Of Cafes and Caves -- San Cristobal de Las Casas

I'm starting this post from the rooftop of our hostel in San Cristobal de Las Casas, Mexico. I have no idea what the hostel is called, and frankly, I feel great about not knowing. There are few moments in my life wherein I'm not the one who has to plan everything, so whenever I'm presented with the opportunity to be a tag-along, I thoroughly take advantage of the experience. By not bothering to research anything. Or know where I am. Or care where I'm going. I just get to be here. Wherever the hell I am.

San Cristobal is colder than Xela, and I haven't got coffee to keep my hands warm. Unlike in Kasa Kamelot, there isn't coffee available twenty-four/seven. Which is the sign of a miserably deficient hostel, in my humble, coffee-addicted opinion. The Canadian who runs this place (whatever it's called) is a brusque, inhospitable chap who breaks all my preconceptions about friendly Canadians. And doesn't seem to care that some guests might appreciate a hot beverage before eight thirty in the morning.

Nacho and I left Kasa Kamelot at eight o'clock on Thursday morning, catching a shuttle from just outside our hotel. The driver was an American chap who had married a woman from Xela and had made this Guatemalan mountain city his home for seventeen years.

I wonder what that would be like? To live in one place for seventeen years. Holy bananas. I can't even imagine. 

The American dropped us off at a gas station outside of Xela, where we changed shuttles and loaded into a van already full of travelers on their way to San Cristobal.

"Oh, hello!" I exclaimed, pleasantly surprised to see three folks from San Marcos crammed into the backseat. 

Right. This is Central America. Wherein everyone goes to the same touristic places and sees each other all the time. 

The rest of the ten hour journey was pretty wretched. The road was not only windy, but it was ridden with potholes, stray dogs, and other drivers trying to avoid aforementioned potholes.

Which ended up looking something like this:

I was stuck in the middle seat, so had no window to lean against/look out of. My iPhone, for some reason or other, had decided to stop charging. So I no music or podcasts to keep my mind occupied. For ten hours. I suppose I could have meditated, but screw that.

Side note: I'm currently reading a series by Jim Butcher, wherein technology doesn't work around wizards. So whenever my computer/phone/camera stops working (which seems to be happening an awful lot these days), I just shrug my shoulders and think to myself, meh. It's because I'm a wizard. 

My stomach grumbled as I listened to the girl next to me crunch plantain chips, nuts, energy bars, and the plethora of other tasty, loud snacks she'd packed for the trip.

"You came prepared," I smiled, looking down at her enormous stash.

"It's because I'm a teacher," she laughed.

At the Guatemalan border, we had to unload from the shuttle and go through immigration. On a normal tourist visa, travelers are allowed to stay in Honduras, Nicaragua, Guatemala, and El Salvador for 90 days. Then they have to leave for 72 hours before they can return again with a brand new 90 day visa.

Damn. I sure wish the Schengen area worked like that. I could live in Europe so easily. FOREVER.

... 

which is probably why it doesn't work like that.


Three of the teachers from Panajachel had overstayed their visas. So they had to pay an exorbitant fee of two USD per overstayed day before we could continue on our merry way to Mexico.

We walked across the border town, found our new shuttle with our new, Mexican driver, and proceeded to the entrance of Mexico. Where we passed through immigration again, loaded back into our shuttle, and headed in the direction of San Cristobal de las Casas.

Gah. I'm almost out of pages, I thought, flipping through my tattered passport. Only two blank ones left. And all the other pages pretty near to bursting. Poop. Guess I'm just gonna use my Canadian passport from now on. Unless I want to pay a hundred and something dollars to renew my US passport in Guatemala City. 

And there are things I want more than that. Like wine and coffee and new comfy pants.

The shuttle deposited all passengers in the Zocalo of San Cristobal de Las Casas, and Nacho and I shouldered our bags and made our way to the nameless hostel with the surprisingly rude Canadian.

We spent the evening happily drinking mezcal and eating guacamole. As one does in Mexico.

~

I'm finishing this post from Circles Cafe. Hummingbirds flit back and forth between peach colored flowers shaped like trumpets and scarlet colored flowers with petals like crepe paper.  A baby furiously screams across the courtyard from me, and a very nice lady who's bought three of my watercolor paintings reads at a table to my right.

Nacho and I abandoned the surprisingly rude Canadian's hostel the next day, finding a much friendlier place just down the street.

"Can I paint today?" I asked Nacho. "I'm beginning to miss it..."

"You don't need to ask me," Nacho immediately replied.

So we moseyed over to a cafe with hot chocolate and coffee, and I cracked open my watercolors for the first time in a few days.

But right now, a few days seems like ages. I feel like something's missing if I go even a day without painting. 

