The Reading Train

John arrived on Friday afternoon after spending most of the night on a red-eye flight from Tiajuana. The little apartment was a nice size when there was only me living there. John is planning to be in Mexico 3-6 months, so he came with four or five big bags full of everything you could imagine including more folded up duffel bags for purchases. He’ll go home via bus, and there are no bag restrictions on buses. When he took a look at those stairs he turned around and asked the young cab driver what he’d charge to carry the bags up. The fellow grabbed the two heaviest ones and started up the staird. I thought he would collapse by the time he got to the top and knew he’d wished he’d asked for more money!

John was pretty exhausted from a night of no sleep on the plane, but we still took the bus to the market and then on to Centro to look around a bit and have some dinner. He broke off the knob on the kitchen sink the first time he tightened it. It was cheap cast iron and broke right in half. We couldn’t find any ‘mechanico’ stall that had a replacement so we purchased a pair of cheap pliers and rigged a “knob” with the pliers and a rubber band. I swear all those years of camping experience have come in handy living in Mexico.

On Saturday, we had a very leisurely morning and finally went back to the market and then downtown. John had a Zapatista contact he wanted to make. But before we did that, we stopped at the plaza.

Getting a little help.

A young married couple has started a reading program that is just too cool!! The man and his father built a train engine. It’s a welded steel structure over an old car body and engine. It looks just like a train engine and has seats in the back for “tourists”. They give tours of the town in the “engine”, and the money supports the other half of their program, an outdoor library for kids. They have a small ‘train’ with a cart full of picture books, a few tables and chairs and several peddle cars that also look like trains. The kids pick a book, read it, and then they can play on one of the peddle cars. You see kids parked all over with the books and several of them peddling the cars. It’s very popular. We stopped to talk to them about the program. It hasn’t been going on very long, has a little government grant to keep it afloat and they’re out there ever Friday, Saturday and Sunday from 10 to 10. 

Reading books at the Reading Train.

I asked if I could interview them, turns out they just live a few blocks from our apartment. I took a few pictures but will come back for better ones with my bigger camera. John came up with several fund raising ideas. It think this little grass-roots program is marvelous, because the way Mexico works their educational system, a lot of kids have no access to school. Oh, sure, schools are public, but one or the other parent must volunteer one day per week at the schools. If they don’t the kids don’t go. Period. For single mothers, for the poorest of the poor, school is not an option, and that accounts for why there are so many raggedly children on the street shining shoes and selling gum. The whole family works at just staying afloat. 

One of the train peddle cars.

With a program like this, kids have access to books, and they were just fascinated. One little boy in dirty pants, dusty hair and no shoes was reading with his finger on each word, just thrilled to be able to do it, and even more thrilled to ride in one of the carts. I think they need better signage to get the tourists involved in riding the train. If I had known the train raised money for the reading program, I would have ridden it the first day. If more of the multitude of tourists in San Cristoal would do that,  their funding could easily be increased.  So John and I have found our ‘short’ calling while in Mexico. We are going back on Sunday to talk more with the couple and find out what they need, and what they’d like. John has spent most of his life marketing and selling. If they will accept our help, they might be able to get quite a bit more money for their project. I will also do some fundraising when I get home. I think this sort of thing is so worthwhile. You can’t succeed in modern life if you can’t read well, and for a culture to exclude some children….well, it’s unconscionable, and it ensures a constant underclass that is too easily exploited.

There’s a restaurant on Guadalupe called Tierra Adentro. It is a nice place with an open, barely covered, courtyard with tables and chairs, little shops, a bookstore, and conference rooms. The shops are run by co-ops from the Mayan villages and much of the profit goes to fund Zapatista activities.  The floor is stone and was filled with pine needles like the church in Chamula. This was the first time I’d been in there when the pine needles were on the floor and it’s just as dangerous as in the church. In fact, one kid leaned back in his equipale chair and fell right over. Everyone laughed. He was fine, but I thought, this would never have happened in the US without someone throwing a fit over it.

John’s contact there, Jose, is a red-haired American man from southern California who has been living in San Cristobal for a few months studying Spanish. He’s married to a Mexican woman and is a friend of the restaurant owner. We spoke English for a bit and then switched to Spanish. I learned a lot about the Zapatista movement and the efforts of the indigenous people to get control of their land, and how it gets financed with international contributions.

Courtyard roof at the Zapatista Restaurant.

After a nice lunch we headed over to the landlady’s place to talk to her about John getting an apartment in the Centro area in May. She told us the young couple upstairs will be moving on Wednesday. I was so surprised. Natalia hadn’t mentioned it. So we’re going to move to the much larger apartment when they move out. I’m really happy about that, though I am going to miss Natalia a lot.  She gave me a tour of her place last week, and it’s a lot larger, two bedrooms, and a halfway decent kitchen.  After we got home, she stopped by to meet John and said they’d just decided to move to a place closer to Centro. I can see how it would be lonely out here for such a young active couple.  I wouldn’t have picked this spot either, but I’ve enjoyed it for one month.

Zapatista restaurant.

