In Mexico, an Indigenous Triqui Artist Embraces Roots Through Modern Rap

Backstage at a celebration of Indigenous peoples in Mexico City’s expansive central square, Carlos CGH traced his fingers across a black and red “gabán,” similar to a poncho.

The garment, native to the Triqui people in western Oaxaca, holds special meaning for the 24-year-old rapper and is reserved for significant events. Its textured surface was adorned with intricate needlepoint patterns of multicolored corn husks.

As the rapper—whose full name is Carlos Guadalupe Hernández—made his final preparations for his performance, Oaxacan muralist Alberto Sebastián Bautista Figueroa brainstormed details. He crafted an illustration featuring the word “RAICES,” which means “ROOTS,” in twisting strokes for a mural to be unveiled alongside the performance.

“We’re always proud,” Guadalupe said on stage, donning the gabán. “This is dedicated to all craftspeople here; people don’t realize the history and resistance behind one garment.”

These details are crucial to his identity as a musician, reflecting his origins as a descendant of the Triqui nation. His lyrics resonate with his culture, and he strives to preserve his native Triqui language through modern rap.

Triqui is among many Mixtec languages spoken in Oaxaca, featuring four variants. One variant, Xnánj nu’ a, is particular to Guadalupe’s hometown of San Juan Copala.

“To my Triqui brothers—farmworkers, students, doctors, and all the women,” Guadalupe rapped in Spanish. “We fight every day for a better future.” He held up a shirt that read “Triqui Nation Resists!” while his DJ dropped a series of trap horns.

The Indigenous Triqui people, numbering around 20,000, have faced political and social conflicts for over eight decades. The area has also become a hotspot for arms trafficking, drug trafficking, and illegal logging.

Increasing internal disputes over territorial control, including numerous killings, have forced many in the community to leave their homes.

Many Triquis have relocated to Mexico City but remain determined to return to their ancestral lands. Guadalupe hails from the municipality of Santiago Juxtlahuaca, a location many Triquis were compelled to abandon. He moved at the age of six to another Oaxacan city, Huajuapan de León, about two hours away.

He discovered his passion for music at age 12 as a percussionist with a local band, often surrounded by Oaxaca-Mixteca artists he admired. He started rapping in 2013, inspired by the local scene. “It was like love at first sight,” he recalled after watching local lyricists perform.

Guadalupe sees rap as a tool to preserve his native tongue.

“It’s a language at risk of disappearing. Parents and grandparents are no longer teaching it to their kids,” he said. “Through rap, we can create songs that spark interest in the new generations to speak it (Triqui) again.”

In Oaxaca, rap is thriving. To mark hip-hop’s 50th anniversary, Oaxaca’s Sound Archive, an independent project showcasing the state’s musical diversity, created a “sonic” map of the region’s most influential rappers earlier this year, including Carlos CGH.

With about a dozen Indigenous languages, Oaxaca has nurtured a vibrant scene. Guadalupe’s peers include rappers who take pride in rapping in Mixtec, Zapotec, Cuicatec, and other languages.

However, the scene has also been marred by violence. Last month, Rosty Bazendu, a passionate lyricist in the Zapotec language, was killed.

“When you search for the Triqui community online, you’ll find many issues we face,” Guadalupe said. “Here in Mexico City, I talk about what’s within my community—the celebrations, the craftsmanship, the children, everyone who stands out.”

On stage, Guadalupe’s vision of Triqui culture comes alive.

“Where are my people from the Triqui nation?” he shouted. A family in the front row raised their hands.

His final song, dedicated to the people of Santiago Juxtlahuaca, began with playful arrangements of traditional Oaxacan banda music.

The crowd cheered for “El Baile del Diablo,” or “Devil’s Dance,” a traditional dance from the Oaxacan coast. Muralist Bautista exchanged his cans of spray paint for the traditional devil garb, wearing a handcrafted wooden mask and stomping across the stage.

Throughout the track, Guadalupe seamlessly intertwined Spanish verses with Triqui rhymes.

“I will never forget my culture, tradition, and language,” he declared with pride at the end.