August 16, 2015

San Cristobal is a Spanish colonial town in the Mexican state of Chiapas. There’s a lot of history here, from the church built in the 1720s to the Zapatista revolt in 1994. The town thrives on tourism, with a main zocalo and several open air markets. A couple of long streets are pedestrian-only, and are lined with shops, restaurants, and hotels.

Ok, that’s my positive pitch for San Cristobal. Now here’s my take. If you’re a fan of San Cristobal de las Casas, you may likely be offended by this part. And you may want to stop reading here.

It’s no Guanjuato, or even San Miguel de Allende. This part of Mexico lagged far behind the rest in terms of economic development and the end of forced labor. Many if not most of the areas around here are still on a bare subsistence level. Unlike the other Spanish colonial towns further north, there is a notable lack of young, vibrant, well educated population, and a clear existence of street beggars. The city itself, with just over 200,000 people, is not the clean, attractive place that those other cities are. Except for perhaps the main tourist area, which is a couple of pedestrian-only streets filled with restaurants, bars and hotels.

I stayed at the famous Rossco Backpackers Hostel, as it always gets good reviews. It was comfortable despite the lumpy bed, convenient, and relatively quiet within the walls of the hostel (there was a huge festival when I arrived, so I can’t blame the hotel for the fireworks and music).

As I walked around town, the few gringo tourists I saw were not from the U.S. Lots of German, Australian, French and some Israeli. Again, it was clear that their media doesn’t hype the negatives about Mexico the way the U.S. media does. Of course the large majority of tourists here are Mexican nationals. In fact, aside from one guy that works at the hostel, I’m the only person staying here that speaks English. No other U.S. guests.

 

 

 

And of course the tell-tale sign that tourism has taken over and once again this town is too touristy for me:

Typical summer mountain weather: temps in the upper 60s and 70s. A rain shower each afternoon. I was able to make it to the fruteria before the afternoon shower and bought some fruit for dinner one night, and the Casa de Pan for empanadas — mole filled, queso filled, chocolate filled. All good. I won’t complain about the weather even with a little rain.

As I’ve traveled further south, I’ve noticed the local population has changed considerably. The indigenous groups here are very identifiable, not only from their visibly shorter stature, but from the brightly colored traditional clothing of the women. Many have what I can only call mohair dresses, and babies are carried wrapped in a bundle on the back.

About 5pm, the church bells started ringing and the loud fireworks blasting, and along with the loud music, continued until nearly 11pm.

UPDATE: Ok, this is ridiculous. The firework bombs (no visual effect, just bombs exploding) continued until nearly midnight last night. Then they started again at 3:30am and continued til 5am. Then the church bells started. Not a nice, rythmic tune, but just slamming and clanging for hours. Then it stopped for a few hours. It started again at noon — both the church bells slamming and the bombs exploding — hundreds of them nonstop. The church bells stopped after a half hour. The bombs are still going off. I’m beginning to think waterboarding would be more welcome. I don’t understand it. There is nothing calm, relaxing, peaceful, or otherwise welcoming about it. In fact, just when you think the bombs have stopped, one explodes right overhead. It is nothing but nerve shattering. It almost seems like some sort of brainwashing technique used to keep the locals in line. This must be what it feels like to live in a Middle East village in constant fear of being bombed. Okay, maybe not that bad, but it is totally annoying. I have to wonder if the guy at the church setting off the bombs every two to three seconds for hours ever asked anyone in town if they enjoy it. And why a town that in many ways struggles to survive spends so much money on gunpowder.

Here’s a 30 second video from my phone this morning at the breakfast table. Keep in mind that this is 30 seconds, and this went on for hours and hours AND HOURS, day and night, for the three days I was in San Cristobal.

I stepped out of the hostel just after noon to walk into town, and had to step over a guy passed out on the sidewalk. No worries. Everyone else was just stepping over him too. Drawbacks of narrow sidewalks.

I had the biggest hamburguesa I’ve ever seen for lunch. Well, half of it. I took the other half back for dinner.

Then on the way back from lunch, I had to walk across the street to avoid another guy peeing on a car tire from the sidewalk. Right next to the hostel. And it’s not like this is a rough(er) part of town.

This town isn’t really that nice anyway, especially compared to Guanajuato or San Miguel de Allende. Time to move on to something much more tranquil. Unfortunately it also means dropping from 7000 feet elevation to only 200 feet above sea level. Here comes the humidity.