Mexico (weeks 37 to 45)
The bus bobbed around the winding mountain roads from Guatemala into Chiapas, Mexico's southernmost and most remote state.
As we got closer to town, we'd pass slow moving pickup trucks loaded with speakers and draped in images of the virgin. They followed joggers, usually dressed in white and holding torches or images of the Lady of Guadaloupe, blaring sirens and music all at once. True to form, we had unknowingly arrived in San Cristobal de las Casas, a charming colonial town nestled in the mountains, on a fiesta week.
The fiesta celebrated la Virgen de Guadaloupe (Our Lady of Guadaloupe); there were tacos, churros, and sweets stands, rides and games for children, and live music in the central park. The virgin's face, appearing on the colourful flags overhanging the central streets, overlooked the arrival of pilgrims from all around the area. They walked or ran by - singly or in groups but always followed by noisy trucks, to enter San Cristobal's most sacred church on their knees.
We didn't see much of the fiesta; I knew, arriving in Mexico, that I would have to abandon my #1 food rule during travel: never eat anything raw (that you didn't wash yourself). Tacos, with their fresh chopped onions, pico de gallo, and cilantro, were too delicious to resist! We both got sick, one after the other, spending much of our time in San Cristobal either in bed or not far from it. Still, we quite enjoyed the town, its many sights, its street art and galleries, and its well-stocked markets of handicrafts and fresh fruit and veggies. And, yes, even it’s irresistibly delicious tacos!
As we got closer to town, we'd pass slow moving pickup trucks loaded with speakers and draped in images of the virgin. They followed joggers, usually dressed in white and holding torches or images of the Lady of Guadaloupe, blaring sirens and music all at once. True to form, we had unknowingly arrived in San Cristobal de las Casas, a charming colonial town nestled in the mountains, on a fiesta week.
The fiesta celebrated la Virgen de Guadaloupe (Our Lady of Guadaloupe); there were tacos, churros, and sweets stands, rides and games for children, and live music in the central park. The virgin's face, appearing on the colourful flags overhanging the central streets, overlooked the arrival of pilgrims from all around the area. They walked or ran by - singly or in groups but always followed by noisy trucks, to enter San Cristobal's most sacred church on their knees.
We didn't see much of the fiesta; I knew, arriving in Mexico, that I would have to abandon my #1 food rule during travel: never eat anything raw (that you didn't wash yourself). Tacos, with their fresh chopped onions, pico de gallo, and cilantro, were too delicious to resist! We both got sick, one after the other, spending much of our time in San Cristobal either in bed or not far from it. Still, we quite enjoyed the town, its many sights, its street art and galleries, and its well-stocked markets of handicrafts and fresh fruit and veggies. And, yes, even it’s irresistibly delicious tacos!
Before moving on from San Cristobal, we managed, after some difficulty finding the right collectivo, to get to San Juan Chamula, an adjacent township with a very particular church.
The town's small population virtually all speak an indigenous Mayan language; they are mainly Tzotzil, and, as the center for the Zapatista movement, enjoy a unique autonomous status within Mexico. A brief summary of the area's history: displacement, enslavement, revolt, repeat. When Catholic missionaries first arrived, they thought they had found one of the lost tribes of Israel in the Chiapan highlands; Chamula already used the symbol of the cross, in a set of three, to represent their axis mundi: the world trees holding up the sky. Their sacred scrying stones were taken away from them by the mostly European farm owners, igniting some of the worst fighting in the region during which many Tzotzil were massacred. For decades they left the statues of their patron saints turned to face the church wall with their hands cut off for failing to help them in their time of need.
Their church is a unique and striking example of religious syncretism; from the outside, it looks like any other colonial church. That changes as soon as you take your first step through the massive wooden doors.
Your foot lands on a bed on pine needles, fresh and green. It takes a few minutes for the eyes to adjust; a row of high windows from which are strung coloured banners allow some light in but not enough to outshine the thousands of candles burning on each Saints' altar nor pierce through the thick copal (young amber) smoke hanging heavily in the air. The walls of the church are lined with icons of Catholic saints: sculptures of various shapes and sizes placed in glass boxes, clad in beautiful colours. They are Catholic only by name, representing instead Mayan gods and goddesses. A closer look reveals mirrors hung from the statues' necks. While praying, a persons' soul could get lost; the mirror ensures it gets reflected back into the person.
There are no pews, only pine needles; people stream in and out, kneeling at one altar or another, chanting in an archaic Mayan while sticking coloured candles to the floor with melted wax. Some, with more serious afflictions, carry a bag with them, the chicken looking out in confusion. Sacrifices are carried out deftly and quietly amidst the prayers.
Occasionally, a procession enters; an enchanting music is played on drums, tuba, trumpets, and flutes. Wisps of white smoke from burning copal swirl around the groups who make their way around the church counter clockwise, pausing at a particular alter along the way.
Photography is strictly forbidden inside the church, and discouraged around town, especially of infants whose souls are apt to wandering; men wearing big woolen ponchos keep an eye open for greedy tourists trying to steal some sneaky shots. With their own police force, Chamulan guards are free to fine, imprison, or expel you from the town for disobeying. Chamulan churchgoers are friendly as long as this one rule is respected. We sat admiring the uniqueness of the church, weaving little pine needle rings, for a few hours; an old man, having seen us come in, thanked us for spending time to sit and watch with a big gap-toothed smile and a squeeze of the shoulder.