Which probably isn't all that healthy. Especially since I'm running out of paint and postcards. And Guatemala doesn't really have a postal system, so it's not like I can order new supplies...

San Cristobal has the most child beggars I've seen in any city, in any country I've traveled thus far. And they don't stay outside. They wander into the restaurant, saunter up to your table, and try to sell you their wares. Usually, I try to be politely dismissive, uttering a quiet, "no, gracias," and returning to whatever I'm doing. But Nacho is different. Nacho engages the children.

(Imagine that the following is in Spanish)

Child: Want to buy this? Twenty pesos.

Nacho: Pesos? What are pesos?

Child: ....

Nacho reaches into his bag and pulls out a simple game. 

Nacho: Want to play with me?

Child smiles, confused but eager to play. 

Child: Okay.   

So while I finished my hummingbird, Nacho accumulated three or four children, all happily playing a game with him.  

Then the children came over to me, glancing curiously over my shoulder at the colors I splashed onto the paper. They grabbed napkins, took a couple of my extra brushes, and painted with me.

This. This is how I want to engage the children whose families (if they even have families) force them to beg on the streets. I want to offer them something that makes them feel like they can be, you know, kids. 

We eventually left the munchkin cafe, walked around for a few minutes, and then found another. Where Nacho read his book and I finished a painting of a fawn. 
 

Yeah... this probably isn't all that healthy. I feel like I'm becoming dependent on something that's about to run out. 

Blurgh. 
 

We spent the rest of Friday ambling through the colorful streets of San Cristobal.

Saturday, Nacho and I (when I say "Nacho and I", I definitely just mean Nacho) found a chicken bus to carry us to Chomula, the town near San Cristobal de Las Casas famous for its rather bizarre church. But I didn't realize it also had such a unique cemetery.

People in Mexico throw their garbage everywhere. They even need a sign reminding them not to throw their garbage in a freaking cemetery

Someone didn't read the sign.

Nacho napped and I read Jim Butcher (don't judge) in the sunshine just outside of the cemetery. Then we strolled down into the city center for lunch.

After a quick meal of fried chicken, we wandered over to the church. A church in which no visitors are allowed to take pictures. A church whose floor is strewn with pine needles, speckled with flickering candles, and populated with praying Guatemalans and tourists wishing they had cameras.

The Guatemalans kneel in front of rows of candles, murmuring prayers and gazing intently into the wavering flames. They then pass around ceremonial shots of pox (sugarcane liqueur) and bottles of coca cola.

Religion is so weird. Christianity in the US has grape juice and crackers. Christianity in this part of Mexico has extremely potent alcohol and coca cola. 

I want a religion with bacon and hot chocolate. 
 

Nacho and I left the church and found a cafe across the square. Where I blissfully painted and drank a cappuccino.

Back in San Cristobal, we walked through the market in search of an extra pair of comfy pants for me.

Which I had no problem procuring.
 

Then we settled into yet another cafe, where Nacho ordered two pieces of pie (Nacho is amazing), and I finished up my horse painting.

 

I hit the streets of San Cristobal early on Sunday morning, keen to watch the city wake up. 

 

I love mostly abandoned streets. Wherein it's me and the street cleaners, cleaning up yesterday and preparing for today. 
 

"Want to go to some caves?" Nacho asked me as we ate breakfast at our new hostel (with the much friendlier, non-Canadians).

"Which caves?" I mumbled between mouthfuls of scrambled egg.

"These caves," he showed me a picture on his phone.

"Mmm... yes. Let's do that."

So we caught a colectivo to Grutas de Rancho Nuevo. And wandered through a pine forest on our way to the caves.

Pine... smells like home to me. I love the jungle and all its crazy tropical plants. But pine forests will always make me think of home, of trampling through three feet of snow in search of the perfect Christmas tree, of crackling fires keeping the house warm in the winter. 

Mexicans, like Guatemalans, don't exactly get off to early starts. So Nacho and I practically had the cave to ourselves.

We lunched on quesadillas with chorizo, and I bemoaned the fact that I could not eat quesadillas with chorizo at The Yoga Forest.

"One day," I told Nacho. "I will open a yoga retreat with bacon and wine and coffee and all the things that are delicious and bad for you."

We flagged down a colectivo back to San Cristobal, and spent the rest of the day happily wandering the city.

These stairs are nothing compared to the heinous, butt-sculpting stairs at the Yoga Forest. Pshaw.

Nacho doesn't climb the heinous, butt-sculpting stairs at the Yoga Forest five times a day.

 The evening was spent in and out of bars, eating tapas, drinking mojitos with mezcal, sipping shots of mezcal, and just enjoying the rest of our last day together.

"It was good to meet you," Nacho said as he hugged me goodbye Monday morning.

"Nice to meet you too, Nacho."

And I boarded the shuttle to Panajachel, sad to leave my Spaniard behind.