At the Posada, our landlady Sr. Martinez was in the kitchen with her baby, Mateo. He was in a highchair pushed up against the wall and behind the table. Obviously she is an experienced mother. He is about 6 months old and strong. He pushed his little sturdy legs against the table and rocked back and forth in the highchair, but the wall kept him from flying over backwards. He was so cute, with huge brown eyes and fluffy chocolate hair. She was feeding him strained fruit that he didn’t care for at first, but then made noises and stretched open his mouth like a baby bird begging for more.  We sat and chatted for probably an hour; the way business is done in Mexico. I gave the broken handle pieces to her and assured her there was no hurry to fix it, we had a solution. She was relieved as tomorrow is Sunday and she’d have a hard time finding someone to send out to the “cabana” as she calls the place.

Brigitte's hairless pouch, Biscot.

I left John to find his way back to the Train people while I took the CD with Pascuala’s photos on it to Brigitte. She insisted I come in and look over the photos. I think she was quite pleased. She invited me to go on yet another ‘shoot’, this time to photograph some welder/ironworkers. Somewhere up in the mountains, there’s a very tiny town and a group of 7 men who do artistic gates and other types of welding. They have no phone, so on Tuesday, we’re going to wing it, go there, and hope they will be working. Her husband Bob wants to go too, he said it’s a beautiful drive. She still wants to take me to the little town south of here that is famous for ceramic figurines. I’ve seen them around town and in Brigitte’s house. We’re not talking little table-top animals. They are life-sized jaguars and ocelots. She showed me a photo of an artist with a huge jaguar piece. The face of the cat and the woman bore great resemblance to each other, not something she appreciated when Brigitte told her that!!  I’m beginning to really like Brigitte. The woman speaks her mind…..always. And so does Bob. I think the four of us will have a fun trip to wherever this little village turns out to be.

I found John at the Reading Train perusing a book on Mayan archeology. He said some of the temples have 365 steps, one for each day of the year. He wondered how many months the steps up to our little apartment covered. At least two months I would guess, I’m not sure I want to know!!

A little Aztec....

For a while, we enjoyed entertainments on the plaza in front of the Cathedral. I enjoyed putting my new little camera through its paces, it even does short videos. Click below to see Aztec dancers:

The Earthquake and Tsotsil Villages

After the trip to Tonina, I spent Tuesday just messing around; writing, playing with photos, a quick trip to the market. I found a Teach-Yourself-Spanish program on the web so checked it out just for fun. It looked like a great way to learn Spanish, with active videos, photos and interactive tests. I took the first lesson, which was the basic stuff like “How are you”, “What’s your name”, etc. But missed several answers on the spelling test. I guess if it weren’t for spell checkers I could never be a writer in any language, even one as simple (to spell) as Spanish.

On my forays into the world, I write down the words I see on signs that I don’t know. I’ve discovered the word for wholesaler and retailer, workshop, “good prices”, etc. It’s a lot of fun. My little Mexican Spanish phrasebook is rather limited so I come home and look up words in the web-based dictionary.

Detail of Tsotsil weaving, all done with fingers and thread.

A while before this trip, I made the e-acquaintence of a woman here in San Cristobal. She asked me to go with her to Tsotsil villages and photograph the artisans at work, and possibly write up something for the web about them. Brigitte and her husband Bob have a beautiful home a few blocks from the old market, up the hill. She invited me for dinner on Wednesday evening. Her home is exquisite. Honestly, it could be featured in Architectural Digest. They purchased a ‘ruin’ in her words, gutted it and built something more to her liking.  The French country kitchen has Mexican tile and fixtures, features a 6 burner gas stove/oven, a quiet dishwasher, lots of cupboard and counter space, and a huge table that seats 6 comfortably in the middle. Floors throughout the house are thick red brick. Walls are deeply textured and colored a soft orange cream. At night the soft lighting enhances the undulating wall surface and makes for a beautiful romantic setting. Most of the furniture is handmade and handpainted with delicate designs. The upholstery on several chairs is handwoven Tsotsil cloth and the floors feature original Iranian Bokara rugs.

Pascuala weaving at her home. 

They have three dogs. One is a Mexican hairless, the first I’ve ever seen. Biscot has hair on her head and around her face, but nowhere else, and she’s a good sized dog, probably 30 pounds. It’s very weird petting a hairless dog. It’s like she’s wearing a fine leather jacket. Then there’s darling little Frodo, a Chihuahua mix with the homeliest face but sweetest personality. Everyone falls in love with Frodo. The other dog is a shy, chubby black Chihuahua they call the Pig.

Brigitte and I hiked down the hill to the Gelateria to fetch some icecream for dessert, while Bob stayed behind to keep an eye on the apple crisp.  Brigitte is fluent in  French, English, Spanish and speaks a lot of Tsotsil. We stopped several places where she had indigenous friends. An hour and a half later, we got home to the smell of burned sugar. Bob mentioned the dessert was a bit crisp, but we could eat the middle. Brigitte was quite miffed about it. As it turned out, I think he hit on something good. The sugars had carmelized and that was one of the best apple crisps I’ve ever tasted. She served up a delicious dinner of cucumber salad, rice and Vietnamese porkchops. I asked if she ever bought meat at that stinky meat market and she looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.

Wednesday morning, I was sitting on the couch typing away on my laptop when the windows began to rattle. I thought perhaps my upstairs neighbor was opening her sliding door, but then wondered how that could possibly make my windows rattle. All of a sudden the couch lurched sideways and I high tailed it out the door. It was an earthquake.  I waited around outside. The electric line to the house swayed back and forth, but the trees seemed quiet and stable. The ground under my feet wasn’t vibrating. Nothing else happened. It’s funny, I’ve been thinking about earthquakes, wondering how often they must happen here based on the observation of the subsiding mountainside.

