I'm sitting in a chocolateria across from the Santo Domingo Cathedral near the Zocalo in San Cristobal de las Casas. German recommended I come here and try the "best hot chocolate in the city."
I am not disappointed in the hot chocolate (although the mug isn't as cuddle-able as I'd like).
However, I am slightly perturbed by the weather outside.
It's hailing. Not itty-bitty balls of hail, either. Whopping, whomping ping-pong balls of hail. Hail that strikes the windshields of cars outside the chocolateria in which I've taken refuge with such a resounding "THUNK" that I fear for the people behind the wheels.
The lights in the building have all gone out and the barista is closing the doors and windows... so I'm sitting here in the dark, hoping the hail will let up fairly soon so that I can make it to a cafe with power to Skype Boy this afternoon.
Dear Mexico,
Your internet is already horrible enough without adding hail-induced power loss into the equation.
Please work on this.
Yours truly (but only because of how much I love your tlayudas),
-Aimee
There's a leak in the ceiling. It started off as a small drip that I could easy avoid, but has since become a huge drizzle that's merrily flooding an entire corner of Kakaw. Water seeps through the wooden timbers and covers the floor in epic puddles that will most likely give the resident mop a fatal heart attack. The barista worriedly chats on her cellphone, doubtlessly asking advice in regards to what ought to be done with the chocolateria turned swimming pool.
When I first pointed out the leak to the young hispanic lady, she went to the kitchen and brought back a bucket to catch the water. But by the time she'd returned with aforementioned bucket, the ceiling had upped its game and was busily leaking in eight different places. So she went and got all the house plants to put under the raining ceiling.
With somewhat limited success.
Thunder booms in the background. I'm incredibly thankful I didn't start my walk into town a few minutes later. It wasn't rained much in San Cristobal for the last week or so, so I've become rather lax in my level of preparedness for all things damp and/or SOPPING wet.
I'm in Mexico. It's the rainy season. And I still left German's house sans rain jacket and sans black garbage bag to keep my electronics safe from damp and/or SOPPING wet.
Sirens scream past. The red lights bounce off of the brick red wall through the single untutored window.
I'm trapped in a building that makes me feel like I've found my way into the film Jumanji. I more than half expect to see human eating vines reach around the wooden beam next to the hanging wicker chair. Perhaps a rhino will burst through the bar with colorful cupcakes and chocolate stacked atop.
The entire floor of this chocolateria is drowning in an inch of water.
The roads outside are flooded with six inches. And then some.
Hello, rainy season. Even Boy might consider this rain to be a bit excessive (Boy goes blackberries for all things rainy).
Yesterday was delightful.
I'm learning that most days with German are delightful.
I woke up to a beautiful view of the full moon and the city from my bedroom window --
-- gave German a quick yoga class, ate a breakfast of eggs and tortillas and presented my new friend with a painting "Broken Wings" had inspired.
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| I was captured by the way Gibran presented the character of Selma -- with all her mystery, virtue and sadness. A photo I took of a German volunteer at Puerta Vieja made me think of Selma's mystery, so I painted it. :) |
Zinacantan is a small village about 20 minutes away from San Cristobal. It specializes in flowers.
Lots and lots of flowers.
Driving past Zinacantan was like driving past a town composed primarily of greenhouses.
And walking through Zinacantan was like walking through a garden.
Except the garden was inside the church, on the clothes of its people and in the shops lining the streets.
So much color.
And then we continued on to Chomula, a significantly more touristic, yet closed off town only about ten minutes away from Zinacantan.
"They ask you to pay to enter the church here," German told me. "And don't take any pictures when you go inside."
"I know," I quickly responded. "I met an English guy in Puerta Vieja who's had the worst luck in the world and in all-time-ever. He's a photographer who's spent the last year traveling. The first month of travel through Asia, he met a lady and kind of fell in love with her. They traveled together for a good few months (I don't remember all the details). Things got passionate. Intense. They were in Nepal during the earthquake, about twenty kilometers outside of Kathmandu. On the walk back to the capital, whilst they're helping injured Nepalese out of the rubble, she breaks up with him. DURING THE AFTERMATH OF AN EARTHQUAKE. Who does that? Then she hightails it to Guatemala and he keeps traveling through Asia. But they start talking again. And decide to give their relationship another shot. So the English chap flies all the way across the world for his lady love, spends two days with her on Lake Atitlan, and she breaks up with him again. Then he goes to Palenque, books a cabana in Panchan, and ends up having all his things stolen. Except a cheap camera he'd taken with him to photograph the ruins and his journal -- a journal detailing his emotional roller coaster with this lady. And right before I left Puerta Vieja, he went to Chamula and took a picture inside the church. Instead of just asking him to delete the photo, the church guys took his camera, removed the memory card, BROKE THE CARD, and handed it back. So. I won't take any pictures inside the church."
And I didn't take pictures.
But I did take notes.
The floor is completely covered in pine needles. A puppy scampers about playfully, sliding this way and that across the needles. A small girl looks up at me with big, black eyes. She forgets that she's currently holding a fruit flavored yogurt and spills half of it onto the pine needles beneath her. She looks down at the floor, looks at me again, and then starts trying to smear the yogurt into the bed of needles.
I wink at her and walk past.
Three women have swept clean a section of white tile floor and are busily erecting small candles in a row. Once the candles are lit, they return to a kneeling position with bare feet tucked underneath them. One woman reaches for an old-fashioned looking coca cola bottle and pours the bubbly beverage into a small glass. She takes a small sip and then passes the glass to the woman kneeling next to her.
Before I entered the church, German told me to watch for people drinking coca cola. The carbonation in soda is supposed to aid in the act of burping. And we all know that burping releases our darkest demons.
From now on, when anyone sneezes, I'm going to say "Jesus!" (like they do in Spain) And whenever anyone burps, I'm going to say, "BEELZEBUB!"
Yes.
Candles of different sizes and colors are everywhere.
Flowers, flowers, flowers.
Saints lining the walls in glass boxes.
With more flowers, flowers, flowers.
As wine is to good Catholics in the rest of the world, pox is to natives of Chamula. So after the three women finish burping out their demons, they pour themselves some of this ceremonial alcohol to close their prayers.
German had been in the church several times, so he told me to take my time inside and waited for me on the steps outside.
"Want to have some pox?" he asked as soon as I stepped out.
"Definitely."
What a bizarre experience. That's gotta be one of my favorite churches in Mexico. And I was just started to get bored with this whole church thing. But using coca cola to burp out demons?
That's priceless.
Beelzebub.
German bought a belt for his brother from a vendor near the church --
-- and I took a few photos as he haggled with the belt vendor.
These woolen garments are commonplace in Chiapas. The furrier they are, the more prestigious the wearer.
Hence, the more you resemble Chewbacca, the more respectable you are.
"I've even seen people from Chamula wear this wool in Cancun," German told me as we walked back to the car.
Cancun (as I will soon experience first hand) is not a cold place.
"My goodness," I gasped, imagining the suffocating heat of wearing Chewbacca in Cancun. "That's dedication!"
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| These flower shawls are made in Zinacantan |
I spent the afternoon napping, writing in various, non-flooded cafes -- then meeting with German and two Mexican couchsurfing fellow vagabonds in front of Santo Domingo.
And the evening was spent eating more gourmet quesadillas.
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| Waiting for quesadillas... German had a much better attitude than I did. I spent the entire time sulking and complaining about "Mexican time." This is what I do when I know cheese is waiting for me on the other side of a closed door, but the people responsible for opening the door are nearly half an hour late in doing so. |
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