But not too sad.

I'll go harass him in Pamplona one day. Surely. I'll see that crazy Nacho again.

"Nacho, You're Crazy" -- Xela, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from the rooftop of Kasa Kamelot (it's so clever) in Xela, Guatemala. I'm wearing my puffy green jacket, my blue scarf, and my Chaco boots. And I'm still struggling to control my shivers.  

Whoever said Guatemala was warm clearly never spent time in Xela. Holy bananas, it's frigid, I thought as I exhaled hot breath onto my tingling fingers.

A heavy mist shrouds the rooftops and surrounding mountains. I'm switching between writing and cradling a cup of steaming coffee, trying to keep my hands warm.

I've swapped the sounds of birds and the small waterfall beside my tent for the sounds of the city. As Xela slowly rouses itself, the streets begin to buzz with life. Cars and motorcycles honk intermittently, shop doors creak open, men and women sweep the narrow sidewalks in front of their doors. 

I contentedly smell my coffee and settle into absorbing the sensations of morning. Pigeons flutter around the church behind me, and I'm transported back to the morning I spent walking circles around the Boudhanath Stupa in Kathmandu.

 

I left the Yoga Forest on Tuesday morning, after helping Bre (like the cheese) make a salad for thirty-six (give or take) salad loving hippies. I packed Fat Ellie, grabbed Teal Cecile, and practically skipped down to Circles Cafe.

Woohoo! Off to Mexico. My life here is becoming so damn good, but still. It'll be nice to take a break. To have an adventure. To spend time with Nacho.

I ordered a cappuccino, grimacing as I handed Farina a hundred Q note, knowing that change is forever elusive in Central America.

Blurgh. I always feel so guilty when I don't have change. It almost makes me not want to buy things. The expression of utter despair on the barista's face when I hand over a hundred Q.

Farina and I are friends. And she tolerated my hundred Q notes with grace. And delivered my cappuccino to my table, where I sat painting a hummingbird and trying to ignore the fellow in front of me.

"Hey, love and light to you," the ginger British hippie murmered into his phone. "I just wanted to leave you a little message, asking how you're processing the energies that surfaced during our last meeting. Also, discussion about payment... I was wondering when the next installment would be? It doesn't have to be a lot. Love and light. And do let me know if you'd like another appointment. Love and light."

... 

barf. 

You're who JP Sears makes fun of. 

The travel agent, an amiable, rotund chap named Esteban, had asked me to drop by his office around 2:30, so that he could call the tour company and confirm that everything was set for my ride to Xela.

He didn't recognize me.

I booked with him yesterday, for the love of cheese. Does my face blend in THAT well? 

I showed him my reservation. The one he'd printed for me the afternoon before. And I could see a glimmer of recognition in his cheerful eyes.

"Oh, Aimee!" he exclaimed, pronouncing all the vowels in my name.

Side note: Spanish. Is not a good language in which to have a name like "Aimee." In Spanish, all vowels are pronounced. So whenever I write down my name for travel agents, they squint in confusion at the sight of so many vowels, then say something akin to, "AH-EE-M-AY-AY".

Esteban rushed into his office, picked up the phone, didn't dial anything, and then told me, "It's okay. They have room for you," and put the phone back down.

Umm.... Okay. 

I boarded the boat (la lancha) for Panajachel, and disembarked 45 minutes later. Heaving Fat Ellie onto my shoulders, I marched up the hill and stood beside a couple of travel agencies on Embarcadero. For my peace of mind, I trundled over to other travelers and asked where they were off to. It always feels reassuring when other stranded travelers are heading in your general direction.

No one was heading in my general direction.

Finally, I spotted a shuttle with my travel company's name written on the back window, so I approached a fellow leaning on the van (I don't know who the drivers are. No one wears uniforms here. But I assumed people don't lean across other people's vans). The van leaner was not, in fact, the driver, but he was helpful enough to direct me to the driver. A short, plump Guatemalan who took one look at my ticket, wearily rubbed his forehead and reached for his phone to call Esteban.

Oh, Esteban. What have you done? 

"Hablas Español?" the driver asked me.

"No," I shamefully shook my head.

"Ach..." the driver wiped his well-worn forehead again, then added hopefully, "un poco?"

"No," I dashed his hopes.

"Este... autobus... This bus... Antigua. Tu. You. Xela. Tu cambias el autobus... you change bus... in cuarenta... twenty minutes."

"Bien, gracias," I said, guessing that he'd really meant to say forty minutes, not twenty.

Esteban. Why didn't you tell me I had to change buses? Come on, Esteban. Poop. I wish I knew enough Spanish to ask if I'm being dropped off in the middle of nowhere to wait for another shuttle in the dark, or if someone will be waiting for me, or...

Poop. 