I headed back to Brigitte’s. The plan for the day was to go to Zinacantan to photograph a weaver at work. She asked if I’d felt the earthquake. Apparently it was much stronger in her area, and was centered about 100 miles north in Veracruz state. She told me this was their 20^th quake since they’d moved here four years ago. They happen all the time. Good to know. Next time the window rattles, I’ll be out of the house in a flash.

We took a combi to Zinacantan, a village to the northwest of San Cristobal. As we descended into the town, I could see hundreds of greenhouses built in a very orderly fashion all over the hillsides. Brigitte said they grow flowers here, and supply most of southern Mexico’s florists. Pascuala’s house is right across the street from the large City Hall.  We arrived to much fanfare. The ladies all knew Brigitte and after I was introduced they pulled out chairs for us. (She whispered to me that was a sign of acceptance.) Pascuala’s sister, cousin, neice and mother were there, each doing some kind of embroidery or handwork. Her home is a block building with a large deep porch, lined with racks and tables to display their crafts. Brigitte commented on Pascuala’s hairdo. It was in the traditional knot at the top of the forehead, not a style often seen these days. Most of the women prefer to braid their hair into one or two pigtails. Once in a while I see little girls with French braids marching down both sides of their heads. Pascuala is a very sharp businesswoman. She wants the publicity photos to be authentic and traditional.

Pascuala

We discussed setting up for the photo shoot. It was necessary to move white buckets and large plastic bags full of grain, clothing, and trash. Pascuala hung a bunch of long table runners to create a colorful background, then set up her backstrap loom and went to work. The minute I got out the cameras the other ladies ran off and hid in the shadows. Eventually, when it became clear that I would be taking photos only of Pascuala, they drifted back and chatted with each other and Brigitte. We put out a little corn to entice a chicken into the scene, then a big rooster came over and bullied his way in. It was so much fun trying to catch Pascuala in the midst of some loom move. Some of the photos show her arms blurred, she moves so fast. I finally had to ask her pose to get a good shot of how she lifts the threads. Afterwards, I got more candid shots of her and Brigitte discussing some design Brigitte wants on headboards for her guest room. It was a lovely productive couple of hours, and I think Pascuala liked several of the shots. I’ll give Brigitte a CD with all of them, and I’ll work on the best ones to enhance the clarity and lighting.

While we were in Zinacantan, we went over to the big white church. I can tell Brigitte loves visiting the villages, it gives her a chance to practice her Tsotsil and make new friends. Inside the church, there were very few benches, instead people prefer to sit on the floor. I have never seen so many flowers. Every open tabletop, every bench, every spot in front of a saint had a vase of flowers, of every kind you can imagine. The church smelled heavenly. It was an interesting church, and some of the practices in the church are not exactly traditional Catholic. For instance, people light candles in front of themselves when they pray, so the floors are tile and covered with bumps of wax. There are two figures of Jesus, a white and a black one, both prone in glass display cases in the middle of the room. The saints are dressed in the finest handwoven materials and completely covered up as they are in mourning now until Easter. The walls of the church were probably once white, but now they are gray from the smoke of candles. Designs in the walls are classic Mayan geometry, painted black, so the whole inside of the church is black and gray. It’s not as depressing or dirty as it might seem. Everything is very clean and the flowers are highlighted by sunshine streaming in from high windows.

We hopped in a taxi and went on down the road to San Juan Chamula, a very different Tsotsil village. About 80,000 people live there, and its church has very unusual ceremonies on Fridays when healers and shamans come in to sacrifice chickens and drive out evil spirits.

San Juan Bautista Church, Chamula

Before I could close the door on the taxi I was accosted by three or four girls, about 12 or 13 years old. One was insistent on giving me a little bracelet even though I told her I didn’t want to buy anything. Her name was Maria, she spoke a little English, it was a present, she would find me later after we saw the church, I would buy something from her then, no? Whew! I was exhausted by her persistence.

We purchased entry into the church for 20 pesos each. It was a completely different experience. Like Zinacantan, people sit or kneel on the floor, but in addition, the tile floor is covered with the thin long needles of the local evergreen trees. It makes walking extremely dangerous and slippery. Little boys, behind their mother’s backs were running, then landing on their knees to slide on the needles across the floor. It was an extreme fire hazard as well, because here, people also lit candles and stuck them to the floor in little pools of tile they created by pushing the needles out of the way.  The place seemed crowded to me, with tourists and locals doing their daily religious activities, but Brigitte assured me this was nothing. There are times, especially on Fridays when the place is packed.

Note the interesting symbols. 

The walls of this church are almost black from a couple of centuries of candle burning. And there weren’t just a few, there were hundreds, all over the place, many in glass containers, most were little sticks stuck to the floor and with the breeze from the mostly open front door, they were burning up fast and furious. Another interesting practice is the act of drinking coke and “posh” a powerful alcoholic drink made from sugar.  I saw many blankets spread on the floor, candles lit in front, and four or five cans of coke lined up like some kind of sacred object.  The people, while praying are chanting and with the entire inner volume of the church filled with smoke, it resembles a Buddhist temple.  Brigitte told me that another practice is to get good and drunk, then go over to a saint and pray for guidance. The saints have  mirrors hanging down on cords. The petitioner looks into the mirror and often goes into a rapture, speaking in tongues, answering their own question.

