Part 3: Guatemala, Part I
At some point my friend from high school, Eddie, wrote me and told me he was going to be in Guatemala in late May. I didn’t quite understand, but I gathered that his sister was studying somewhere in Central America, and wanted to know if I could make it. He additionally offered, knowing I was fairly poor, to spot me for what I couldn’t afford. Another investment in fun, if you will. No I take that back; not if you will, that’s exactly what it was. I even informed him of the investment in fun plan, and he loved it. I made a general promise of 10 years, which I think is reasonable.
He says that he will be there from said date to like six days after, and I see why no reason why I can’t make it, so I plan on it. Like any American, he sends me a million emails trying to “plan” the whole thing, getting secure dates and whatever, finally realizing that my end of it didn’t really involve anything more than simply showing up on time to meet them. That time was then set: May 24th, 9:00 PM, Holiday Inn, Guatemala City, Guatemala, lobby.
Sweet. Classes and whatever other life events happened, and suddenly it was like a week before. I ran to the hacienda to find Hi-may to see if he knows anyone or bus schedules or any related info. He does. Horray. He tells me this: the bus line is Cristobal Colon (“OCC”), buses leave every couple hours, it’s about 600 pesos, he knows some people in San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas, but recommends a cheap hotel that is easy to get to. Some other random information is useful, mostly the info about it not being as scary as I think it is. Oooo, Chiapas. Mufasa. Apparently, he tells me, Cristobal de las Casas is a pretty chill place with tons of things to see and lots of tourists. As it turns out, he is correct. He recommends some places to see and recommends a week stay there to see everything. He tells me to see the Laguna de Montabella, which, quote, “is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and probably the most beautiful thing on Earth.” It’s on the list, but I just don’t know if I have time. I don’t have the money, and need to be in Guatemala City at 9:00 on May 24th in the Holiday Inn lobby. Whatever. He tells me to see Palenque and San Juan Chamula and some other stuff that means nothing to me.
I arrive. At Mexico City. Observatorio bus station. I take the Metro. Five stops and I’m at San Larenzo i.e. Tapo bus station with service to southern cities. The bus ticket is 600 pesos (although the guy tries to rip me off 30 pesos) and leaves in a half hour. “Well, I suppose this will be another wacky adventure” I think. I purchase a meat and cheese sandwich on plain white bread wrapped in saran wrap, which as I found out later also came with a packet of mayo and another of mustard. I found out the hard way. Learning from previous bus experiences, I buy one bottled water and no sugar or salt or oily snacks. They turn your skin into a pizza-y surface within hours of sitting on long bus rides. It just somehow knows you are already miserable and, wait, I am running away with myself here.
Ok, so I get on the bus, and watch there cheesy little animated buckle your seat belt video (the first I have ever seen) with real animations of what would happen in a real crazy bus accident, but all done in a comical manner, complete with vomiting punchline. Classic.
I have brought with me the following: one pair of shorts, four shirts, four boxers, five pairs of socks, my digital camera (a must), “Bluebeard” by Kurt Vonnegut, “Mere Christianity” by C.S. Lewis which I had partially started but was moving along slowly, my Ray Allen hat, a couple of pieces of paper and a pen, and my cell phone which I thought would be, at worst, my bailout option. I didn’t figure I’d get much reception in Guatemala, but it turned out I didn’t get much reception south of Oaxaca anyway. Ni modo. I had my wallet and had checked my account before I left, seeing that it had just over 300 dollars in it. Should be enough to get me there and back, and Eddie’s investment in fun should be able to cover the rest of it. He was working as an electrical engineer (just out of Stanford) for some fancy business in San Diego that makes satellites or something for the Defense Department, so I figured he had more money than he knew what to do with anything. As that turned out, it was true.
I had packed so scantly because I figured that 1) I didn’t want to carry too much around 2) I didn’t want to have to worry about my stuff ever and 3) I had learned to wash things by hand anyway, so it shouldn’t have been a big deal. I had learned to tough it out too, which is what I ended up doing anyway. Anyway.
