Mexico: San Cristóbal de las Casas | A North American Bicycle Journey

Day196

Bed and Breakfast, San Cristóbal de las Casas[MAP]

Mexico20 February 54.8 miles 6:24 hours

After finishing the last of my grits, I was on my bike and on the road again by seven. It was easy to find my way out of town and pretty soon I was in Chiapa de Corzo again. I headed for the toll road to San Cristóbal but was stopped at the gates. After some confusing dialogue, an English speaking guard approached me and gave me directions to the non-toll road. At first I was disappointed, it was a narrow road with virtually no shoulder to ride on. But pretty soon I realised I didn’t need a shoulder to ride on at all; every single driver that passed me was totally respectful, gave plenty of room and gave me a warning honk if they could see there wasn’t much room. It was great, I’ve never had so many honks and waves and greetings from drivers and pedestrians.

The road wound upwards into the hills and by the time I got to the summit, I’d risen two thousand metres over a climb of forty-three kilometres. The road had so many curves that on three separate occasions I passed cars that had pulled off onto the side of the road to allow one of the passengers to vomit. Halfway up, I stopped to talk to a grinning Spaniard cyclist who was heading downhill. Carlos was one of those legends riding from Chile to Alaska. He’d already spent a year in South America and met and fallen in love with a fellow cyclist, a South African girl. He asked me the route I’d taken and had a lot of questions about the North American bears, admitting that he was starting to freak out about the idea of them. He sadly told me I had another kilometre of climbing to go but recommended a good hostel to stay in at San Cristóbal.

As we parted ways, my eyes started screwing up. My sight distorted in the lower left, almost as though I was wearing glasses with broken lenses. I kept riding for another kilometre or two, but it soon got to the point where I could barely see the road properly.

I pulled into a small roadside drink shop and almost dropped Stef, I felt really faint and weak. I sat down for a while, ordered a Sprite and ate some of my salted peanuts and an apple. I couldn’t even read the ingredients on the Sprite bottle. I sat there in a stupor for half an hour.

Feeling a little better, I hopped back on the bike again and made another two or three kilometres before the eye sight distortion came back much worse, almost causing me to crash the bike. I sat down on the side of the road and really thought that I’d soon pass out. I’ve fainted once before; it started with a ringing in my ears, gradually turning into a sound like thundering surf. At the same time, all I could see through my eyes was black and white noise, just like the static on an un-tuned TV. But this time it felt different. I tried to rationalise what I’d done wrong. Was I dehydrated? I took a leak and it was clear as water. My skin wasn’t clammy or dry. In fact I was sweating buckets. Then I figured I may have drunk too much. I’d already finished my six litre water bag and one water bottle before eleven in the morning (Hyponatremia?).

I rested on the roadside for another half-hour and then started walking my bike. My vision eventually came good but left me with a bad headache on the left of my forehead. When I hopped on the bike again, I put it in granny gear and took it slowly.

I reached the summit and got to enjoy about eight kilometres of downhill into San Cristóbal. It was a good… no…it was a great feeling riding into town and having a bunch of surprised/impressed tourists gawking at you, it kicks the shit out of arriving by bus.

Day197

Bed and Breakfast, San Cristóbal de las Casas (Rest Day)[MAP]

Mexico21 February

Still have the remains of a headache today. I can feel it especially whenever I cough or sneeze.

I climbed up to a tiny church overlooking the town. I’d planned on finding a crucifix made out of car number plates, I thought it was a good reflection on the things that our society chooses to worship. Didn’t find it.

Watched a film in the evening about the Zapista National Liberation Army. They represented Mexico’s, and especially Chiapa’s, oppressed indigenous people. In 1994, to coincide with the signing of the North American Free Trade Agreement, they seized the town of San Cristóbal by armed force. I couldn’t understand a word of the film but it was interesting nonetheless.

Looking up towards San Cristobal church (Day 197)

Stray dog in a San Cristobal street (Day 197)

Looking down from San Cristobal church (Day 197)

Day198

Bed and Breakfast, San Cristóbal de las Casas (Rest Day)[MAP]

Mexico22 February

Chamula weavings (Day 198)

I took a tour of the neighbouring villages with a guide named Cesar, a wonderfully knowledgeable local. Cesar used to be a Mormon, now turned Atheist and now very much against the missionaries from the US who try to change the ways of the indigenous people. Our first stop was to a cemetery in the village of San Juan Chamula. People are buried with a bunch of their clothes and the cross on the grave is coloured according to their age. If they died as infants; a white cross. Young people; a blue cross (and apparently the indigenous people see blue as just another shade of green). Older people; a black cross. People who are murdered, mothers who die during childbirth and people who die of accidental deaths such as drowning are buried separately from those who die naturally and are also believed to go to a separate place in the afterlife.

We walked to the village church. From the outside, it’s another regular beautiful Spanish church. Inside, we got to experience the villagers’ unique take on Christianity. It’s dark and filled with the aromas of incense, candle wax and pine leaves. The church is without any pews, pine leaves are scattered over most of the floor and villagers are huddled in groups of three or four. In front of each group are numerous burning candles. Sometimes a shaman sits in front of them chanting prayers, a chicken with its neck broken beside him. Even Coca Cola is sometimes used in the rituals.

The pine tree is the sacred tree and its branches are strapped to any crucifix. Most of the statues of saints, watching from the walls of the church, have mirrors hung around their necks, symbolic of their soul. Those that don’t have mirrors are ignored.

The “conventional” priest from San Cristóbal comes to town once a month, only for baptisms. He gives the mass in Spanish, a language which none of the people understand.

Cesar explained some of the medical practices of the shaman and approached the topic both from his scientific scepticism and from his personal experiences, as his mother would heal him with traditional practices when he was a child. He explained that the local police are actually ex-criminals. If you are caught committing a crime in the village you are given a heavy stick similar to a baton and are given instant membership into the local constabulary. So while we were in and around the church we had a bunch of ex-crims with big heavy sticks watching us to ensure that we took no photos. The villagers believe that taking a photo of someone will take their soul.

The village’s spiritual leader is a volunteer. It may take up to twenty years between volunteering and becoming the leader. The leader has to rent a special house for a year and pay for all of the rituals, candles and incense, which can amount to a lot. In return, they earn much respect for the rest of their lives.

The civil leaders are elected somewhat democratically. They stand on the balcony of the town hall and are either considered popular; the villagers raise their hats, or unpopular; the villagers pick up the first thing they can find and throw it at them!

I liked the idea of something Cesar explained: maybe the other day when I almost passed out while riding I “caught a bad wind”. This happens if you accidentally go past a witch while they are casting a spell on somebody.

We drove to the village of Zinacantan where we were invited into a house where the women cooked us tortillas flavoured with crushed pumpkin seeds and long, thick, green onions. The village church was a conventional catholic church, the people were much more open and often smiled and the village was cleaner.