Upon emerging from the church, Maria, accosted me yet again, insisting that I buy one of her woven belts, she’d given me a present, now I should buy the belt, etc etc. I looked helplessly at Brigitte who said “Give her back the present.” So I took the little bracelet out and dropped it onto the girl’s arm. Finally she went away.

Brigitte wanted to visit the huge market, a large roof over an open concrete structure just off the main plaza. It was about half full of vendors and the place was filthy. Brigitte said the Chamulans are quite dirty people, bathing is not a communal value, nor is washing clothes. I began to take a closer look, and she was right. The whole town had a much more grungy feel to it than even the darkest alley in the old market, and a lot of the people actually had dirt on their skin. She said, “Not a place you want to get lunch.” It was such a contrast to the beautiful and orderly Zinacantan.

Chamula has other problems of a religious nature. Evangelical missionaries have made inroads in the population, and those who don’t follow the strange version of Catholocism exemplified by the unusual church are summarily kicked out. Many of them now live on the outskirts of San Cristobal in areas called New Jeruselem and Calvary. The problem is, most of those people are cut off from their families, are dirt poor and have no plumbing, no electricity, etc. There is a terrible problem with e-coli getting into the air and blowing around. I’ve been told that especially in the spring, it’s difficult not to get sick, no matter how careful you are with washing your hands and eating only cooked food.

Tonina, Mayan City-State

Tonina (To-nee-NAH)

On the eastern side of a high mountain pass from San Cristobal sits a small city called Ocosingo. South of it, about 12 miles is the ancient city of Tonina, the Mayan city-state that brought down mighty Palenque.

Jungle encased ruins of Tonina.  The hill on the right is
more of the same complex, not excavated yet. 

Since I have no TV or radio here at my little bungalow, I was completely unaware that Mexico had gone on daylight savings time! On Monday morning, I packed up stuff to spend the day out, camera, rain jacket, Tilly hat, guidebook, bottle of water, money (lots of money!), and Mexican Spanish phrase book.  I planned to go to Ocosingo, only 88 kilometers away, and see Tonina.  Later in the month, I’ll take a few days and go to Palenque.

So, a lot didn’t go as planned. It wasn’t 9:15, its was 10:15, and the bus took about 2 and a half hours to go that relatively short distance, because it had to traverse a snaky road with steep drop-offs, the kind you read about buses flying off in Bolivia. Every little village along the way keeps traffic slow by putting in deadly speed bumps the size of telephone poles. I took a first class bus, those giant swaying smooth buses that cuddle you in comfort while it zooms along the super highway. Except this was a two lane road where the wheels seemed to be mere centimeters away from the edges of the cliffs as the bus flew along at highway speeds. Between the terrors of looking down, the bus’s radical to-and-fro swaying, and the speeding up and then almost stopping to get over the speed-logs, I felt like barfing. 

Temple partly uncovered, with tree trunks still attached.

I knew it would be warmer in Ocosingo, but I didn’t expect it to be like South Florida in May. I took a combi out to Tonina, the windows were down and the sweat finally blew off. But at the site, the museum was closed. Oh, yes, everyone knows all the museums in the country are closed on Mondays. Everyone but me, and now I know too! The site was open, and it was only a kilometer hike in 100 percent humidity in 90-degree heat. No problem. On the way, I could see the mountain I’d be climbing….to the top of the highest temple.  Then again, maybe not.

Decapitation altar.

Ball Court

The first delight was a ball court, home of a ritual game played to the death of one team or the other. Sitting next to the court, looking downright jaunty was the mini-pyramid-altar where the losing teams lost their heads. And off to the right was the base of a huge pyramid with many levels with various structures. Built into the base was a dark and blessedly cool labyrinth. There was no signage, and no pamphlet to read, so I had to depend on the Lonely Planet guidebook. I’m not

sure of the labyrinth’s purpose. There were smallfloor-mounted lights near stairs, but other than that one had to depend on the tiny bit of natural light that came through long tunnels, or openings in the rockwork. The ceilings were vaulted and tall. I had my little flashlight with me. It’s not a very elaborate labyrinth, and I came back to the beginning in a short while. 

Labyrinth entrance

Miraculously, the weather had changed in the short time I was inside. Thick clouds covered the sun and the wind picked up. The temperature dropped dramatically but it didn’t rain.  It was tough going, getting up the 400 feet of staircases on narrow steps. This pyramid has seven levels with different purposes and many carvings now protected from weathering by thatched roofs and from people by chicken wire!  It was difficult, if not impossible to get photos of the sculptures, so little is left of most of them and there’s not much contrast. A stele with a man in full headdress, with the slanted skull and broad face of the nobility reins over the staircase.  Other bas-relief sculptures show the four seasons, with a decapitated head in each one. What life must have been like back then, where people were beheaded on a regular basis! Kind of like now in Mexico when the drug lords decapitate people and roll their heads out onto a disco dance floor. That happened a couple of years ago in Uruapan……I found out after I had a marvelous (and safe) time there! Probably for the run of the mill person at the height of the Mayan civilization, life involved working hard, raising a family, getting enough food to eat, and complex religious activity that made it all worthwhile. Without knowing any more of their beliefs, it’s difficult to draw any conclusions. I can’t believe though, that watching someone beheaded didn’t have a lot of emotional impact.