As the opening credits of some B movie start, I watch out the window as we climb out of the southern end of the Mexico City valley, clouds circling the two famous volcanoes to my right. I try in vain to take a couple of pictures. My pictures on trips are always like that: pictures of stuff that is happening when nothing is happening. When we are out doing incredible stuff, I never get pictures. When I simply pass by cool things, I take pictures out of the bus window trying not to let others see what I am doing, getting about a dozen pictures of blurry green somethings or cloudy grey conical shapes, a couple dinner pictures of people, people walking on the beach, and if there happens to be any “tourist” site, a couple dozen photos of the same pyramid from different angles. I do take great photos of cool stuff when I put my mind to it, but generally I am engulfed in being in that moment, trying to capture it in my mind and not so worried about capturing it with zeros and ones. I used to hate when my mom would run around taking pictures of everything, but now I am kind of glad that I have so many pictures of my childhood to remind me of things I would never have remembered. At least now I can invent memories.
This and much more is running through my head as I think of the 13 hour trip I have ahead of me. It’s probably 7:00 PM, so I figure I’ll get in about 8:00 the next morning, assuming there’s no time change. I fall asleep to this thought, and sleep through the movie and the next one, apparently, waking up at 3:00 AM or so (I have no watch and have not yet learned how to program my cell phone). My eyes pop open as the bus rattles, as if driving over gravel. I look out the bus window to see us absolutely barreling down the highway. I don’t know if this is because it is a dangerous stretch or because he wants to make up for lost time somewhere or just because he can, but it is scary fast. I look up to see the red light at the front, saying “95 Km/h,” brightly illuminated. “It must be kind of a challenge sometimes, taunting the drivers” I think. The light stays on for the next two hours. I would say we are going at least 200 kilometers per hour. This is no exaggeration. We are pummeling down the highway, flying by distance markage signs I cannot even pretend to read with the headlights of the bus approaching and passing faster than my eye can catch. As the sunlight begins to peak over whatever skyline we are near, we reach the border of Chiapas and are soon in the capital of Tuxtla Gutierrez. Besides a brief stop in Oaxaca, it is the only stop we make between Mexico D.F. and my destination, San Cristobal. Most everyone gets off the bus in Tuxtla, but there are probably eight left to go the extra three hours to San Cristobal. And what a sight all those other people missed.
The road from Tuxtla to San Cristobal is a windy road that travels up into the mountains, while giving you an incredible view of the valley all the way up. As you reach the pass everything turns from desert into lush jungle, with crevasses slithering down slits in the cliffs that shoot up and fall away. There are little huts built strangely at the top of many cliffs, high above and below the road that we are wandering along. The road is untypically non-Mexican, nice and smooth and well engineered. I sat in still wonder, seeing what few foreign tourists have ever seen. Where the sidewalk ends. Who else is stupid enough to go by bus. (As it turns out, most tourists come into San Cristobal by plane or by tourist vans from the Yucatan/Cancun/Eastern side whereas I am coming from the west). The road dips and weaves, the bus moving like a halfback running through beautiful holes created by large stony linemen, agile leaps over green rolling linebackers, spinning around flowered terraced strong safeties. As we tiptoe into the endzone of San Cristobal, I feel a strong sense of panic come over me as I realize no one is coming to help me and if something happens, no one is calling the cops. But as I leave the bus station and see a tacky travel agency across the street, I remember this is a place crawling with tourists and it shouldn’t be a scary place. I flag down the first taxi I see and ask him where the city center is. He takes me about 10 blocks which gives me enough time to ask about the hotel Jaime recommended and recant my short bus ride story to him. I already have one friend when I get out of the taxi and hand him 10 pesos. Already things are cheaper than the horrendously cheap central Mexico area.
