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.