After arriving in San Cristobal in the early hours and being lucky enough to find our rooms ready, I signed up for an excursion to Sumidero Canyon after breakfast. After a decent bus ride we boarded fiberglass open boats in uncomfortable life jackets and set off up river.
Along the way we spotted a few alligators, monkeys, numerous cormorants, vultures and herons. The canyon reaches over 1200 metres in height on the tallest cliff sides and is quite narrow. We reached a reservoir wall as the canyon opened up and turned back to the launching site.
On the way back to San Cristobal we stopped for an hour at Corza which has a quaint church with a 5500kg bell, an interesting open air dome structure in the town square…and not much else besides heat and an hour to kill. As I was tired and dopey from the night bus I really could have done without the stop.
Back in town I had lunch of cheese and mushroom fondue and hot chocolate…as one does when on holiday. In this town, on our hotel’s touristy street, we hardly got a moment’s peace from pushy hawkers trying to exchange our pesos for mass produced bracelets, belts, toys, bags, shirts etc, coming to stand right over us and shove their wares in our face. Some left once we said no but others would hang around until we gave them food off our plates. It certainly diminishes the charm of the place.
We headed down to the narrow passages of the craft market, finding the same things that are hawked on the street, with much more to see. I bought some jewelry and finally headed home to rest before dinner…talk about a looooooong day.
The thing to do in San Cristobal is the wine and tapas bar, which we duly did by taking over the inside tables of a tiny bar across the street. It’s immensely popular as evidenced by the continual stream of patrons squeezing in around us. I tried a few glasses of different reds and the accompanying free tapas samplers before ordering a salad to offset the possible hangover. A lead that was not followed by a couple of others in the group who by the end of the night were swearing off the drink. After wine and tapas we headed to Revolution Bar in the party end of town and set about drinking shots and making a whole lot of noise. Ernesto was souped up so much he ordered a round of cocktails called Mayan Sacrifice for the table – something his mum will question when she sees his bank account statement, to which she has access apparently haha. A Mayan Sacrifice is coffee liqueur set alight in a bulbous glass, while flaming sprinkled with cinnamon to make it flare and sparkle, then while still alight, poured into another glass of an over-generous measure of tequila, which foams up and is all warm as it goes down your throat. I even partook to see if tequila is still my mortal enemy. Luckily I stuck to just the one and a cuba libre. Others thoroughly wrote themselves off and I helped walk people home, it seems we’ll all have “our night” and the advantage of being in a group is that someone will help you get home. It was hilarious to watch for a change.
Due to the evening’s shenanigans we were a few bodies down for the day trip to surrounding indigenous communities, Chumula and Zinacantan. Cesar and driver Jorge drove us out of San Cristobal to start the day in Chumula, a place that produces most of the pushy hawkers in town. It was market day and the main square was lively with produce sellers, leather workers, jewelry sellers, shoe stalls and people everywhere, it really brings the whole town out.
We walked past the jail, an open sided barred building so male offenders are shamed. They run mostly by their own rules, society comes before the individual so crime is low. Should someone do something grievous or be a repeat offender they are usually expelled from the community or lynched…something not condoned by the Mexican government.
We saw the civic leaders in their Sunday best all seated to the side of the market, available for any citizen to come and have decisions made on any matters that needed a leader’s mediation. Dressed in white shirts and pants, under a woolen tunic with belt, traditional sandals, with straw hats adorned with red, green and yellow ribbons, depending on the chapters of the community they represent. They also carried sizeable wooden rods, akin to a scepter I suppose, to show they were leaders. Their secretaries brought them Coronas, water, citizens who needed help and the hovering police, also in traditional dress, made sure no one took photos of them.
Next we ventured into the church which is strewn with pine needles on the tiled floor, holds no pews, candles are stuck with wax to the floor until they burn out, the sides are lined with tables for more candles and shamans ready to administer Mayan ritual advice in case someone has lost their spirit. This could entail buying several candles in particular colours, a chicken of a certain gender and colour and usually a bottle of cola and going back to the shaman who will then pass the chicken over the afflicted person, wring its neck, have the person eat the head, bury the bones in a certain spot, fast and stay in bed for five days and burn the candles in church…or something like that. It all sounded like a very complicated way to combat depression stemming from a traumatic event. The church also featured alters for Catholic saints and representative dolls who people can pray to, it’s a blend of traditional Mayan and Catholic religions, made to work how they want it, without input from the Vatican.
We stopped by to visit a spiritual leader, a volunteer who saves money while on the waiting list to take up a position. Paid only with prestige, a spiritual leader must maintain certain supplies like a tree sap resin to burn like incense, branches that form an indoor canopy over a space curtained by bromeliad streamers, rent on the house for their year in the role, candles, pox – the local liquor – for offerings, plus other items required for them to perform their duties. The smoke from the incense was intense in the little house, as was the liquor…or shall I say pure methanol.
Leaving Chumula behind we went over the hill to Zinacantan, another indigenous community with a completely different vibe. They still have civic leaders who meet in a building beside the church with an alter of religious deities who are adorned with mirrors to shine over the people and, strangely, Christmas lights flashing and twinkling their LED brightness. However their church is governed by the Vatican and it has pews and no pine needles. High up on a hill outside of town is a place for shaman’s to conduct their rituals…without the prying eyes of the Vatican. The pace of the town seems less lively, the market was only small and the people more reserved. We visited a house of artisans who showed us how they weave with cotton, make corn tortillas and we enjoyed fresh, hot tortillas with a ground pumpkin seed dukkah and grilled onion stalks, very nice.
Back in San Cristobal I ventured up the numerous steps to the cathedral for views across the town and appreciated the imposing old wooden doors of the establishments lining the street. San Cristobal has a vintage charm and personality all it’s own, and some good wines on the menu too.