It is still early and there is almost no one around, so I walk around the main square and step into a place advertising trips to the places Jaime told me about. Turns out most of the places were a good three to four hours away and a good 250 to 300 pesos which I didn’t really have but really wanted to spend. I saw that one place, San Juan Chamula was only a fifteen minute ride and cost 75 pesos for a full tour. I figured I could get there cheaper on my own, so I held out. It looked like there was a lot to see around the city, with at least four churches on the hillsides above the city, so I decided to go find my hotel and drop off my stuff. I followed the taxi driver’s directions to a passing bus and followed that directly out of the city into the little hotel. As promised, it was a mere 150 pesos, which included a room with full accommodations, internet access, and a meal to boot, located on the outskirts of town about two blocks away from sheer upward cliffs of San Cristobal. San Cristobal is located in a valley in the mountains, two sides bordered by steep cliffs, one side by not so steeps cliffs and the other just a hill, where the main road comes in and out. Tall trees, cool temperatures, white people, and overcast conditions made me feel like I was back in the Seattle again. I took a short nap, a pleasant shower, and headed out to catch that same bus back into town. Eager to find San Juan Chamula, I asked around to where I could find a bus. It turned out to be a real tricky location and I literally had to ask someone every single block for like eight blocks, and one more time even as I stand directly outside of it not realizing it. Jaime had said that there was a really old church there, built when Cortez was still alive, in the style of the Mayas, and that you couldn’t take photos inside. The bus is a van that waits for 20 minutes for other people to show up, and we head out. It is up steeply into the mountains, a nice drive overlooking the whole city. We get out to Chamula and I get out. It is a single street leading into a main town square with some surrounding houses. The church is a normal looking stone church, except that it is highlighted with very “Mayan” colors like teal/green. There are a few government buildings, a small marketplace, and a couple restaurants. Facing the church, I can see a poster that shows what appears to be a firewalking ceremony of sorts, which as I read happens every year as people run down a path of coals that leads away from the church door. I can’t find out why or what it means. I walk to the church doors where I read a sign that says “No entrance without written permission.” Well crap. I thought it was just pictures that I couldn’t take, but it turns out that I can’t even go in. I see a large group of white people heading for me, and I decide to try to blend in with them, to at least see what’s inside. The find the entrance, and I huddle with them and no one cares but they are all speaking French. But I really want to see inside. The guide is a young Mexican who notices me immediately and looks and me disapprovingly but says nothing. Whatever. I want to see inside. They all go in and I follow. What wonders I then saw can never quite understood in words. I see people in circles on the floor with candles surrounding boxes that hold saints in them. The walls were bare but at the end were holes in the wall with candles and banners and all sorts of things hanging out of them. Incense was being burned like there was no tomorrow, and bizarre tunes of songs I had never heard were being sung. There were a group of local men sitting and talking, with trowels in their hands… and wood beams sitting around…oh wait. They are doing construction. Actually, placing, in my mind, the saints back on the walls and the candles on stands in front and the banners on the walls like normal, it isn’t so different than the normal cathedrals. I do see a sign on the wall that says it was built sometime like at the end of the 1400’s or something, which makes no sense so it was probably after that, but it was really really old. There is scaffolding to my right and some more at the end. It looks like just some basic repairs and a good paint job. It actually looks like it will be pretty nice when they finish.
The groups is still blabbering along in French, and the guide is still looking at me. “Ok” I think. It’s time for an escape. If I just pretend like the incense is getting to me, I can make an easy escape. And the group is starting to cross the church to the other side and I really don’t want a confrontation with the guide without a good escape, so I start to back up, coughing and holding my chest but not enough to call any real attention to myself. Bong! I go down hard. I am on the floor and my head is killing me. What is going on? I look up and see a steel pipe that was hanging off the scaffolding that is sitting just at my head level. Now everyone is looking at me, and I am getting pretty nervous. I smile sheepishly and stand up and walk to the door. I figured that the Mexicans probably still just thought I was with the group, and the group didn’t care one way or another.
I stepped out into the cool air and rubbing my head walked out of the square and down the main street to where I had seen some sort of old ruins of something. There was a sign that said “museum” so I followed it.
I stopped by a tienda for a cold pop, but found only warm ones. I bought a Pepsi and sat down to watch the movie the store clerk had on, which was some Mexican shootem up movie. I turned and laughed and said to the clerk “this is what everyone says that Chiapas is supposed to be like!” He looks at me and gives me a pity smile and turns back. Right.
The ruins turn out to be another church that actually was built after the other one, but built anyway and then abandoned. The only cool thing about it is the bizarre cemetery that is totally ragtag here and there graves and mounds above the earth and flowers everywhere. The museum is one of the creepiest places I have ever been because it’s all these really poorly made dummies in this mazelike walkway under a thatch roof and it’s completely silent and you really think that maybe some of the dummies are really people or even worse maybe some play tricks on you. The scariest two are the ones with machete and the other with the accordion.
And then, it’s back to San Cristobal!
The only fun things that happen that night is that I find a church on a hill to climb up to, another one in a lovely little park, a spaghetti dinner, and a churro. Back to the hotel for a nice sleep and an early morning.
Oh, I forgot to say that as soon as I got to the bus station that morning, I had asked about possible Guatemala borders and was told that the nearest one was Ciudad Cuautemoc, and that “it was easy and buses are there to take you right to Guatemala City. And that there is a 9:00 bus. Sweet.
