We decide we will travel from Santa Domingo Palenque toward San Cristóbal De Las Casas, then over to the west coast at Tehuantepec, up to Oaxaxa, and just meander toward Mexico City, where we plan a visit to the museo. (museum) This schedule is tentative, we will be in no hurry, content to just let fate and destiny govern our speed and actual destinations.

Our first day back on the road finds us traveling up into the mountains in beautiful country. The forests are very thick and the human population seems very small indeed. The road is winding and narrow, the driving is difficult and due to the steep grades, very slow. We often find ourselves caught behind slow moving trucks and busses as they laboriously work toward cresting these grades. As they do crest, they must then use their engine compression to keep them slowed, thus avoiding overheating the brakes on the descent. Our driving skills are severely tested. This is when it is necessary to have "team" driving. The "navigator" must look ahead down curving mountain roads to aid the driver in his passing; the driver must handle the immediate and close problems of driving the road itself. Initially, I am in the navigator's seat. I look far down the road and see that after the oncoming three trucks pass us by, there will be a break in the traffic large enough for us to pass. The navigator must also make sure there are no roads or driveways which could permit traffic out onto the road and into the pattern. I relay the information to the driver, Joseph, and after those three trucks pass us, we pass the traffic in front of us. It is very nerve wracking, but it works. No car capable of passing another will hesitate to do so on these roads, failure to pass would create a long string of traffic very difficult to pass and set up a potentially dangerous situation. These driving conditions are not for the meek.

Along the way we have some interesting encounters with local folk. At one point, somewhere high up in the mountains on the way to San Cristóbal de las Casas, we see honey gatherers. They are well up on the side of a hill adjacent to the highway. We happen to see a rare wide spot and cautiously pull to the side. We get out of the car in order to approach them and procure some honey; buy, trade, whatever. As we slug through the thick jungle growth to approach, it is immediately apparent that we have misjudged the difficulty of merely getting to them. Finally, after much work hacking away with the machete, we are able to approach. We have brought along with us an empty tequila bottle (the now history Sausa Comemorativo purchased in Chetumal) to act as honey vessel. As we approach these Maya honey gatherers, it is plain to see that they are very surprised to see us. Our tequila bottle seems to have been noticed and it seems as if they expect, or at least hoped, that it would be full. When it is realized that it is empty and we want to buy honey, their disappointment is obvious. As we try to speak to them we see the tremendous amount of bees following the honey wagon, they are everywhere. Many bees approach and land on us, ( I'm not kidding here, probably about a hundred land on me alone) but they do not sting. We completely ignore them, just as the Mayas do. It is not because we are so brave, at least not me, but rather due to the fact that we had no choice. Swatting around or moving suddenly would have spelled certain disaster. And to make things worse, I now remember that Joseph thought he was allergic to bee stings, he had felt that way for years. (In all reality, if Joseph were to be stung, and stung severely, what would we have done? He might have died on the spot, we were miles from any medical treatment; perhaps some local medicine man or "curadera" would have come to the rescue, and with Joseph's luck they would have. But, of course he had even better luck, he wasn't stung even once.) I take the initiative in careful Spanish, asking if they might be willing to sell us some honey. I hold out the tequila bottle as honey receptacle. Now, this Maya man, whom I would judge to be in his thirties or forties, looked at me with what I can only describe as complete disbelief. He was dressed in white peasant clothing, probably weighed in at around a hundred, and he wasn't a hair over four eleven. Well, I thought; maybe my Spanish wasn't as good as hoped for. I tried to rephrase, now even more bees were landing on us. Linguistically, same result, complete incomprehension. Now I'm on the verge of quiet panic. Ed bails me out , "Pete, I don't think they speak Spanish." Geez, of course they don't, I quickly discard the idea of trying English and opt for sign language instead. After a couple of minutes making a complete fool of myself, I hear Joseph in the background say, "kope, kope?" He has been having a quiet conversation with one of the other men. The honey gatherer now smiles, and points to the honey wagon. Joseph says to me.