Roof Comb

Tonina has one of the better preserved roof combs built around 713 AD. There are many different temples atop the pyramid, and they have names like Temple of the Earth Monster and Temple of the Smoking Mirror. Back in 688, a new dynasty took over, called the Snake Skull – Jaguar Claw. One of its later rulers was a woman named Smoking Mirror. She dressed in her late husband’s warrior clothing and it was under her leadership that Tonina fought Palenque and captured their leader K’an Joy Chitam II.  In San Cristobal a theater features a dramatic performance of this story: Palenque Roja. In the dramatic version, K’an Joy returns to Palenque after 10 years as a captive, but the archeologically derived version is that he was beheaded at Tonina. Either way, after his death he became a star and lives on forever. 

I am always fascinated by cultures and their predictions, like the end of the world, predicted (interpreted yet again) by the Mayan calendar, revelations in the Bible, and individuals. The people of Tonina believed they were in the fourth season, winter, the last one, and indeed it was true. Tonina was abandoned in the mid 800’s. Was it a prediction or a self-fulfilling prophecy? Of course the Mayans are still around, now with a different culture and evolving language, organized into much smaller groups and villages, but still very communal and integrated.  They rise up today in the form of the Zapatistas fighting for control of their land against the Mexican government.

I made it to the sixth platform where the stairs became much narrower. Hardly anyone was around, but sitting at the top, the entire time I was on the site, was a man in police uniform. He was quite friendly, and encouraged me to climb to the tip top for a view, but I was too hot and sweaty, and the site would be closing in a few minutes. He came down and escorted me to the bottom then stayed there to turn back a few late-arrivals. Across the stream was a little thatched roofed restaurant that served ice cream and popsicles. I’m sure they do an amazing business after people come off that pyramid.

Cicada kid.

As I waited for a combi, a little boy entertained us with his 'pet' cicada. The insect was attached to a fine fishing line with glue and it flew around him like a little helicopter. These kids don't need Nintendos to have a great time.

Ice Cream!!!! Popsicles!! Shade!!!

Detail of Stele

Trees still growing on the ruins, nice views.

On the way back to town, we passed a military complex, very new and pristine looking, lots of men standing around with assault rifles, and flying a Mexican flag the size of a football field! In every country I’ve been to, the military has money while schools have to hen-scratch to stay alive.  Passing us in the opposite direction were dozens of military green trucks, and between them, several trucks packed with people and luggage in the back. It looked to me like those people were being escorted by the military, and after having seen the movie “Sin Nombre”, I wondered if they were Guatemalans in the country illegally. 

The ride home was the same kind of bus. I decided to trust that the bus driver would not fling us over a cliff in the dark, so I buckled in and took a nap. Those buses really are like giant cradles, easy to sleep in. I awoke refreshed and ready to find my way home. It was an amazing day. I hope Palenque will be equally rewarding. 

Sunday Church Views

Sunday dawned foggy, a gray so thick it felt slimy. I couldn’t even see the gate at the bottom of the property.  But by 9:00 it was burned off and there was clear blue sky without a single cloud.

It seemed like a good day to go to the top of one of the two churches that flank the town and have spectacular views. I wasn’t feeling very energetic, I’ve had a little bout of stomach-ugly, probably from eating far too many mangos and bananas.  I fixed breakfast and joined Natalia on the landing where they have a picnic table and an umbrella. As good as some of the food is around here, nothing beats my own cooking. I had lefto-over guacamole so ate that with tomato slices, a scrambled egg and (yet another!) mango. We chatted a bit and she showed me a website with all the San Cristobal activities that are going on. I have Google’d San Cristobal several times but never found that site.

Guadalupe church.

By 1:00 I was hiking up the long flight of stairs to the Guadalupe church on the east end of town. I didn’t enter the church as they were having Mass. Indeed the views from there are beautiful. One can see the entire valley, distant houses on mountainsides, and all the mountain-subsiding which indicates extensive earthquakes over a long period of time. I’m pretty sure there is a fault line just east of the house. It appears to be a rock quarry, but on closer examination, the mountainside has collapsed in several places, and people have taken advantage of the exposed rock by mining it. Further east of the city is farmland and more houses. It’s very lush and looks like it’s probably farmed year round.

At the base of the staircase, vendors sell food and lots of ice cold drinks. I saw little plastic cups with something that resembled large olives in amber liquid. It was a fruit, new to me, called tejocote, swimming in orange liquor. It had an interesting rubbery skin, a large corrugated seed, and very little “fruit”. What I paid for was the liquor!  I liked it much better than the ‘nanchas’ I got in Patzcuaro last fall that tasted like mediocre cheese. It’s no wonder some fruits reach international audiences, like mangos, while others languish in the place of their birth.

Closeup of Church

Natalia told me about a coffee museum. I found it, but it wasn’t open. Neither were the Jade or Amber museums. Walking around town, I noticed a lot of posadas, inexpensive hotels, for about $10 a night, some with private baths, some shared. All said they had hot water 24/7. Cheap hotels must have a reputation for cold showers.  Most also had TVs and Internet. They looked inviting, with clean patios, beautiful flowers, and little outdoor tables.