So I wake up and get to the bus, looking back giving a fond farewell to a pleasant little city with lots of fun things to do but not enough time to do them. The bus is late, like most buses, but we get on a little after 9:15. It is two straight hours south where I will get off and walk across the border with my backpack and catch the first “chicken bus” that I can find. A little nervous, but I’m feeling good and confident. An hour and twenty into our ride down the pleasant highway two lanes wide, traffic is backed up. Stopped, in fact. We come to a stop, and the bus driver gets out and walks up ahead to find out what’s going on. A good majority of the 25 or 30 people get off the bus and sit down in the little tienda next to us. Actually, we had been driving almost all of that road intermittently hitting small towns but mostly just jungle surrounding our drive, but had stopped right in front of a tienda and to the other side a small restaurant. I, of course, stayed in the bus waiting to see what would happen and not wanting to even think about considering the possibility of accidentally being left behind if I ventured into the bathroom in the restaurant, or some other distraction, for even a second. I heard people saying stuff like “the road is closed” and “they closed the road” and “when are they going to open the road” but had no idea who or how or why. I stayed on the bus until the last lady got off with her mother, mostly due to the heat in the bus, and I followed them, leaving everything on the bus. I sat down in a white plastic chair around a plastic table that said “Corona” across it. The bus driver sat across from a lady that had jumped off the bus when it first stopped, who seemed like an upper class socialite, undoubtedly from Mexico City. They were just one table to my right. A kid of about 20 years sat across from me, and everyone else seemed to be sitting around us all facing inwards, either in the conversation with the driver and upper class lady, or hushed chatting with themselves. A large man comes from behind me and sits in the chair that separates me and the upper class lady. He sits and asks who I am and if I speak Spanish. Not talking to me though. They tell him they don’t know but that I got on in San Cristobal and that I haven’t said a thing. I tell them I am one of the people blocking off the road, to which they all laugh and suddenly the conversation is completely turned to me. Who are you? Why are you here? Where are you going? Why are you going by bus? How old are you? Do you like Mexican women? Do you like older Mexican women…? (Mufasa). How did you learn to speak Spanish? Do you like it here? and such questions. At one point the older woman points to a bus filled with people, as the bus flies down the wrong lane, heading towards the barrier. She asks if I want to be on that bus. I just stare at her as she laughs at her own joke. They explain in chorus that the bus is filled with illegal immigrants from Guatemala who tried to get into the US. I suddenly imagine my self flagging down the bus, jumping in and giving a big “what’s up” to the Guatemaltecos who, I don’t know, do something. My day dream doesn’t make it that far because they continue with the questions.
The larger man to my right is the most piqued, and when about twenty minutes later most of the others lose interest, he continues. We speak in English a little, or what he knows, we talk about his pasta business and my living situation and my life goals. Finally I stop him and bring up my main curiosity which is who what and why is the road being blocked? He says that they are PRDistas, fighters and politicians, tools in the overall scheme, but needing to do something to help their state.
“So they aren’t soldiers or government officials? Ordinary people can shut down the roads and no one cares or can do anything about it?”
“Well, they don’t want a fight so they just run trucks of soldiers back and forth along this road to see if the people will let the official vehicles come through. If they fight the soldiers, they can clear them out with good reason. And if not, maybe the people will get nervous or realize they are just inconveniencing their follow citizens.”
“So they are just normal people?” My question is answered by a pickup truck full of people holding machetes driving towards us from the roadblock. My heart skips a beat. “I’m not going to have any problems, am I?”
“No, they won’t care.” I’m not so convinced. The people are chanting some slogans that make little sense to me but probably have to do with their local government. I smile at them, as most of them watch me as they drive by. Their rattling of their machetes makes me nervous but I figure that someone of my new friends will stand up for me and talk them out of causing problems for me, if it came to that.
He actually explains to me that I would probably have more problems from the real government, because there are rumors that rich Europeans are helping fund and helped fund a large part of the rebellious groups, specifically the Zapatistas.
We meander through a million conversations in the next couple hours, talking with the kid sitting across from me who apparently is going to his cousin’s wedding. I slowly get the impression that most people are ending up in Tapachula, a larger city about a half hour from the border, west of here, fairly close to the Pacific coast. I ask if this is true, and they ask me where I am going. Ciudad Cuautemoc.
