San Cristobal, Chiapas, 17-22 April, 2009
Somehow, in leaving Chiapa de Corzo we managed to miss the cuota (toll) highway to San Cristobal and ended up on the libre (free) route. The consequence is that we are doomed to take a highway of lesser quality, festooned with topes (speed bumps, or "sleeping policemen") as it passes through each small hamlet on the way. The upside is that there is far more to see, as the cuota routes generally lack in scenery what they make up for in speed. We start to climb into the mountains, and basically just keep climbing, for we have to make about 4000' in elevation to reach our destination. There is a definite change in atmosphere as the temperature drops and the pine tree takes over the landscape. We see countless small Indian villages along the way, with grubby small children waving from the side of the road and women dressed in the typical rough woolen skirts and shiny, multi-coloured satin blouses tending small herds of sheep. We pass through one section of road where there had very recently been a rock slide across the roadway, hardly a surprise in an area that experiences hundreds of earthquakes a year. We are lucky that we are not held up by it.
In San Cristobal, we try to follow the typically confusing directions in our camping book and get lost, not a pleasant experience when trying to navigate the Rusty Cougar through streets that were originally designed around the burro and the ox cart. After pulling a few funky moves, including a wrong-way trip down a one-way street with cabbies yelling at Remy, we made it to the San Nicolas Campground on the far east side of town. M$210 ($21) per night for full services including wifi, in a beautiful mountainside setting. We are certainly conscious of the difference in altitude, as it is cool and at points we are in the clouds. There is also a heavy concentration of wood smoke, as this is the primary source of heat and cooking, which the atmospheric conditions tend to keep close to the ground.
We feel the thinness of the air each day when we ride our bikes into town. Generally we park the bikes in the main square and tour on foot. The city is a fascinating mixture of cultures. There is a strong Indian presence, especially of the women, who still generally dress in their traditional garb. There is a large presence of European tourists, and few of the gringoes present actually speak English as their primary language. Big SUV's and vans driven by well-heeled Mexicans abound, with the rest of the population rounded off by the heavy hippie and alternative lifestyle presence. It is a truly cosmopolitan city, with native handicrafts and street food vendors bumping elbows with high-end shops and restaurants. There are, thankfully, many good coffee shops.
The local specialty is amber, and it is everywhere. We shopped hard for something worthy of taking home, but unfortunately, as is typical of such things, it is not presented with much imagination and everybody tends to carry the same stuff. We actually came away with only gifts for other people, and could not find anything to Liz' taste.
There are many markets here, some of which are the wildest we have seen in Mexico. It is not unusual to see ancient women, standing in the street outside the market, with three or four chickens hanging from bound feet on either arm, destined for the grill or stew pot that night. The main municipal market, which is open every day, is a warren of stalls that extend for miles within the area of many city blocks, and spills down streets on every side. A market springs up every night in front of the main cathedral of Indian women selling textile goods, and there are various other markets spread around town. We end up doing a lot of shopping.
We had an experience while here which reaffirms for us what any serious traveller learns about human nature, which is that by far, the vast majority of people in the world are helpful and kind. Our (mis)adventure began with our desire to visit San Juan Chamula, an Indian town just north of San Cristobal. We found a collectivo (collective mini-bus) company to take us and a bunch of other people to Chamula, cost M$9 (90 cents) each. We were dropped off at the edge of town and directed to walk to the main square in front of the church. When we got there, we quickly realized that Remy had violated his own rule and had removed the camera case from his body during the trip, and in the haste to dismount the van had left it inside! We were devastated, particularly Remy, and it was hard to really concentrate on the raison d'etre of the trip, which was a visit to the church.
We dutifully paid the entrance admission for tourists, and saw a Catholic church unlike anywhere else in Mexico. To begin with, there are no pews whatsoever, and the floor is thickly strewn with fresh pine needles. Each wall is lined with dozens of effigies of various saints, and the altar is presided over by a statue of the town's patron saint, Saint John the Baptist, instead of the usual image of Christ. Groups of people were scattered throughout the church, performing ceremonies that involved chickens, eggs, candles stuck to the floor, and bottles of soft drinks and cane liquor. It was not until we went to the Museum of Mayan Medicine a couple of days later that we realized that what we were witnessing was the syncretized form of Catholicism that is practiced by the Indians, which combines their pre-Hispanic animism with the Catholic doctrine taught by various monastic orders that evangelized the area. Yet more proof that the Indians were never really conquered by the Spanish.
As mentioned, it was hard to concentrate on the church in light of the camera disaster. Remy talked to some of the other collectivo drivers in the square and only received worse news. The company that we had come with serves many other towns, of which Chamula is only one stop. Unlike the company of the drivers Remy spoke with, the one we had taken did not have radios to communicate with the drivers. We had no way of identifying the vehicle (hmm, it was a white VW van, hardly unique in Mexico) and could only identify the driver by sight. The recovery of our very expensive camera, with all the photos of San Cristobal which we had not yet downloaded, seemed hopeless.
But we were not without hope. Cutting short our visit to Chamula, we returned to San Cristobal and the yard where we had originally caught the collectivo. We took lunch in shifts and it was during Liz and Hollis' watch that Hollis spotted our driver returning in his van to the yard. He hardly seemed surprised and handed the camera to Liz through the window. Liz was crying with relief and tried to present the driver with a reward of M$100 ($10) but he refused to take it. It was a small token on our behalf, considering the value of the camera, and a large bonus to the driver, considering that it represents a day's wages for a labourer, so Liz insisted and pressed it upon him. We are overwhelmed at his honesty and as a souvenir of the incident have kept the two photos of landscape somewhere on his route that the driver took while the camera was in his possession.
We felt so much better that we returned to Chamula and celebrated our good cheer by distributing candy to the kids in the main square. The photo shows Liz being mobbed by the eager kids.
San Cristobal was the seat of the Zapatista movement which began on January 1, 1996, so we made sure to catch a screening of a documentary explaining the conflict. It sets a context for all the Subcomandante Marcos dolls that are everywhere, and illustrates the indomitable spirit of the Indians. It was a bit strange to see footage of armed conflict in places that we look at as we sip our coffee every afternoon, and to see the harsh way in which the Mexican army crushed the revolt. The whole rebel guerrilla idea has captured Hollis' imagination, and he now lurks around the camp site with his BB gun and a black balaclava.
We also saw a theatre performance of Palenque Rojo, a play in the Mayan language that re-enacts an historical tale of conflict between two Mayan kingdoms, set in our next destination. It was interesting, if a bit hard to follow considering that we could not understand a single word. The boys were fascinated with the ritual bloodletting from the king's genitals as part of a sacrifice, and were disappointed that it was not more graphic.
-Remy
Oaxaca City, Oaxaca
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