Mexico
VIII: San Cristobal de las Casas
12/08/06
– 12/18/06
Map of route there: http://tinyurl.com/yap3o5 (I couldn’t find a good map with both Oaxaca
and Chiapas on it, so had to use this MSN thang)
Map,
San Cristobal:
For more on B. Traven, az’s
patron Saint of this section of the trip:
http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/traven.htm
http://libcom.org/history/articles/1890-b-traven/
http://recollectionbooks.com/bleed/Encyclopedia/TravenPage1.htm
(photos
from this time are up...)
http://www.flickr.com/photos/scrappymoduinne/sets/72157594313508543/ )
We made it
clear from the outset. Yes we did. This wasn’t meant to be a bike trip, but a
trip on which we would use bikes. And we
weren’t “cyclists” (whatever that really means). It was to be a trip, an adventure, most of
all, a journey. A
journey WITH bicycles. Christina
puts it this way: Our first priority is to spend time together; this is not a
solo quest. The second priority is to
experience a certain group of counties – Latin America. Our third priority is to use our bicycles to
accomplish the first two. If the third
priority becomes too much of a burden on the first two, then we resort to other
modes of transportation: hitching, buses, winged-serpents (we have met a few),
and such. This doesn’t mean we don’t
want to be on our bikes. We do every
day! And everyday we’re not, we feel
like a sailors left behind, resorting to beachcombing. After all, the bicycles are what allow us to
experience the communities and environment of a place almost completely without
barriers (minus of course the barrier of our obvious privileged status of
having enough money to make such a trip in the first place). And both of us agree. The most amazing parts of our journey so far,
we didn’t say the most “fun” mind you, but the most rewarding by far, have been
the times on our bikes.
So, with
that in mind, it was with heavy hearts, and Christina’s sick belly, that we
swerved through the Mexican night to the heights of magnificent San Cristobal
de las Casas. This was the first bus
that didn’t have the air set to “Butcher’s Cooler”. It’s also the first bus to have not only
seatbelts, but a movie upon starting that showed what would happen to the
unfortunate person who didn’t “strap in” if the bus went over a cliff, rolled
over, or was involved in various other disasters. Sometime during that ride, Christina woke me
up and asked for a bag to barf in. She
refused to go to the bathroom because, as any of you know who’ve ridden on a
bus in ANY country, the smell in there would have been unimaginably awful. I have no knowledge of this (you all know I
was born without a sense of smell, right?), but apparently, when one is
nauseous or with a bad headache (often together in Christina’s case), smells
are intensified to a painful degree. The
smell of someone eating a pickle a block away might be unbearable. So Christina was not going to the
bathroom. I emptied out a plastic bag
that held our bus snacks and she put it to good use. Her stomach had been tightening and giving
cramps for a day or so before hand, but nothing too serious. We weren’t sure if this was connected to
those symptoms or something else all together.
Maybe just motion sickness from the insane curves of
the Mexican mountain roads? She
felt good after giving back a little, and we both fell back asleep until
morning.
We chose
the late night bus because we knew it would put us an hour of so outside of San
Cristobal as the morning broke. We knew
we’d eventually be leaving the city from the southeast, and wanted to see the
view on the way in from the southwest.
It was pretty awe-inspiring. Even
from the thick bus windows. A sheer drop off on one side, the sides of mountains of the other. Below, at times, we thought we could make out
a river, but it was too far down to see.
I kept trying to see out the window across from us (down into the valley
and gorges) but there was a Scandinavian couple making out, and even though my
eyes were glued on the outside view, it felt intrusive. The way they were going at it, they probably
couldn’t have cared less. Outside the window on our side, the mountains were
covered in corn fields. I’d never seen
that before - corn growing on an angle!
In the US, my only association with corn fields was a flat horizon.
San
Cristobal de las Casas sits in a valley (a valley at 2,130 meters, almost 7,000
feet, above sea-level!) surrounded by imposing peaks. I could feel the altitude immediately when I
walked up my first set of stairs. Nothing serious, but a definite shortness of breath. San Cristobal is named after Columbus, but as
if to make up for his sins, “de las Casas” was added later to remember a local
bishop who fought for indigenous rights.