“No, you don’t want to go there. It is the same as the ugly border towns on the Mexico-US border. It’s a lot of people who saved up money to try to cross the border illegally, to find a job in another country, who got to the border and couldn’t get across and have no money and now just have to find ways to steal or beg or do whatever they can just to live. You’d be an easy target. Plus you aren’t getting there until nighttime anyway making it more dangerous. Plus the buses are horrible from there to Guatemala City.”
He says that he will be there from said date to like six days after, and I see why no reason why I can’t make it, so I plan on it. Like any American, he sends me a million emails trying to “plan” the whole thing, getting secure dates and whatever, finally realizing that my end of it didn’t really involve anything more than simply showing up on time to meet them. That time was then set: May 24th, 9:00 PM, Holiday Inn, Guatemala City, Guatemala, lobby.
Sweet. Classes and whatever other life events happened, and suddenly it was like a week before. I ran to the hacienda to find Hi-may to see if he knows anyone or bus schedules or any related info. He does. Horray. He tells me this: the bus line is Cristobal Colon (“OCC”), buses leave every couple hours, it’s about 600 pesos, he knows some people in San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas, but recommends a cheap hotel that is easy to get to. Some other random information is useful, mostly the info about it not being as scary as I think it is. Oooo, Chiapas. Mufasa. Apparently, he tells me, Cristobal de las Casas is a pretty chill place with tons of things to see and lots of tourists. As it turns out, he is correct. He recommends some places to see and recommends a week stay there to see everything. He tells me to see the Laguna de Montabella, which, quote, “is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and probably the most beautiful thing on Earth.” It’s on the list, but I just don’t know if I have time. I don’t have the money, and need to be in Guatemala City at 9:00 on May 24th in the Holiday Inn lobby. Whatever. He tells me to see Palenque and San Juan Chamula and some other stuff that means nothing to me.
I arrive. At Mexico City. Observatorio bus station. I take the Metro. Five stops and I’m at San Larenzo i.e. Tapo bus station with service to southern cities. The bus ticket is 600 pesos (although the guy tries to rip me off 30 pesos) and leaves in a half hour. “Well, I suppose this will be another wacky adventure” I think. I purchase a meat and cheese sandwich on plain white bread wrapped in saran wrap, which as I found out later also came with a packet of mayo and another of mustard. I found out the hard way. Learning from previous bus experiences, I buy one bottled water and no sugar or salt or oily snacks. They turn your skin into a pizza-y surface within hours of sitting on long bus rides. It just somehow knows you are already miserable and, wait, I am running away with myself here.
Ok, so I get on the bus, and watch there cheesy little animated buckle your seat belt video (the first I have ever seen) with real animations of what would happen in a real crazy bus accident, but all done in a comical manner, complete with vomiting punchline. Classic.
I have brought with me the following: one pair of shorts, four shirts, four boxers, five pairs of socks, my digital camera (a must), “Bluebeard” by Kurt Vonnegut, “Mere Christianity” by C.S. Lewis which I had partially started but was moving along slowly, my Ray Allen hat, a couple of pieces of paper and a pen, and my cell phone which I thought would be, at worst, my bailout option. I didn’t figure I’d get much reception in Guatemala, but it turned out I didn’t get much reception south of Oaxaca anyway. Ni modo. I had my wallet and had checked my account before I left, seeing that it had just over 300 dollars in it. Should be enough to get me there and back, and Eddie’s investment in fun should be able to cover the rest of it. He was working as an electrical engineer (just out of Stanford) for some fancy business in San Diego that makes satellites or something for the Defense Department, so I figured he had more money than he knew what to do with anything. As that turned out, it was true.
I had packed so scantly because I figured that 1) I didn’t want to carry too much around 2) I didn’t want to have to worry about my stuff ever and 3) I had learned to wash things by hand anyway, so it shouldn’t have been a big deal. I had learned to tough it out too, which is what I ended up doing anyway. Anyway.
As the opening credits of some B movie start, I watch out the window as we climb out of the southern end of the Mexico City valley, clouds circling the two famous volcanoes to my right. I try in vain to take a couple of pictures. My pictures on trips are always like that: pictures of stuff that is happening when nothing is happening. When we are out doing incredible stuff, I never get pictures. When I simply pass by cool things, I take pictures out of the bus window trying not to let others see what I am doing, getting about a dozen pictures of blurry green somethings or cloudy grey conical shapes, a couple dinner pictures of people, people walking on the beach, and if there happens to be any “tourist” site, a couple dozen photos of the same pyramid from different angles. I do take great photos of cool stuff when I put my mind to it, but generally I am engulfed in being in that moment, trying to capture it in my mind and not so worried about capturing it with zeros and ones. I used to hate when my mom would run around taking pictures of everything, but now I am kind of glad that I have so many pictures of my childhood to remind me of things I would never have remembered. At least now I can invent memories.