It was so pleasant, a bit breezy, a few clouds but certainly didn’t look like rain. I sat in the park on a bench for about an hour watching the locals peddle their woven handicrafts and strung seed beads. A cute little girl, about three years old, in a pink dress, kept coming up to me and offering me purses. I’m not sure how successful she is selling them, but she’s learning her life’s work at a very early age. 

It was interesting to wander the streets on a ‘dead’ day, when most everyone is with their families or in church. Many businesses were closed. I really thought the center of town would be bustling on a Sunday but that wasn’t the case for Saturday either. There was no entertainment in the plaza area. It’s just the opposite of San Miguel where the Centro is awash with people and music on weekends.

I wandered through a sewing store and was amazed at the variety of material, threads, and decorations available for making clothes. They even had feather boas of every color and type imaginable, gold and silver trim in dozens of styles, and millions of cards of buttons and zippers. I don’t think I’ve seen a store like that since I was a kid and we shopped for material in Denver.

Guadalupe Street

It might seem like a rather boring day, but there are always interesting things to observe. On the buses, for instance, there are the Cah-Doh boys. The bus driver is usually a mature man, in his thirties or forties. I am convinced they drive the same bus every day because some buses are decorated with a favorite Saint’s statue, fake flowers, material, beads, etc, while others have shrines to Elvis, or the Rolling Stones. Music varies from bus to bus, some rock and roll, the country-western version of Mexican music, salsa, or deeply religious songs. One fellow must have been very religious, he had the radio tuned to a preacher rambling on in that classic passionate preachy voice telling us we needed to find El Senor or we would perish. In addition to the driver, there is usually a young man or even a boy as young as 11. They are the Cah-Doh boys. They hang out the door singing Caaaah-Doh to everyone they see. It’s short for Mercado. Sometimes an elderly lady, or just a little family will be way up the hill, they’ll wave, and the bus will wait and wait for them to come down. When everyone is on board the boy will bang on the side of the bus to let the driver know. Then he swings up onto the step until he sees more people who might want the bus to stop.  As we disembark at the market, he collects the 5 peso fee from everyone. The younger the boy, the more responsible he seems to be. It’s quite a prestigious job for kids like them, and they attract a lot of girls their age.

Typical outdoor cafe

I got home just as the clouds began to spit. The evening cooled off quickly with a long cold rain, and I went to bed early after downing a couple of Pepto Bismol tablets, which, thankfully, in Mexico have a licorice flavor instead of the usual gaggy bubble gum. I don’t know what’s in it here, but it works miracles when the belly is acting up.

Flowers everywhere!

View from the Church hilltop.

Na Balom and the Zapatistas

Another foggy morning which burned off rapidly by 9:00. There was no gas for the stove or the water heater. My upstairs neighbors and I share a large propane tank which had obviously gone dry. I heated water in a large cup in the microwave to wash dishes with, and then fixed myself another bucket for a quick sponge bath like we used to always take in India.  Today I had planned to see the Mayan museum, Museo Na Balom which is in Centro. So first I stopped to tell the landlady we were out of gas, and to find out if she has another apartment or at least a room with it’s own bath for John in May. (She does!)  He will probably not want to stay in this apartment with all those stairs and the long climb up from the street.

Beautiful streets in El Centro.

The whole area of Centro is lovely, clean, and cosmopolitan. How they keep the graffiti artists out is a mystery. One café roasts its own beans and the smell attracted me for a late breakfast.  For 55 pesos (about $4.25) I had the most wonderful meal of eggs with ham, green salsa, two tiny freshly baked rolls, butter, marmelade, coffee, and slices of fried banana. The Andadores are lined with galleries and craft shops, wine bars, bakeries, and cafes that serve Thai, Chinese, Argentinian, Bolivian, vegetarian, and local cuisines.  I expected the area to be crowded on a Saturday, but in fact there were fewer people than a normal work day.

I have a decent map of the central part of town, which locates the museums and the businesses that have paid to be in it.  The east and west edges are dominated by cerillos (hills) and each sports a small beautiful church with incredible views, best seen on a sunnier day.

Museo Na Balom means the Jaguar House. It’s also a play on the owner’s name. In the 1920’s Franz Blom and his wife refurbished an old abandoned monastery into their home. He was one of the first archeologists to work at Palenque. The wife was a photographer and dedicated to preserving the Lancondon Mayan people and their way of life deep in the Yucatan jungles. They had been surviving in their traditional fashion up to that time with little contact with the Spanish Conquistadores or the later Mexican government. However, these days, they’ve been discovered by missionaries and their lifestyle is radically different.  So are the jungles.

Courtyard at Na Balom.

Oil companies, lumber companies and others bent on utilizing the untapped resources of the jungles have created tension with the local Mayan groups, tension which erupted into war in the 90’s with the Zapatistas. San Cristobal was one of the cities the Zapatistas took over, for a few days, before being squashed by the army. Everywhere in town, there are signs of support for the Zapatistas. The restaurant I went to, the night I arrived, has a bookstore devoted to the issues of independence for the Maya, and a women’s cooperative that sells clothing and other crafts. I was so impressed with the quality of workmanship and intricacy of Mayan designs.

