Saigon to Superior: Mexico

The Zocalo, San Cristobal, Chiapas

Coffee by keyboard, I’m finding it hard to think above the cab-top megaphone of the local water truck as it makes its morning rounds. The deaf driver is cranking "Raindrops Fallin’ on My Head" at such earsplitting levels I’m pretty sure the Sun God himself just dipped down to exchange his own empty five-gallon jug for a fresh one. Though each passing of this rolling water bottle rack plants the notion that we’ve finally arrived to the third world Mexican lore of our American upbringing, the milk-frothing jet of the frapaccino machine in the Italian café across the street makes it clear that we have not. San Cristobal, Chiapas, has one well-healed foot placed firmly in Old Spain.

Two weeks ago, my girlfriend Melissa and I hit the ground in Mexico City, amid the swirling street-side capitalism that so brightly powers every tropical country I have visited and that is so crisply sequestered in sterile shopping malls within my own. It never ceases to amaze me how the raw power of commerce can be unleashed by the diligent entrepreneurs who will capitalize on three feet of available sidewalk to sell their wares. In much of Mexico, vendors are given free reign, and the ocean of colors, smells, and movement that answers to even the smallest opportunity envelops the senses. There are neighborhoods in Mexico City where vendors fill every block in a chaotic cacophony of every product imaginable, the exchange of goods and services always up for barter, while a steady flow of supplies meanders seamlessly through the throng of humanity on the backs of bicycles, dollies, and human beings.

Alongside these buzzing sidewalk communities stand trendier neighborhoods that rival many in New York or LA. The sidewalk culture is indeed more absent among the luxury German, Japanese, and American cars that line lush green streets, but regardless, a tolerance for the entrepreneurial spirit lives on through the foot vendors that slide by valets and doormen to the candle-lit tables beyond, where nuts and candies are peddled to martini sipping crowds. Anywhere and everywhere you find them or they find you, in the form of guitar strumming mariachi bands paddling their boats aside your own in a city canal, well groomed children selling fresh tacos in your bus aisle, and Mayan peddlers sharing their ancient crafts on a blanket in a cobble stone square.

Next stop: Oaxaca! After spending five-fun filled days in the world’s biggest city, Melissa and I paid twenty dollars apiece to purchase our spots aboard a first-class Mexican bus, complete with subtitled movies, well-tended bathroom, and reclining seats. Though the ever-winding highway made us feel we were riding atop a serpent as the bus snaked its way toward the clouds above the country’s super-highland desert, fresh black pavement allowed an intoxicating day to pass alongside the cactus forests and heat-lightning outside our tinted window.

Perched a mile in the air, Oaxaca’s colonial streets fill a lush valley surrounded by 11,000 foot peaks. The world’s pharmacy is up there, in a tropical cloud forest filled with leaves, fruits, and roots that could give Pfizer a run for its money. We hired a native Zapotec guide to lead us through the mist-choked pines and elephant-sized agave plants that pitched the landscape between thick jungle and sparse highland with each new step, and while running our fingers over no less than ten botanic remedies for ailments ranging from sore throat to cancer. Note: though the local anesthetic has a great lemon taste when one chews on its parsley-like leaves, don't expect to taste much else for a few hours after. If one could get an indigenous guide to adopt them, they could likely stay healthy for a good hundred years.

Far below in the valley sits the region’s Spanish anchor. Though Oaxaca is surrounded by simple yet sturdy Indian villages populated by expert potters, weavers, and other craft folk, the city itself is an ornate remnant of the country’s colonial past. In its marbled squares, well-heeled Mexicans, Americans, and Europeans pass the day in open air cafes, soaking up dry sun amid Spanish language books, shopping bags, and cups of fine coffee and wine.

Yet, something less relaxed is afoot in the air… Why are ten police trucks continually circling about the city? And teams of officers perpetually loafing about in riot gear at the entrance to many neighborhood squares? We learn from an American student that these acts are pre-emptive – a way for the governor-elect to tell protestors of the recent and contested election to not even consider making an appearance. This painted a somewhat surreal picture when placed against the strolling Mexican and foreign tourists of obvious means, the locals moving about with an air of business as usual while Americans and Europeans, feeling secure enough to cast curious looks of inquiry, simply would seek out some ex-pat in the know to dial them in to the story.

The state of Oaxaca’s democracy made our next stop, Chiapas, all the more surreal. We’d been told by the U.S. State Department website not to visit this South Mexican state. Gun-toting Indian rebels were supposedly running amuck. No tourist was safe. Yet European traveler after traveler kept telling us of their amazing stop there, proclaiming its capital, San Cristobal, a Mexican gem. We decided to ignore our government’s ominous website and have a look for ourselves.

I can attest that gun-toting rebel Zapatista Indians are indeed all over Chiapas looking to reclaim their lands – in the form of hand-crafted dolls on horseback, available at every tchatchke stand in the packed markets of colonial San Cristobal. The British, French, German, Danish, and Dutch tourists love them. With bemused grins they are purchased from Zapatista vendors, who are making a killing for their political movement in both pesos and public relations. At the same time, Europeans are reciprocating with a bit of their own culture, through video-streaming their DJs into local discotechs that are every bit as tricked out, trendy, and packed as those found in similar-sized towns in England or France.

I’m beginning to marvel at how Americans, who travel through their own gang-ridden inner cities with a grain of salt, become such timid travelers when they hear of armed groups abroad. Our travels through Chiapas got me thinking. If the U.S. government kept a travel advisory web-site on its own urban areas using similar measures, what would it look like? My own travel advisory would list the following for Chiapas: Mayan-Catholic churches anchored as much in indigenous spirits as Rome; amber and jade dealers that rival any in the world; a cornucopia of restaurants, clubs, and streetside stands that range from funky to exquisite; all nestled on a temperate mountain plain begging for days whittled away at an open air café.

(7/21/04)