This and much more is running through my head as I think of the 13 hour trip I have ahead of me. It’s probably 7:00 PM, so I figure I’ll get in about 8:00 the next morning, assuming there’s no time change. I fall asleep to this thought, and sleep through the movie and the next one, apparently, waking up at 3:00 AM or so (I have no watch and have not yet learned how to program my cell phone). My eyes pop open as the bus rattles, as if driving over gravel. I look out the bus window to see us absolutely barreling down the highway. I don’t know if this is because it is a dangerous stretch or because he wants to make up for lost time somewhere or just because he can, but it is scary fast. I look up to see the red light at the front, saying “95 Km/h,” brightly illuminated. “It must be kind of a challenge sometimes, taunting the drivers” I think. The light stays on for the next two hours. I would say we are going at least 200 kilometers per hour. This is no exaggeration. We are pummeling down the highway, flying by distance markage signs I cannot even pretend to read with the headlights of the bus approaching and passing faster than my eye can catch. As the sunlight begins to peak over whatever skyline we are near, we reach the border of Chiapas and are soon in the capital of Tuxtla Gutierrez. Besides a brief stop in Oaxaca, it is the only stop we make between Mexico D.F. and my destination, San Cristobal. Most everyone gets off the bus in Tuxtla, but there are probably eight left to go the extra three hours to San Cristobal. And what a sight all those other people missed.
The road from Tuxtla to San Cristobal is a windy road that travels up into the mountains, while giving you an incredible view of the valley all the way up. As you reach the pass everything turns from desert into lush jungle, with crevasses slithering down slits in the cliffs that shoot up and fall away. There are little huts built strangely at the top of many cliffs, high above and below the road that we are wandering along. The road is untypically non-Mexican, nice and smooth and well engineered. I sat in still wonder, seeing what few foreign tourists have ever seen. Where the sidewalk ends. Who else is stupid enough to go by bus. (As it turns out, most tourists come into San Cristobal by plane or by tourist vans from the Yucatan/Cancun/Eastern side whereas I am coming from the west). The road dips and weaves, the bus moving like a halfback running through beautiful holes created by large stony linemen, agile leaps over green rolling linebackers, spinning around flowered terraced strong safeties. As we tiptoe into the endzone of San Cristobal, I feel a strong sense of panic come over me as I realize no one is coming to help me and if something happens, no one is calling the cops. But as I leave the bus station and see a tacky travel agency across the street, I remember this is a place crawling with tourists and it shouldn’t be a scary place. I flag down the first taxi I see and ask him where the city center is. He takes me about 10 blocks which gives me enough time to ask about the hotel Jaime recommended and recant my short bus ride story to him. I already have one friend when I get out of the taxi and hand him 10 pesos. Already things are cheaper than the horrendously cheap central Mexico area.
It is still early and there is almost no one around, so I walk around the main square and step into a place advertising trips to the places Jaime told me about. Turns out most of the places were a good three to four hours away and a good 250 to 300 pesos which I didn’t really have but really wanted to spend. I saw that one place, San Juan Chamula was only a fifteen minute ride and cost 75 pesos for a full tour. I figured I could get there cheaper on my own, so I held out. It looked like there was a lot to see around the city, with at least four churches on the hillsides above the city, so I decided to go find my hotel and drop off my stuff. I followed the taxi driver’s directions to a passing bus and followed that directly out of the city into the little hotel. As promised, it was a mere 150 pesos, which included a room with full accommodations, internet access, and a meal to boot, located on the outskirts of town about two blocks away from sheer upward cliffs of San Cristobal. San Cristobal is located in a valley in the mountains, two sides bordered by steep cliffs, one side by not so steeps cliffs and the other just a hill, where the main road comes in and out. Tall trees, cool temperatures, white people, and overcast conditions made me feel like I was back in the Seattle again. I took a short nap, a pleasant shower, and headed out to catch that same bus back into town. Eager to find San Juan Chamula, I asked around to where I could find a bus. It turned out to be a real tricky location and I literally had to ask someone every single block for like eight blocks, and one more time even as I stand directly outside of it not realizing it. Jaime had said that there was a really old church there, built when Cortez was still alive, in the style of the Mayas, and that you couldn’t take