The traditional name is Jovel.
It’s the name, I now realize, that is often mentioned in B. Traven’s
“Jungle” series (of which “Government”, the one I sadly traded in Puerto
Escondido, was the first of). The books
chronicle the conditions that led to the Mexican Revolution and are set in
Chiapas. I had been searching for the
second book in the series, so far in vain, and figured if anywhere had them,
San Cristobal would. In the meantime I
had begun his first published novel: “The Death Ship” (an unconfirmed story had
it that Albert Einstein had named it the book he would take to a desert
island).
We tried
to leave the bus station as quickly as possible because I was on the verge of
getting in serious trouble. I had been
giving the evil eye to the security officer.
He had groped at Christina while she was searching for a missing bag
after the bus had emptied out. “Mi esposa, si.” I
repeated a couple of time, staring right at him. This obviously, because of his “authority”,
was a battle I could not win in any official or unofficial way. But I was going
to let him know – through my dagger-eyes - exactly how I felt. He looked away,
shuffled around like he had important business to do with his club and badge,
but pretty much ignored me. Minutes
later he proceeded to “accidentally” knock over my fully loaded bike. A sarcastic shrug of his
shoulders. I glared some more
until Christina wisely pulled me away: “There’s nothing you can do. He’ll just make up some excuse to fuck with
you for real if you continue. Maybe turn
you into the police with some made up story.
Let’s just go.” Ah, the wisdom of
a woman who knows when to chose the right battles.
Within
seconds of leaving the bus station we were accosted by a gang of hostel
pushers. Come to our place. We have free coffee. Free internet. A pool. We’re the cheapest. We’re the closest to the zocolo. We’ve been around the longest. We speak English. We are quiet.
We have parties with hash and tequila.
We, we, we! Christina and I
filled our pockets with all their brochures and maps and set off on our bikes
up Insurgentes (gotta love the road names) towards the centro. We immediately liked the place. Narrow roads, people
everywhere hanging on corners, talking, sitting on benches in shady squares,
plenty of bicycles, and a good feeling in the air. Ah, and the air. It was cool, almost a bit chilly. We’d already been warned by the locals on the
coast: “OHH, you’re going there? It’s
very cold!” But it felt great. Such a nice relief from the
tropical blast furnace of the last month on the coast. After a quick look at the beautiful zocolo
and main cathedral, we made our way to the various hostels we had brochures
for. Some didn’t have camping at all,
some were pretty expensive, some were absolute
dumps. We met one fellow on a bicycle
who said he had a ranch on the outskirts of the city where we could camp for
pretty cheap – but we were here for the city and wanted to be in it. Another place that looked promising was
having its kitchen repaired and nobody could use it for 2 weeks – forget that
(though it had the sweetest cat whom we played with for a bit – He looked kinda
like our friend Ann’s Sailor cat, though not quite so fat – sorry Ann, forgot a
photo!).
Finally,
after an odd meeting up with the owner of the surf-shop in Puerto Escondido
where we traded Traven for a guidebook, we found ourselves at a little (5
rooms) hotel owned by a husband (French) and wife (Mexican). Le Gite
I hate
these type of comparisons, but I always find myself
making them. Take New Orleans. Remove the French, Blacks, and barflies. Put in Mayans, Mexicans, and
revolutionaries. Take out a good 80% of
the tourists. Raise it from below sea
level (I know, why didn’t I think of this before) and
put it at an elevation above even Denver.
Okay, it’s not really the same.
But for the first day or two the comparison held. Even, now, on the eve of our leaving, some
comparisons to New Orleans remain.
Looking down a road you may see nothing.
A stray dog.
A woman grilling chicken. You may even walk down that road. Pass an old man (“hola” “hola”). Looks like a boring old road. Dusty. Plain. Maybe a colorful door here
or there. But generally
empty. Today though, as you walk, you
take your time down this street. You
stop and peak in a partially open door or poke your nose down an alley. What you see astounds you. A city of a thousand secret gardens! Courtyards and trees and
fountains and labyrinths and lives and secrets and untold stories behind each
and every door that opens on this narrow street. In this way, it reminds me of our beloved New
Orleans.
