Al’s real beef was with the way Chamulans act outside Chamula; people in St Cristóbal obtain permits and pay rent for their market stalls and then find village people laying out unlicensed stalls in front of them. ‘When indigenous people have grievances,’ he told us, ‘they go about solving them the wrong way.’ There was, no doubt, some prejudice in what he said but we would soon experience 'the wrong way to deal with grievances'. He was equally scathing about the inept response of the authorities to these problems.

Zinacantán

Zinacantán was a short drive away in the adjacent municipality. Although also a Tzotzil village the people dressed very differently and the atmosphere was more relaxed. There was little to see in the streets on a Sunday morning, though we did pass a band on their way to some event.

Band on the run, Zinacantán

Our main visit was to a shop, an Aladdin’s cave of brightly coloured textiles…

Textile shop, Zinacantán

Some of which were made on site using a primitive and uncomfortable form of weaving.

Weaving, Zinacantán

In the backroom chicken thighs were being grilled over a bucket of glowing charcoal...

Grilling chickens, Zinacantán

... and tacos were coming off the hotplate. We helped ourselves to tacos, dropping some coins into the basket. They were the best we had eaten.

Making tacos, Zinacantán

Back to St Cristóbal

The drive back to St Cristóbal brought beautiful views across Zinacantán (unfortunately marred by the blue plastic sheet protecting the earthquake damaged church) and the hills behind.

We arrived in time for a late lunch, a ham sandwich, chips and beer at a pavement café.

We left the café about 3 o’clock when it was still warm in the sun but the shade temperature had started to tumble. We returned to our hotel to reclaim the outer clothing we had abandoned earlier and took a stroll to buy some chocolate and other gifts. On our wanderings we discovered that posh is spelt pox, the name meaning ‘medicine’ in Tzotzil. Distilled from cane sugar, wheat and corn it is flavoured (with hibiscus or strawberry in this photo) for the commercial market. I doubt it would sell in English speaking countries with that name!

Pox on sale in San Cristóbal

After dark the temperature plummeted and we were keen to avoid the freezing dinner of yesterday. It was not easy, San Cristóbal has many restaurants, all had their doors wide open and none had any heating; some locals even sat at tables in the street, huddled under their ponchos. We found this incomprehensible and were becoming desperate when we eventually discovered another ‘Italian restaurant’ (i.e. a pizza and pasta joint) with (sometimes closed) sliding glass doors and inside a pizza oven to sit beside. We enjoyed yet another meal of pizza (Lynne) and pasta (Me) and a cheap bottle of La Mancha red - I would have appreciated a change, but I needed the warmth.

South East from Mexico City

Part 1: Mexico City (1): Celebrating a Revolution
Part 2: Mexico City (2) Centro Historico and Teotihuacan
Part 3: Cholula, a Big Pyramid and Fresh Grasshoppers
Part 4: Puebla, Cinco de Mayo and Street Food
Part 5: Oaxaca (1): Monte Alban
Part 6: Oaxaca (2): Cooking a Mole
Part 7: San Cristóbal de las Casas. Chamula and Zinacantán
Part 8: The Sumidero Canyon and Chiapa de Corzo
Part 9: San Cristóbal to Palenque via Toniná
Part 10: Palenque and Back to Mexico City
Part 11: Mexico City (3) Kahlo, Rivera and Trotsky

THE END