"Kope, kope must mean honey in Mayan." Of course he's right, they take the tequila bottle and fill it up with honey right out of a spigot on the side of the wagon. Now, this is organic honey, it's so unfiltered there are still bee parts in the honey. They politely refuse any payment. They are smiling, we self-consciously say goodby and head back to the road and the Cadillac, miraculously, with no bee stings at all. Well, it just goes to show 'ya, "all's well that ends well." Well, I guess. Anyway, we learned a Mayan word, and we scored what turned out to be excellent honey.

We pile back into the Caddie and continue on toward San Cristóbal de las Casas. Along the way I notice boys and young men walking through the forest, gathering sticks. These sticks are thin and mostly straight, and about four to six feet long. I assume these are used for hut building, fence making and other assorted tasks. I see that this is someone's job. It tells of what life is like in a place where there is absolutely no job market. This is someone's job, gathering sticks. Many Americans feel cheated if they cannot make a living doing what they enjoy. My Norte Americano values are given another jolt. I, perhaps, also get a better understanding of why the time concept or how time is utilized, is different in this country. Time is the one thing that remains constant, it is free and can never be taken away. Today, tomorrow, how much difference will there be? I also think I learn a little about how faith helps people to persevere through this sameness, giving each day a meaning, each day an end unto itself. The saint's days, the religious holidays, the fiesta days, a feeling of being in touch with one's roots, and one's religion. The Maya, in addition to their Catholic religion, also draw from the spiritual values of their "other religion," the one they used and lived by (and to some extent still do) before the Spanish missionaries "converted" them to Catholicism. I think I get a lesson, that although not realized at the time, in later years would help give me a basis of values that might not be quite as materialistic.

Finally we reach San Cristóbal de las Casas. We find that we have ascended to an altitude of 7000,' and the cool, light, mountain air gives a subtle reminder of home in Sierra Nevada summertimes. This mountain town has a subtle beauty which at first escapes the eye; it appears plain and cool, it does not feel inviting nor does it have a feeling of "hominess." Quite the contrary, it feels as though you are tolerated, but not needed. Its layout is quite symmetrical, the square, churches, and streets are interesting to see, if for nothing else, just to view the workmanship skills of long ago forgotten Indio workmen, but the city was not particularly unique, nor impressive. Overall, I guess I would describe the look as somewhat colonial, with an understated symmetry and beauty. The people themselves however, do lend a somewhat regal look to the city. In particular, the men, they are local Mayas of the Huixteco, Zinacanteco, and Chamula tribes. As they walk through the city, they portray a quiet self-assuredness of belonging. They as well show a hint of royalty in the solemn stateliness of their immaculate, and handsome, white attire. Their strong and perfectly sculptured legs, adorned with high backed sandals, move them along in a stately fashion attesting to a pride borne of knowing who they are and what their purposes. The women, in contrast, are standoffish in their demeanor, and very plain in their appearance. Almost as though they walk in the shadow of their men, as perhaps, second class female citizens in a male dominated society.

Eventually, we find our way to Posada de San Cristóbal, where we make arrangements to spend the night. It is late afternoon and we feel a chill as the sun's lengthening rays seem to absorb the last pinch of warmth from the air. We are again reminded of home as we dig through our duffels to find our warm clothing, long since relegated to the bottom position of our wardrobe. We then seek out a restaurant, enjoy our evening meal and take a walk about the town. It is cool even in our warmest garb, but we enjoy the feel. I think perhaps we are all a little homesick, although we do not discuss it. Ed comments that there is a European feel to the city as we walk back to our hotel. From somewhere, we even hear a piano being played, perhaps through an open window or from a veranda. The music sheets and cascades down the streets, contained and refined by the mountains echofect. It is maybe Mozart or Brahms. A most welcome sound, especially when contrasted with the more provincial and far less sophisticated Mexican music we normally hear.