photos inside. The bus is a van that waits for 20 minutes for other people to show up, and we head out. It is up steeply into the mountains, a nice drive overlooking the whole city. We get out to Chamula and I get out. It is a single street leading into a main town square with some surrounding houses. The church is a normal looking stone church, except that it is highlighted with very “Mayan” colors like teal/green. There are a few government buildings, a small marketplace, and a couple restaurants. Facing the church, I can see a poster that shows what appears to be a firewalking ceremony of sorts, which as I read happens every year as people run down a path of coals that leads away from the church door. I can’t find out why or what it means. I walk to the church doors where I read a sign that says “No entrance without written permission.” Well crap. I thought it was just pictures that I couldn’t take, but it turns out that I can’t even go in. I see a large group of white people heading for me, and I decide to try to blend in with them, to at least see what’s inside. The find the entrance, and I huddle with them and no one cares but they are all speaking French. But I really want to see inside. The guide is a young Mexican who notices me immediately and looks and me disapprovingly but says nothing. Whatever. I want to see inside. They all go in and I follow. What wonders I then saw can never quite understood in words. I see people in circles on the floor with candles surrounding boxes that hold saints in them. The walls were bare but at the end were holes in the wall with candles and banners and all sorts of things hanging out of them. Incense was being burned like there was no tomorrow, and bizarre tunes of songs I had never heard were being sung. There were a group of local men sitting and talking, with trowels in their hands… and wood beams sitting around…oh wait. They are doing construction. Actually, placing, in my mind, the saints back on the walls and the candles on stands in front and the banners on the walls like normal, it isn’t so different than the normal cathedrals. I do see a sign on the wall that says it was built sometime like at the end of the 1400’s or something, which makes no sense so it was probably after that, but it was really really old. There is scaffolding to my right and some more at the end. It looks like just some basic repairs and a good paint job. It actually looks like it will be pretty nice when they finish.
The groups is still blabbering along in French, and the guide is still looking at me. “Ok” I think. It’s time for an escape. If I just pretend like the incense is getting to me, I can make an easy escape. And the group is starting to cross the church to the other side and I really don’t want a confrontation with the guide without a good escape, so I start to back up, coughing and holding my chest but not enough to call any real attention to myself. Bong! I go down hard. I am on the floor and my head is killing me. What is going on? I look up and see a steel pipe that was hanging off the scaffolding that is sitting just at my head level. Now everyone is looking at me, and I am getting pretty nervous. I smile sheepishly and stand up and walk to the door. I figured that the Mexicans probably still just thought I was with the group, and the group didn’t care one way or another.
I stepped out into the cool air and rubbing my head walked out of the square and down the main street to where I had seen some sort of old ruins of something. There was a sign that said “museum” so I followed it.
I stopped by a tienda for a cold pop, but found only warm ones. I bought a Pepsi and sat down to watch the movie the store clerk had on, which was some Mexican shootem up movie. I turned and laughed and said to the clerk “this is what everyone says that Chiapas is supposed to be like!” He looks at me and gives me a pity smile and turns back. Right.
The ruins turn out to be another church that actually was built after the other one, but built anyway and then abandoned. The only cool thing about it is the bizarre cemetery that is totally ragtag here and there graves and mounds above the earth and flowers everywhere. The museum is one of the creepiest places I have ever been because it’s all these really poorly made dummies in this mazelike walkway under a thatch roof and it’s completely silent and you really think that maybe some of the dummies are really people or even worse maybe some play tricks on you. The scariest two are the ones with machete and the other with the accordion.
And then, it’s back to San Cristobal!
The only fun things that happen that night is that I find a church on a hill to climb up to, another one in a lovely little park, a spaghetti dinner, and a churro. Back to the hotel for a nice sleep and an early morning.
Oh, I forgot to say that as soon as I got to the bus station that morning, I had asked about possible Guatemala borders and was told that the nearest one was Ciudad Cuautemoc, and that “it was easy and buses are there to take you right to Guatemala City. And that there is a 9:00 bus. Sweet.
