Little more than a week left on our six-month Mexican tourist visas and one more pueblo mágico to go. Our penultimate stop in this beautiful country was San Cristóbal de las Casas, a colonial town of squat single-story buildings and brightly painted churches in the green and mountainous heart of Chiapas.
Our campsite was a regular overlander meet-up spot and we were happy for the company and to see other people’s rigs. There we met Ralf and Lisa, a German couple out to experience other ways of living. Evan and Alyssa, from Colorado, were driving all the way to Ushuaia in a Subaru Forester. It was nice to compare notes on our Subis and see their set-up. Dominic had come over from Switzerland to spend a few months in Mexico and Central America. Together, they made a close and comfortable neighborhood for the few days we spent there.
We knew little of Chiapas and even less of San Cristobal going in. Of the former, we knew only that it is one of Mexico’s prime coffee growing regions. Of the latter, only that it is reported to be beautiful.
Our interest in (and addiction to) coffee led Jon, Jenna and I to el Museo del Café. A middle aged man greeted us upon entering and informed us that there was really nothing to see in the museum. There are no machines, he said. There are no displays, either. Nothing about the coffee making process. Really, it’s just a couple of rooms with some pictures.
Can we take a peek, we asked, to see if we want to go in?
Sure.
True to his very honest word, we saw no museum to speak of. Alongside a large, empty courtyard, sat two long rooms containing some coffee-themed paintings and a few large photos. Disappointed, but now wanting coffee more than ever, we ordered some espressos and sat down in the borderline uncomfortably empty courtyard and laughed at ourselves.
Only then did we notice a sign proclaiming that the establishment was named “Café el Museo del Café”. The Museum of Coffee Café.
Is there a museum of coffee, then, we asked.
No, the man said.
We finished our espressos and continued to wander the streets, myself heavier by a quarter kilo of ground Chiapas coffee.
We had planned on doing more touristy things in San Cristobal, but a few things interceded. First, we had to take care of all the domestic things that are hard to keep up with on the road, like laundry, groceries and can maintenance. Second, Jon discovered some small cliffs nearby with bolted climbing routes. Finally, our home country elected a madman who will likely seek to become a dictator to the presidency.
Let’s start with the climbing.
A squat, roughly 20-meter cliff sat a fifteen-minute walk from our campsite. I was almost ecstatic, having not found an opportunity to climb for the past six months. Some of the other overlanders had also expressed interest in climbing, so we grabbed some gear and set up topropes so that everyone had a chance to get their feet on the rock.
It felt good to back on the rock. We raced the sunset thanks to our late start, but I in my mind, I was already making plans to come back earlier another day.
Our stay coincided with the dreaded US election night. We must be optimists because we assumed the better influences in our country would prevail and broke out a bottle of incredibly good mezcal from Oaxaca to share. The wifi signal at the campsite was a bit crap and Jon, Jenna, Jordan and I sat where it was strongest and tried to stay abreast of the results. By the time you’re reading this, you already know that a violent bigot was voted into office. We watched the beginning of the end of a once great nation and opened another bottle of mezcal, a better mezcal than the night deserved. To hell with it, though, the election results greatly increased our chances for staying in Mexico for a long time to come. There will be more great mezcales ahead.
We awoke with hangovers of both biological and psychological origin. We had no plans for the day, which was just as well, because sometime around noon, a 6.5 meter RV pulled into the campsite, disgorging a tumbling maelstrom of arms, legs and laughter. Six and four-year olds shouted our names and leapt full-throttle into our arms, laughing like only children and the truly mad are able. The moroccans had arrived.
Fred, Cathy and their children were medicine to our malaise. The kids ran rampant through the campsite, investigating both their new surroundings and our own sleeping quarters. We had spent the first two days in camp doing needed things like laundry and one day doing unplanned things like fixing a car door and replacing gear oil for Jon and Jenna’s front differential and as our time drew short, we felt that despite our mood, we should at least explore the city a little.
The moroccans went into town and we met them in the central plaza. The kids were delirious with laughter for no better reason than spending time with friends. Hilal, in particular, was over the moon to see Jon, his favorite person in the world. We meandered through the central market and up the hill leading to the Iglesia de Guadalupe, which allows a view overlooking much of San Cristobal. We barely managed to keep the kids from being run over no fewer than four times.
The next day, our last full day in the city, Jon and I hit the cliffs one last time. The first cliff had a beehive and a bird’s nest that we could see from the base, but Jon discovered a bonus wasp nest nestled inside a particularly well-placed hand hold. Neither of us proved able to summit the final route on the cliff, which featured an all-points-off-the-wall jump from one hold to the next. I never have a photographer handy for these moments…
After a sufficient dose of coffee the following morning, we pulled out of the camp and made our way to the border. There would be one more stop in Mexico before crossing the border, just to break up the drive. If our tourist visas allowed it, we could easily include many more stops in Mexico.