Joseph warns that we will be arising very early in the morning. He has heard that the Indians come down out of the mountains to barter and sell goods amongst themselves at the local mercado, and he wants to see it. We settle in and have no trouble falling asleep in the cool mountain air so reminiscent of home. Suddenly, at least it seems suddenly, Joseph is whispering in the dark, "Wake up, wake up, it's time." I look to the time, Geez, it's only four-thirty, what the hell would we want to wake up now for? Joseph quickly explains, whispering, "If we don't get going, we'll miss the whole marketplace scene." In my heart, I know from experience that he is right, he is always right about these kinds of things. Joseph has always had an uncanny ability to be in the right place at the right time. And the right time is invariably early. Over the years we have developed an expression for it, (left over from days many years before when we would drive Mr. Farber's '53 Nash Ambassador from Santa Ana to Hemet in order to hunt rabbit and quail) we like to be "in the field by sunup." Ed however, unconvinced that this ungodly hour is necessary, rolls over and goes back to sleep muttering something about catching up with us later; during the daylight hours. We dress as quietly as possible in the almost dark of our dormitory "room."

Wearing our warmest clothing we stumble out onto the street not knowing where we are going, nor, for that matter, where we are in relation to where the mercado might be. I ask Joseph, "Where the hell is this place?" He replies, "I don't know, we'll find it, we'll just go where everyone else goes." We head off in a general direction, with no idea if we are going toward or away from our destination, and though I dislike this "lemming" type of attitude, I just trust Joseph.

Although I am wearing Levi's, tennis shoes and socks, tee-shirt, long sleeve shirt and a corduroy sport coat, I still feel cold. We move swiftly through the streets as just a whisper of faint orange light appears on the apex of the mountains to the east, I beg for sunrise and the warmth I hope it will bring. Joseph, as usual, has once again unaccountably chosen the right direction, we see some activity ahead. As we approach, we look up ahead to see a virtual parade of horse and burro drawn wagons, slowly cascading down the streets toward the "mercado" area. The wagons are old fashioned but many sport "modern" car tires and rims for wheels, creating an interesting contrast as hubcaps date stamp the event well into the 20th century. There are some old, old, pick-up trucks chugging along as well, but the vast majority of people are afoot, or riding in these quaint old wagons. The procession is quiet, almost silent, with people wrapped up in various layers of clothing; sarapes, blankets, jackets, and even just miscellaneous folds of fabrics. Plumes of exhaled breath, looking almost as smoke, are emitted from the mouths and nostrils of man and beast alike in the coldest morning air so mysteriously typical just before the dawning of a brand new day. The men once again are dressed very colorfully, almost in a Guatemalan fashion, while the women, with the exception of their long lustrous jet black hair, again appear unkempt and drab in their shapeless rents of wool. Many have babies slung ingeniously within the folds. Additionally, some were carrying bundles of miscellaneous goods as well.

In a very orderly fashion the mercado begins to establish itself. Fires have been lit in barrels, little stands vending food and hot drinks appear, and I am delighted to order a cup of hot coffee. It is very strong, very black, very hot, very local, and very perfect. We just stand near a barrel fire drinking our coffee and taking in the local scene. The sun peeps through a pass in the mountains and the air loses some of its chill; between the barrel, the sun, and the coffee, we begin to warm up. In addition to the little stands, people also sell merchandise right out of their wagons. Over all, a wide variety of merchandise, including different foods and food staples, also little "sundry items," like what you might find in a five and ten back home, are available. There are people selling clothing , tools, and implements, some were familiar to us, such as hatchets and machetes, others looking very specialized in nature and appearing very local. Most interesting, I think, are the women seated on the ground with small piles of chiles, seeds, herbs, nuts, spices, powders, and other exotic looking stuff placed on pieces of paper and spread out around them. These various goods are sold by the pinch or by the handful, often wrapped in small folds of newsprint. Coins are passed, sometimes a trade is made, and it looks to me as though sometimes the vendors are giving it away. Many of these women have babies with them, virtually slung inside their clothing where they can easily suckle. The women speak quietly when they speak at all, I can never catch even a single word so I cannot say whether they are speaking Spanish or a local dialect. I also wonder if some of the women I am observing are "curaderas." (medicine women) And what mysterious concoctions could be brewed from the various herbs being sold, if only one had the proper recipe? Once again, I am forced to see that although we are all so much the same, we are also so very much different. Tomorrow, back on the road.

MEXICO CHRONICLES ( Return to Contents)
Copyright 1996 by R.P. Folsom. All rights reserved.