Na Balom is a typical museum, dusty, full of bones and pots and ratty looking ancient textiles. It has signs in Spanish, with good information, but you can’t read some of them because someone placed a pot in front…... What makes it interesting is Blom’s office. His chair was hand-carved and is huge, the desk made to match it. There are copies of his wife’s photos and her letters describing individuals in the pictures, the life they led, and the ceremonies that were so important to their communal survival. Artifacts abound, they had an enormous collection. 

I met a Frenchman who was staying at the guest house, part of the museum. He told me that all proceeds go to the foundation. A few vendors were exhibiting over priced trinkets, seed necklaces and woven goods way more expensive than the artesania market. It was a great place to wait out the afternoon thunderstorm.

On the way back home, I picked up a cooked chicken that came with onions and salsa, and stopped by the little amber shop to buy that Labrodorite pendant. Too bad I didn’t bring any jewelry or necklaces on the trip. I have nothing to put the pendant on!

Three little embroidered Mayan pot holders.

Hangover Friday

Sleeping in and sleeping off…..the order of the day for Friday. Got up around 9:00 and hung out lazily for a few hours, enjoying the deep foggy scenery, like living inside a wad of cotton candy.

Clothes get awfully dirty here, so I attempted to wash a white shirt (futile) and some underwear. When the sun came out I hung it on the line I’d seen Natalia using. Big mistake. The ‘line’ is a wire and it left a rust line across the back where I’d thrown the shirt over. I do have an indoor clothesline that I assume Alexandra had rigged, that stretches from one curtain rod to the other across the span of the ‘great room’. It’s made of plastic cord. Clothes hanging from it are of course in the way, when traversing the room.  It wasn’t possible to get the rust out of the white shirt, so I suppose that’ll just have to be my lounging-shirt that I dare not wear out in public. I’ll toss it when I go home.

Around lunch time I headed to the center of town to see the big markets. Chiapas is famous for it’s amber (ambar in Spanish) and has more variations in color than anywhere else in the world, ranging from almost clear light yellow thru amber to rich molasses. Many pieces have bits of vegetation inside and a few have insects. One of the traffic free streets (andador) is lined on both sides with Amber shops and there’s also an Amber museum. One shop had other stones set in silver, like a glorious piece of Labrodorite, which I instantly coveted but didn’t have enough money with me to purchase. I told her I’d come back with a credit card.

The streets are also lined with tiny restaurants with a few tables inside and out. They make the most money by selling and delivering lunches to the other shopkeepers. I stopped into a little lime green cafe to have some tostadas and a kid in a white apron dashed in and out several times with trays of food and drink. I scraped the good stuff off the tostadas and set the hard crisp shells aside. A crowd of four little boys, not older than six or seven came into the café with their shoeshine kits wanting to pick up some customers. A Mexican couple told them no and I was the only other person. They could see my Teva sandals didn’t need a shine, but one boy eyed the tostadas and asked if he could have them. I gave one to each boy and they gobbled them up. None of them looked particularly malnourished, but it was obvious they eat what and when they can, much like the street dogs.

I knew from previous forays into Centro that there was a large Artesania market near the cathedral. It is amazing. The modern day Mayans are accomplished weavers and do exquisite embroidery. They make everything from wide tie-around belts (which the women wear to hold up their skirts) to table runners, clothing, pillow covers, purses, stuffed toys, and blankets.  The day was breezy and cool, overcast and muggy. I was shown all kinds of handiwork but resisted buying anything. I have no way to get it all home.

Entrance to the deep and dark Mercado.

The huge Mercado Viejo was a few blocks away. It was like walking down the gullet of a monster. Close, dark streets, packed with stalls, vendors, and people, it resembled a deep throat. It didn’t help that the clouds were dark and threatening rain. The wind came up, the vendors rushed around securing their merchandise with ropes and plastic tarps. Then the thunder opened up the clouds and it poured. I sheltered under a steel roof that was hammered by hail. Tiny icy balls flew around, getting into everything, sandals, hair, the back of my jacket…. In five minutes, the tarps between the steel corrugated roofs over the stalls had filled with water and vendors poked at the sagging tarps with broom handles to lift them up and spill the water out. The street became a torrent with water rushing over the cobblestones. People were pressed up against walls and deep inside stalls. The whole drama lasted about twenty minutes, a long time when you’re just standing there waiting. Afterwards the vendors were out with brooms sweeping trash and water to the middle of the walkway where it continued to flow like a river.  Collected buckets of rain water were used to wash the sidewalks under the roofs. I guess a nice rainstorm like that is a good excuse to do some thorough cleaning.

Hiding out from the rain.

That market is just huge. On the outskirts, live poultry and even a pig were for sale.  Wandering around, I saw a building and went inside. It was the meat market. Instantly transported by the smell, I am four years old, riding on my father’s shoulders, seven feet up in the air, at eye level with hanging dead chickens and pig carcasses. These days, nothing is hanging but the smell is the same. I had forgotten, but it still resided somewhere deep in my brain until that moment. Stiffling a gag response I ventured inside. One quarter of the place has stalls where they sell red meats, another quarter sells fish and shellfish, a different and equally nasty smell, and half appeared to be devoted to dried fish and open air restaurants. Most of them were closed, permanently it seemed. No wonder, even if you were used to that odor, who would have an appetite while inside that place?

Resting birds.

A girl ropes the feet together. 

Stacks of dried fish in the meat market.