But the
graffiti gives it away. We’re in Mexico,
specifically in southern Mexico. Almost every block is covered in politically
charged writing. Usually
in large red or black letters.
Most of it seems to concern Oaxaca, and most of the writings are signed
by the FNLS (Frente Nacional de Lucha por el Socialismo, see:
http://www.chiapaspeacehouse.org/node/352). There was only a little EZLN (zapatista)
graffiti, but their existence was present in many of the shops that sold
postcards, t-shirts, and the little zapatista dolls. I was happy to see that the cult of
personality surrounding Marcos was kept to a minimum in the merchandise, and
that most representatives of the zapatistas in cards and dolls were generic and
anonymous. As it
should be.
We had
arrived in town just days before one of Mexico’s largest holidays. The feast of the Virgin of
Guadalupe (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_Lady_of_Guadalupe)
– December 12. And it happened
that our little hotel was just off the road named after her, which ran up to
the church on a steep hill named for her. I had discovered this whole scene by
accident the first night we were in town.
Christina’s sickness had developed into a full blown vomit and diarrhea
fest. I had gone out to look for some
Gatorade and crackers for her, and some eggs to boils for dinner for me when I
turned the corner onto the festivities.
The road had already been decorated with green, red, and white
fluttering papers strung out from sidewalk to sidewalk. At night the street was already taking on a
carnival atmosphere. Stands
selling churros, punch, papas, Cds, candles, virgin memorabilia, micheladas,
and tacos. Games,
foosball, and roving bands. There
was also a main stage just below the church where each night a large crown
would gather to watch the starring band of the night. They all sounded and looked exactly the same
to me – large groups playing a kind of pop/traditional mix with two dancing
pretty boys fronting. The extremely
steep steps that lead up to the church where the road dead-ended were
constantly covered with people once the sun set. Stands selling nuts and fruit set up along
them, lovers sat on them, juvenile delinquents smoked
cigarettes on them.
Luckily
Christina’s sickness only lasted for a day in its violent stage. The next day she was weak and tired, but her
body had decided to quit attempting to expel its insides. Over the next few days, as she regained her strength,
we explored the town. In the afternoons
she would rest and I would take off on my bike (unloaded!) to explore the
outskirts. One one day I found Los
Pinguinos (the Penguins: http://www.bikemexico.com/pinguinos/index.html)
and talked for a while with one of the guys who ran it. He was really kind and friendly and was
willing to spend a good chunk of time talking to me about Mexican roads,
routes, and bicycling. I also sought out
“Junax", which Slingshot (http://slingshot.tao.ca/rclist.php)
listed on its radical contact list. I
thought it was going to be an infoshop, but it turned out to be a housing place
for those volunteering with social justice projects in the area. Looked like a pretty cool place but the one
person home, a young american woman, didn’t invite me
in. The same day I found San Cristobal’s
public library (computer room larger than the book room), a cultural center
(free movies on Fridays), and the cool pedestrian walkways running north and
south of the west side of the zocolo.
Along this car-free
walkway I found a little bookstore with english
books! La Pared. There was even a nice sized selection of B.
Traven’s books. But the second in the
series wasn’t there. Arrrrg. I figured if they weren’t here I was out of
luck. The owner told me I didn’t have to
read them in order. It was true that
each could stand alone, but the culminative narratives leading up to the
Mexican Revolution begged to read in order.
At least in my mind. But there was nothing I could do. I had just
finished his “Death Ship”. Taking place
just after WWI, it was hilarious, brutal, and an outright attack on the state
and capitalism. But its most vicious
scorn was held for bureaucrats off all stripes, especially the new officialdom
of his time that put passports and other authorized papers above human
beings. It was a new level of alienation
and occurred in all the “civilized” countries after WWI. And every nation whom had fought the war for
freedom and democracy had in fact lost their freedom and democracy. Anyhow, I traded that book for the second to
last in the Jungle series: “The Rebellion of the Hanged”. How to resist a title like
that.