Well, there's nothing I can do. So I'll just try not to worry, I thought as I hit replay on my one and only Lumineers album. Instead of concentrating on all the things that could go wrong (none of which I could do anything about), I just tried to be aware of what was going on around me. I watched the Tigger stuffed animal swing from the driver's window. A woman at a tienda brushing her hair behind her ears. A small girl squatting in a doorway, playing with sticks.

Not only is worrying totally useless, it makes me miss everything. I don't notice anything except my own panic when I worry. Which is silly. My own panic is boring. Why would I want to focus on that when I could focus on all this?    

Nacho had told me to meet him at Hotel Kasa Kamelot after my ride into Xela, so I'd downloaded a map of the city, had written down the address and phone number, and was feeling very prepared indeed.  So picture my surprise when we stopped in Los Encuentros to change buses, and my towering Spanish friend clamored into the seat beside me.

"Nacho," I said after I'd recovered from my surprise, "you're crazy."

He smiled. This wasn't new information for Nacho. Nacho knows that he's crazy.

"I think I'll trust you, but never believe you again," I added, giving him a hug.

We were dropped off in front of Hotel Kasa Kamelot and made our way to our room. A giant beast of a room on the bottom floor (NO STAIRS. WOOHOO!) with six massive beds. I chose one, Nacho chose another, and his belongings chose the rest.

"I need this," Nacho explained when I laughed at the explosion of traveler crap. "I've lived for so long in small spaces.... I need this."

And I understood. It's how I feel about making my bed. When I have a bed that's mine, I never make it. It's a sign that it's my bed, my space, my choice to leave the sheets in a twisted heap. It's why when I have my own kitchen, I never wash (well, rarely wash. I'm not that gross) my coffee cup. It's my cup, my kitchen, my choice to leave that one cup a little dirty.

So I understood why Nacho needed his bags to make the room look like it had just been struck by a natural disaster. Or seven.

After three weeks of living off-grid in the jungle, the joys of being on-grid and out of the jungle hit me fast and hard.

"I HAVE A LIGHT IN MY ROOM!" I crowed. "I DON'T HAVE TO CHECK FOR SCORPIONS!" I rejoiced. "THERE'S  A TOILET THAT ISN'T A MILE HIKE UP A FUCKING MOUNTAIN!" I happy danced.

Oh my goodness... if I'm like this after just three weeks in the jungle... imagine three months...

Nacho smiled at me. Then he told the hotel receptionist something in Spanish, and the receptionist burst into laughter.

"What did you say?" I demanded indignantly.

"I told him that you have just come from the jungle. And to not be surprised if you start swinging on trees."

Okay. That's fair. 

After watching the sunrise, Nacho and I strolled over to a nearby bakery and bought bread for breakfast.

We caught the chicken bus to the village near Fuentas Georginas, one of Guatemala's famous hot springs. And I felt so grateful to be traveling with someone  like Nacho. Because Nacho A) speaks Spanish, and B) loves to speak with everyone. ALL THE TIME. And it's very easy to find where you want to go and how to get there when you speak the language and love people.

The bus left us in Zunil, and we caught a taxi the rest of the way to the springs.

Fuentas Georginas was breathtaking. And abandoned, but for a few Guatemalans. I rushed into the filthy changing room, donned my bikini, and shivered my way towards the hot water.

Fuck, I berated myself as I glanced around the natural pools. I've been up at the Forest for so long that I forgot I was in Guatemala. Where modesty is a big deal. 

I was the only person wearing a bikini. Most women wore shirts. The occasional scandalous Guatemalan wore a one piece swimsuit.

I felt the gazes from men and women alike, scrutinizing me, wondering what the hell I was doing in so little clothing.

Well. Lesson learned. When bathing in Guatemala, wear a shirt.  
 

We caught a tuk-tuk down to Zunil, and Nacho practically froze to death. Because he had forgotten to bring anything other than his swim suit and tee-shirt. 

"Sometimes I don't think I'm thirty-eight," Nacho drew his damp towel over his long body to shield himself from the wind. 

"I just think you're crazy," I said very sympathetically, nice and warm in my puffy jacket and boots. 

Zunil was having a festival that evening, so we caught a bit of a parade before boarding our chicken bus back to Xela.

We tumbled out of the chicken bus in Xela, and Nacho bought wine and the makings for a Spanish omelet. I chopped vegetables and he told me the proper way to make omelet. Not the heathen way I've been preparing them for years (I'm going to have to apologize to all my couchsurfing hosts for whom I've made heathen Spanish omelets).

I'm so glad I get to have this little adventure. It's good for me. I'd gotten so damn tired of moving that I never wanted to leave San Marcos. Moving had become exhausting... and... and had lost its joy. But this... this is fun. It's easy. It's an easy, beautiful adventure. And makes me want more.