So I wake up and get to the bus, looking back giving a fond farewell to a pleasant little city with lots of fun things to do but not enough time to do them. The bus is late, like most buses, but we get on a little after 9:15. It is two straight hours south where I will get off and walk across the border with my backpack and catch the first “chicken bus” that I can find. A little nervous, but I’m feeling good and confident. An hour and twenty into our ride down the pleasant highway two lanes wide, traffic is backed up. Stopped, in fact. We come to a stop, and the bus driver gets out and walks up ahead to find out what’s going on. A good majority of the 25 or 30 people get off the bus and sit down in the little tienda next to us. Actually, we had been driving almost all of that road intermittently hitting small towns but mostly just jungle surrounding our drive, but had stopped right in front of a tienda and to the other side a small restaurant. I, of course, stayed in the bus waiting to see what would happen and not wanting to even think about considering the possibility of accidentally being left behind if I ventured into the bathroom in the restaurant, or some other distraction, for even a second. I heard people saying stuff like “the road is closed” and “they closed the road” and “when are they going to open the road” but had no idea who or how or why. I stayed on the bus until the last lady got off with her mother, mostly due to the heat in the bus, and I followed them, leaving everything on the bus. I sat down in a white plastic chair around a plastic table that said “Corona” across it. The bus driver sat across from a lady that had jumped off the bus when it first stopped, who seemed like an upper class socialite, undoubtedly from Mexico City. They were just one table to my right. A kid of about 20 years sat across from me, and everyone else seemed to be sitting around us all facing inwards, either in the conversation with the driver and upper class lady, or hushed chatting with themselves. A large man comes from behind me and sits in the chair that separates me and the upper class lady. He sits and asks who I am and if I speak Spanish. Not talking to me though. They tell him they don’t know but that I got on in San Cristobal and that I haven’t said a thing. I tell them I am one of the people blocking off the road, to which they all laugh and suddenly the conversation is completely turned to me. Who are you? Why are you here? Where are you going? Why are you going by bus? How old are you? Do you like Mexican women? Do you like older Mexican women…? (Mufasa). How did you learn to speak Spanish? Do you like it here? and such questions. At one point the older woman points to a bus filled with people, as the bus flies down the wrong lane, heading towards the barrier. She asks if I want to be on that bus. I just stare at her as she laughs at her own joke. They explain in chorus that the bus is filled with illegal immigrants from Guatemala who tried to get into the US. I suddenly imagine my self flagging down the bus, jumping in and giving a big “what’s up” to the Guatemaltecos who, I don’t know, do something. My day dream doesn’t make it that far because they continue with the questions.
The larger man to my right is the most piqued, and when about twenty minutes later most of the others lose interest, he continues. We speak in English a little, or what he knows, we talk about his pasta business and my living situation and my life goals. Finally I stop him and bring up my main curiosity which is who what and why is the road being blocked? He says that they are PRDistas, fighters and politicians, tools in the overall scheme, but needing to do something to help their state.
“So they aren’t soldiers or government officials? Ordinary people can shut down the roads and no one cares or can do anything about it?”
“Well, they don’t want a fight so they just run trucks of soldiers back and forth along this road to see if the people will let the official vehicles come through. If they fight the soldiers, they can clear them out with good reason. And if not, maybe the people will get nervous or realize they are just inconveniencing their follow citizens.”
“So they are just normal people?” My question is answered by a pickup truck full of people holding machetes driving towards us from the roadblock. My heart skips a beat. “I’m not going to have any problems, am I?”
“No, they won’t care.” I’m not so convinced. The people are chanting some slogans that make little sense to me but probably have to do with their local government. I smile at them, as most of them watch me as they drive by. Their rattling of their machetes makes me nervous but I figure that someone of my new friends will stand up for me and talk them out of causing problems for me, if it came to that.
He actually explains to me that I would probably have more problems from the real government, because there are rumors that rich Europeans are helping fund and helped fund a large part of the rebellious groups, specifically the Zapatistas.
We meander through a million conversations in the next couple hours, talking with the kid sitting across from me who apparently is going to his cousin’s wedding. I slowly get the impression that most people are ending up in Tapachula, a larger city about a half hour from the border, west of here, fairly close to the Pacific coast. I ask if this is true, and they ask me where I am going. Ciudad Cuautemoc.
“No, you don’t want to go there. It is the same as the ugly border towns on the Mexico-US border. It’s a lot of people who saved up money to try to cross the border illegally, to find a job in another country, who got to the border and couldn’t get across and have no money and now just have to find ways to steal or beg or do whatever they can just to live. You’d be an easy target. Plus you aren’t getting there until nighttime anyway making it more dangerous. Plus the buses are horrible from there to Guatemala City.”
posted by Patrick McEvoy at 10:52 PM
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