December
11th, the day before the Feast, we went up to the small town of San
Juan Chamula – just a 20 minute collectivo ride up into the mountains from San
Cristobal. Chamula is famous for its
tough, independent, and very traditional Tzotzil people. It’s also known for its Sunday market and its
quite remarkable church. The market took
up the entire square. Christina found
some things she was interested in. The
only thing I’m really after is a machette, but the only ones I’ve been finding
are at hardware stores with plastic handles.
None here either.
It was
here in Chamula, even more so than on the streets of San Cristobal,
that we began to be accosted by indigenous woman and children trying to
sell us goods and crafts. Hardly anyone
was outright begging however which seemed very different from in the US. Even if it was a small basket of chewing gum,
there was something. But really it was
a sort of begging. And
very agressive. We weren’t sure
the best way to handle the constant bombardment. We didn’t want to buy anything and giving
money to one person would have meant giving money to everyone there (many,
many!). And would a few pesos here or
there make a difference. Isn’t it better
to work for fundamental change – isn’t that what radicalism is all about. But when faced with someone in need…We all
know all the arguments for and against.
It’s something that’s always eaten at my core. You know that Spearhead song?
http://www.lyricsfreak.com/s/spearhead/hole+in+the+bucket_20128613.html
And what
am I gonna say – a few pesos isn’t going to help you in the long run, go march
on Mexico City, or even better, go take over that fancy bakery down in San Cristobal. More than anything it was depressing. This is what the new world of capitalism has
delivered to the proud people of southern Mexico. Selling trinkets to
tourists. But for all the grating
it does, and would continue to do in other cities, it was a constant reminder
of reality. And though upsetting and
uncomfortable, what was really sad were the people who
just ignored these woman completely, as if they didn’t even exist.
The church
of San Juan Chamula was frankly surreal.
From the outside it was a gorgeuos example of a mexican
church. It was colorful, and decoratated
for the holiday of Guadalupe. Bands
played in the courtyard, kids lit off fireworks. Inside we entered a different world. It was dark, the air full of insence
smoke. There were no pews, no
alter. The wooden floor was covered in
pine needles. A
thousand flickering candles. The
walls were lined with cases that contained saints – each saint also a Mayan
god. On the floor families were seated
in front of candles they had set up in rows.
They chanted on their knees and passed chickens or eggs over the lit
candles. Then the items were passed over
their family’s heads. Bottles of soda
(mostly colas) were poured and sipped (the burps from these were supposed to
expel evil spirits). We stood and
watched for a while. I felt
mesmorized. And also
awkward. Here I was, a heathen
(Christina at least could claim to be closer, as a Catholic, though this wasn’t
like any Roman Catholic practice I’d ever seen) in their midst. It felt intrusive. But yet so fascinating I couldn’t quite
unroot my feet from the pine needles.
Back
outside we sat in the courtyard and listened to a brass band. Minutes after sitting down we heard a
commotion from the market. A large group
of men and women were marching around the zocolo and headed towards the
church. They were dressed in the black
and white wooly clothes of their people (making them look sort of like llamas),
with long sticks that looked like they might contain swords. A band led the procession. And in front of the band were 4 men with
large bottle rockets. As they marched
through the market they would light these massive fireworks as they held them
in their hands. And then as the church
bells clanged, and the band played, they would fire off, screaming and
thundering into the sky. As they came
down through the center aisle of the market and began to enter the church
courtyard there appeared several tourists with cameras.
Now I
don’t know about you, but I think that no matter what country you’re from (and
I couldn’t tell where these idiots were from, but they were white) there are
certain ways of respectfully conducting yourself that should just be common
sense. In the US, I would never run up
to a stranger’s funeral or wedding and start taking pictures. And I don’t have to read a travel guidebook
to know that people in other countries generally don’t want you snapping
pictures of their holy events either.
