San Cristobal de las Casas

Alongside its dainty charm, the capital of Chiapas is an extremely fortified place. State police totting large guns are everywhere, and their military exercises (cannon fire) are audible all day and night. It was an unfortunate, and unnecessary, show of Mexican force.


But this is not 1994 (the year of the Zapatista uprising.) San Cristobal is alive with tourism, both international and local. Along its cobblestone streets, and on the bus ride through the mountains to get there, the indigenous culture really asserts itself. The dress ranges from wooly black skirts worn by highland women to the clashing woven fabrics in the valley.


Unlike Oaxaca, most locals don’t join in the evening revelry, leaving the night eerily quiet. But we were successful in finding the one hip bar (a skill we perfected on this trip) and after it closed, going to a packed reggae after-party in a colonial hall.


San Cristobal was the place where, sadly, we faced the reality of our first-world interloping. Todd was violently mugged, and we were unsuccessful in getting the police to care, let along file a report. The physicians at the clean public hospital thought it was amusing, but did give us good care and swift attention. We left the town with an acrid taste, but still appreciative of the beauty we beheld there.

 

Different perspectives on this charming colonial city.

 

Fruit seller, worker and pedestrians in northeast San Cristobal.

 

The most beautiful of the town’s churches, the 16th century Ex-Convento de Santo Domingo.

 

The central market, geared toward tourists, offered an abundance of sweets and olives but little else.

 

First day in town: peering at a garage and eating tacos in a classy restaurant that felt like a chain.

 

This boy worked for hours at helping his father haul wood to an unknown location, while other boys watched him.

 

In the street near our hotel.

 

Roofs were widely used as storage spaces, gardens, or makeshift houses.

 

In, near and around our hotel.

 

This candy vendor was doing a swift business on the day I found him. I liked his hat.

 

A view from the bus onto a charming Chiapas town on the way to the Guatemalan border. These benches were especially ornate.

 

There was a notable economic difference in the towns right before, and right after the border: cowboy hats morphed into indigenous dress.

 

Afternoon respite.