The Stripper's Keys

I have several fears living here. One of them is falling. Stairs are non-standard, rough pavement abounds, there are holes in the streets and markets. One has to be very careful walking. I also fear getting hit by a car or bus, though most drivers are very good and only graze you. My worst fear, for some reason, is losing my keys. After that first day when they fell out of my pocket in the restaurant I’ve been terrified of losing them. The scary scenario is: I’ll leave the house, buy a bunch of stuff, be exhausted, climb the hill, and then not be able to find the keys. I’ll be out of money and won’t have a way to get all the way back across town to find the owner to get another set, or she’ll be gone, or she won’t have another set, etc. One of my pairs of pants has a tiny little coin pocket and the keys fit perfectly. Until they are too dirty to wear, the solution has been found.

Prettiest Burger King in the world.

Thursday I went to the Merposur to see about getting a light-weight shirt and pair of pants. In one store, the man asked what size. I said I didn’t know, but it would be for me. He looked me over, shook his head, and said they only carry “chica” sizes. The store next door had my size. There were several customers in there who looked just like me. The young lady showed me some jeans that had a big colorful tag with a sexy woman’s rear-end proudly displayed. The brand name: STRIPPER.  I pointed at the tag and laughed, she did too. They fit fine, skin tight and stretchy over every bump and dimple. I gave them back to her and said “No tengo el cuerpo de una STRIPPER”. The other chubby ladies laughed and agreed wholeheartedly.

In the evening, Natalia asked if I’d like to go out with her to meet her friend Prisa in the Centro. Some huge event was going on. In front of the great white government building there was a stage and two young girls with incredible “mature women” voices were singing. We listened to them for a long while, and guessed they were 13 and 10.  They must be quite successful, they were hawking their CDs, the costumes were exquisite and expensive. I took a few pics with my cell phone and wished I’d brought the camera.

Plaza in front of the Cathedral.

I needed to get some money from an ATM. I decided to take out a lot so I wouldn’t be caught short in the next week or two, and I didn’t want to be charged the fees over and over again. I have a special travel account so that if someone were to get my account information (it happens a lot through the less secure Mexican banking system) they won’t get very much money. I put the 3000 pesos in my back pocket and fastened the button. These pants are very handy that way, a little pocket for keys, a button pocket for bills.

Across from the event, in front of the cathedral, where on most nights the Mayans are plying their handicrafts, a huge food court had been set up. All the street food you can imagine was there for sale and Natalia had a desire for fried plantains. For 15 pesos, we got a giant hot-out-of-the fryer banana and a churro drizzled with some kind of sweet dressing. I’m a real fan of churros, and haven’t eaten any since I quit eating grains, but this was a special treat. Unfortunately, the churro was cold and not very tasty, but the banana was soft, hot, and sweet. Prisa showed up and the three of us went to a wine-tapas bar where Prisa’s roommate works. For only 25 pesos apiece we got a glass of good Argentinian shiraz and choice of appetizer (tapa). I passed on the second glass, but the girls didn’t.

Another view of the plaza and distant mountains.

We had a marvelous time. Our table was out on the sidewalk and we were rather packed in with other tables and people. Next to us was an older man and a large group of Europeans. The old guy was quite the blow-hard and the girls quietly made fun of him. Natalia said you could tell he was an ass from a block away. Yes, personalities are similar the world over.  

Next we walked up the street to a disco where the men were frisked but not the women. I got a bit concerned going into a place where they were so obviously concerned about weapons, but Natalia said it was just to keep the riff-raff out. Yeah, right.

Natalia

Inside, it was two-for-one on all drinks. The girls got beer and I got 2 glasses of rum and coke.  Half way through the first glass, I knew I’d reached my limit for the night. We danced to the incredibly loud music, got some young men to dance with us, (I bribed one with the other rum and coke) and then left to yet another bar.

The last place was delightful. A New Orleans style jazz combo from Germany was playing. I could have sworn the singer was from New Orleans, she had the accent down so perfectly. Robin, Natalia’s boyfriend, was there with many of his friends from the University, they’re all professors, and all British.  I enjoyed visiting with them, even though they continued drinking till some of them didn’t make sense any more.

On some cue I didn’t catch, they all got up to go to another bar and I decided to take a taxi home.  It was 1:00 in the morning. The streets were more or less deserted, and the taxi driver was either tired and not listening, or I was still slurring my words from the overdose of alcohol.  He drove south and followed a route I knew from riding the busses, then suddenly he headed down a street I didn’t know, going in the wrong direction. I almost panicked. OMG, it’s 1am, I have 3000 pesos in my pocket, I’m all alone in a cab with a muscular man taking me to who knows where? I almost shouted at him. He said this is Don Bosco! No, not the right one, I explained, Callejon del Don Bosco. He didn’t know that street, but he knew the school, so we got back on track.  

After that (emotional) close call, I went inside the gate and hiked up the dark staircase. Note to self, bring the little flashlight next time. A pack of six dogs was roaming the huge yard looking for scraps of food. They didn’t look hungry enough to attack me. At the door, I couldn’t get the keys out of the little pocket! They’d gotten sideways to each other and were jammed into the corners. The wire loop holding them together prevented either from moving. I had to take my pants off and wiggle the material in the dark, without being able to see a thing. Finally one key moved enough to get them out.  Looks like I have the body of a Stripper after all!!

Lights under the palms in the central plaza.