Well, obviously these guys didn’t get it, or just didn’t care. This is not to mention that the native people
of southern Mexico (like the indigenous of many lands around the globe) REALLY
don’t like anyone taking pictures, even if it’s just of a woman selling
chiles. So here they are, running out in
front of this procession with their large expensive cameras, snapping
away. Christina and I just look at one
another in disbelief. We can see some of
the band members shaking their heads and waving their hands for the tourists to
stop and move out of the way. But they
don’t stop. We see the anger growing on
hard-lined faces. One of the
bottle-rocket men calls out for them to stop and get away. Doesn’t seem to work
either. So, as the indigenous
must resort every time a white man doesn’t listen to several subsequent
requests, one of the bottle-rocket men lit a firework and charged the nearest
tourist. Our eyes widened. The tourist and his friends ran as fast as
they could to the far end of the courtyard where finding no exit they cowered
in the corner. The bottle-rocket man
waved his arms and his sizzling firework in their direction before rejoining
the group and sending off his misile safely into the sky. The group of giggling indigenous woman
sitting to our side burst out into hysterics.
Upon our
return to San Cristobal, the city seemed to be building towards a climax. The streets were impossibly full. Fireworks, which seemed to be a constant
during the last month, were now going off almost every fifteen minutes. Church bells were always ringing. And the pilgrims! Around every corner, all day long, came
groups of youth. They were jogging,
barefoot, carrying torches and crosses, images of the virgin on their t-shirts
or their backs. (We had seen similar
groups a week before in Oaxaca on bicycles!) Every few blocks they would break
into joyous religous song or hypnotic chanting.
A truck followed behind them with those in the back taking a break. The trucks blared an
ear-piercing continual sound remincent of a car alarm. They made their way through the streets up to
the Church of Guadalupe. Some had come
from hundreds of kilometers away. The
afternoon and evening before the 12th also seemed to be set aside
for kids. Hundreds of families paraded
up Guadalupe street towards the church. Their little sons, some too young to even
walk, had mustaches painted on and wore sombreros. The daughters were in colourful indigenous
outfits, though the vast majority of them were certainly not indigenous. Photographers lined the steps to the church,
asking parents if they wanted photos of their little ones. When we asked about the kids and their
costumes we were told that because the woman who first “saw” the virgin of
Guadalupe was an indigenous woman, they were honoring her memory by dressing
the kids up as indigenous. Why just the
kids, we asked. “Well, it’s kinda of
like why only kids dress up for your Halloween” we were told. I tried to watch the local indigenous men and
woman who were present on the outskirts of the festival to see how they felt
about this “honor”. But as usual, to an
outsider like me, they were inscrutable.
Christina
and I spent the night sitting in the area below the church steps, watching
people come and go, listening to the bands, and talking to a group of teenage
girls who asked us to teach them all of English that night.
December
12th finally rolled around.
We were awoken at 6am by church bells, fireworks, and singing
pilgims. Christina spent the day working
on Christmas projects – she was going to have to mail them soon if they were
going to reach the states by the 25th. In the afternoon we went across town to climb
the very steep steps of another church – the church of San Cristobal. The view from above was splendid. Afterwards we went for ice-cream
downtown. There’s something about the
ice-cream here in Mexico. It’s so rich,
so creamy, like a different species all together. We went for pizza (it wasn’t great but better
than others we’d had so far) and afterwards my stomach began to feel like it
was tightening. I also had some wicked
gas. Maybe the cheese? An amazing sunset on the
plaza. In the evening we went to
a bar called Revolution. Paintings of Zapata on the wall. A really cool mexican
band playing a fusion of rock, reggea, and funk. An amazing michelada. Christina and I shared a whole bunch of
Tequila. We met some traveling canadian anarchists outside the bar. They had noticed the AK Press sticker on my
coffee mug and stopped to talk. Alexander and Sam.
Alexander said he had lived in Providence for a while a couple of years
ago. Good folks. On the walk home Christina realized she left
her tea thermus inside the bar. We
returned to find the place closed, but Christina got in. The folks cleaning up hadn’t found
anything. Someone must have stolen it. Walking back to our beds it looked like the
party was over. Guadualpe was empty
except for some staggering drunks. The
churros stands were all closed. To bed.