With the bit of time we had left in Chiapas, we opted for a long day's drive out to Agua Azul (a beautiful low stepped waterfall), Semuc Champey (a bigger waterfall), and Palenque, one of the most important Mayan archeological sites. While touristier than I expected, it was still interesting and impressive, and we even managed to take a short break away from the swell of tourists on one of the less-frequented pyramids.
The town's small population virtually all speak an indigenous Mayan language; they are mainly Tzotzil, and, as the center for the Zapatista movement, enjoy a unique autonomous status within Mexico. A brief summary of the area's history: displacement, enslavement, revolt, repeat. When Catholic missionaries first arrived, they thought they had found one of the lost tribes of Israel in the Chiapan highlands; Chamula already used the symbol of the cross, in a set of three, to represent their axis mundi: the world trees holding up the sky. Their sacred scrying stones were taken away from them by the mostly European farm owners, igniting some of the worst fighting in the region during which many Tzotzil were massacred. For decades they left the statues of their patron saints turned to face the church wall with their hands cut off for failing to help them in their time of need.
Their church is a unique and striking example of religious syncretism; from the outside, it looks like any other colonial church. That changes as soon as you take your first step through the massive wooden doors.
Your foot lands on a bed on pine needles, fresh and green. It takes a few minutes for the eyes to adjust; a row of high windows from which are strung coloured banners allow some light in but not enough to outshine the thousands of candles burning on each Saints' altar nor pierce through the thick copal (young amber) smoke hanging heavily in the air. The walls of the church are lined with icons of Catholic saints: sculptures of various shapes and sizes placed in glass boxes, clad in beautiful colours. They are Catholic only by name, representing instead Mayan gods and goddesses. A closer look reveals mirrors hung from the statues' necks. While praying, a persons' soul could get lost; the mirror ensures it gets reflected back into the person.
There are no pews, only pine needles; people stream in and out, kneeling at one altar or another, chanting in an archaic Mayan while sticking coloured candles to the floor with melted wax. Some, with more serious afflictions, carry a bag with them, the chicken looking out in confusion. Sacrifices are carried out deftly and quietly amidst the prayers.
Occasionally, a procession enters; an enchanting music is played on drums, tuba, trumpets, and flutes. Wisps of white smoke from burning copal swirl around the groups who make their way around the church counter clockwise, pausing at a particular alter along the way.
Photography is strictly forbidden inside the church, and discouraged around town, especially of infants whose souls are apt to wandering; men wearing big woolen ponchos keep an eye open for greedy tourists trying to steal some sneaky shots. With their own police force, Chamulan guards are free to fine, imprison, or expel you from the town for disobeying. Chamulan churchgoers are friendly as long as this one rule is respected. We sat admiring the uniqueness of the church, weaving little pine needle rings, for a few hours; an old man, having seen us come in, thanked us for spending time to sit and watch with a big gap-toothed smile and a squeeze of the shoulder.
With the bit of time we had left in Chiapas, we opted for a long day's drive out to Agua Azul (a beautiful low stepped waterfall), Semuc Champey (a bigger waterfall), and Palenque, one of the most important Mayan archeological sites. While touristier than I expected, it was still interesting and impressive, and we even managed to take a short break away from the swell of tourists on one of the less-frequented pyramids.
While a bit sad to leave Chiapas and the friends we made there, we were glad to pack away our thick Ecuadorian ponchos and head to warmer coastal weather. We decided to do very little for the last few weeks of our big adventure, soaking up the sun and salt before heading back to our default lives.
We spent a week on the southern tip of Puerto Escondido, which ended up being much more charming than we expected, and a month in Mazunte, a small nearby town known and loved by hippies for its perfect beaches and yoga retreats. The water was beautiful, the under toe deadly, and the weather consistently perfect. We were on time for yet another fiesta, during which we slept little (because of the loud, booming music), ate great tacos at temporary fiesta stands (the only time we found delicious and affordable food in town), and spent much time relaxing on the beach. The only activities we opted for were a visit to the turtle conservation center and, for a 10$ donation, a baby turtle release. Letting them make their way out of a little coconut cup and down a section of protected, groomed beach greatly increases their chance of survival. We watched, full of emotion, as the tiny turtles struggled their way to the crashing waves, got tossed about, poked their heads out for a breath, then disappeared, hopefully escaping the crushing jaws of the barracudas zipping back and forth along the crests of waves.
We spent a week on the southern tip of Puerto Escondido, which ended up being much more charming than we expected, and a month in Mazunte, a small nearby town known and loved by hippies for its perfect beaches and yoga retreats. The water was beautiful, the under toe deadly, and the weather consistently perfect. We were on time for yet another fiesta, during which we slept little (because of the loud, booming music), ate great tacos at temporary fiesta stands (the only time we found delicious and affordable food in town), and spent much time relaxing on the beach. The only activities we opted for were a visit to the turtle conservation center and, for a 10$ donation, a baby turtle release. Letting them make their way out of a little coconut cup and down a section of protected, groomed beach greatly increases their chance of survival. We watched, full of emotion, as the tiny turtles struggled their way to the crashing waves, got tossed about, poked their heads out for a breath, then disappeared, hopefully escaping the crushing jaws of the barracudas zipping back and forth along the crests of waves.
One more bout of travel brought us back into the mountains to the city of Oaxaca, similar in feel to San Cristobal but bigger and with far more art galleries, then to a final few days of relaxation in Playa del Carmen on the Caribbean coast (with many times more tourists, much higher prices, and a quickly fading culture). We managed to squeeze in a snorkel tour of the dos ojos cenote and some self-guided snorkeling along the shallow reef at Akumal before our final flight from Cancun back to Ottawa, from the tropics back to winter. Suddenly, our great adventure came to a close.