We were
going to leave the next day but Christina still had Christmas projects to work
on. We didn’t think we’d be anywhere near
a post office for a while after leaving San Cristobal so she had to get them
done here. I read, spent some time on
the internet, had my evening cucumbers and beer, and walked around. My stomach cramps and gas were getting
worse. I finished the “Rebellion of the
Hanged”. Wow. Damn.
I now have to find the last book, but I have no idea where – La Pered
doesn’t have it. Began
reading an amazingly inventive novel called “The Chess Garden” (http://www.emcit.com/emcit089.shtml#Plato). And then it hit me. Christina has the same stomach cramps when we
first got here. She probably had the gas
too and just wouldn’t admit it (she’s like that ya know). And then it really hit me. And I couldn’t get up off the bathroom
floor. It was coming out both ends every
fifteen minutes. I couldn’t sleep –
every time I got into the bed after a toilet visit I would feel sick again. I finally took a blanket and curled up
besides the toilet. It was aweful. The worst was not being able to sleep. I was so tired, my body so weak, but I was
too sick to sleep.
I spent a
whole 24 hours like this. Well, I guess
we’re staying in San Cristobal a bit longer.
When it
passed I was left weak and really, really hungry. I had finished “The Chess Garden”. Great, great read. Christina was still working on her
projects. I rested and drank lots of
water and tea. We went back to Chamula
for a bit, and also tried to go to another village called Zinacantan – we
waited on the side of the road at the Chamula/Zinacantan crossroads for a long
time for a collectivo before finally giving up.
I started
reading Carl Sagen’s “Dragons of Eden”.
We were beginning to feel trapped again.
San Cristobal was wonderful, it wasn’t that (in fact we tossed around
the idea of coming back and living there for a year some time...), it was just
that we’d been in Mexico almost 2 months and we had so many more countries to
see! But now we had to wait until Monday
because Christina couldn’t mail her Christmas packages over the weekend.
Well I’m
glad we stayed a bit longer because we got to meet two really great
Canadians. We had already met many cool
people in San Cristobal - from the french guy Danny who ran the hotel (his wife
and wife’s nag of a mother were a little much for us), to several friendly
Germans (including a lion of a man whose German name translated into “Victory
with a Spear”). But these two we really
hit it off with. Mike
and Steve. They were from Toronto
and were lovers. The first outwardly gay
couple we’d met, or even seen in Mexico.
Mexico (as they strongly agreed, though they loved the place) is not
very gay friendly. We spent a bunch of
time talking to them, one time late into the night. We talked about politics, religion,
traveling, and all that good stuff. We
didn’t get to say goodbye, but luckily they left their contacts with Danny at
the hotel. Hopefully we’ll see them up
in Toronto (a city we loved when we visited) some time.
On our
last day there we visited a marvoulous museum called “Na Bolom”. It was both fascinating and beautiful. Check out their site: http://www.nabolom.org/index_en.html
Also see: http://www.geocities.com/rainforest/3134/
That
afternoon we got on bus to Teopisca. It
was the first time we weren’t charged extra for our bikes! We weren’t sure if it was because it was such
a short ride (30 minutes), or they were just nicer in San Cristobal. They did however made
fun of us for a while because it was so close and we weren’t riding the bikes
there. We made the decision to take the
bus there because of the Los Pinguinos (bike tour folks) web site. Every tour they took in the direction we were
headed they used a van to bring folks to Teopisca first. So I figured it was an awful road, really
hard or dangerous, or who knows what. It
turned out that the road was fine. It
was uphill, but nothing we couldn’t have done.
Our plan was to bicycle out of Teopisca until the turn off south for Las
Rosas, continue down into the valley and then bike east to El Chiflon, a series
of beautiful waterfalls. Then back up
out of the valley to Comitan (and back on Mex 190, the Pan American). Then out further east
(taking Mex 307) to a series of lakes called Lagunas de Montebello. After that, finally we’d go on to
Guatemala. We hadn’t heard anything
about the lakes, and the waterfall wasn’t even on our map, but we had been
convinced by a bookseller (not at La Pared) in San Cristobal that neither of
these places were to be missed. We were excited to be on the road again, but
not too sad to leave this fantastic city because we knew in our hearts we’d be
back.