Entering Guatemala, Musings from a Chicken Bus

Entering Guatemala

I’m leaving Comitan, Mexico for the Guatemalan border on a “combi” (a local minivan). It is suppose to hold eleven, maybe twelve people. After a couple of stops, they’ve loaded sixteen people, everyone carrying bags, packages, and one backpack (mine). I’ve learned to arrive early before departure to assure getting the seat of my choice. I jump in the front window seat next to the driver. In one of the stops, we pick up a woman who ends up seating on the console between me and the driver.

Road from Comitan to Guatemalan border

I start a conversation with Julio, the combi driver. He is in his late thirties, married, with three children. A few years ago he worked in Michigan (USA), at a restaurant when he was single. He found it too cold and returned to Guatemala to get married. He would like to return to work and live in the US, and raise his family there. He wants to do it legally, but says there’s a thirteen year waiting list to get the proper documents. Besides, he lacks the funds to make the move. He’s very interested in my description of California, its mild climate, large Spanish speaking Latino population, and diversity of available employment, not just restaurant work.

We stop for Maria, carrying bundles of corn, bean seed and plants, who seats next to me. She is in her forties and going to her “ranchito” (small subsistence farm), outside the border town of Ciudad Cuauhtemoc. Ten years ago she visited her sister in Los Angeles, California. Her experience was positive and she would like to go back, but can’t afford it. Her impression was, “People from the United States are very intelligent, invent advanced technology. The country is modern and clean. I like that.”

Corn fields from subsistence farms

She didn’t have the opportunity to attend school beyond the third grade. Her parents “pulled her out of school to help raise her brothers and sisters, and help on the farm.” She said, “that was our practice back then. We were poor, with no job opportunities. We helped our family in order to survive.” I asked her, since she’s been to the US, what does “America” mean to you? She answered, “I’m not educated. I don’t exactly know. I guess it represents people from the United States. If I had money, I would go back and try to find work. I liked it there.”

I asked about the ranchito. She said years ago the Mexican government divided land and gave parcels to poor people already living on the property. They had to pay the fees for processing the documents and registering as the new owners. These fees were a hardship for most of the people receiving the land. She went on to say, “We grow corn, beans, squash, and chile. We eat and survive on what we grow.”

In one hour and fifteen minutes I arrived in Ciudad Cuauhtemoc, the border town and last stop in Mexico, after an enjoyable ride sharing experiences with local people. I waited in line fifteen minutes at Mexican immigration. There was a tour bus full of twenty (and some) year olds from The Netherlands who were also exiting Mexico. They all seemed to have nose and eye brow piercings, with many having tattoos. They were dressed in unkept clothes, and both men and women sporting dirty long hair. They didn’t speak Spanish and were impatient with the Mexican official. They looked hungover, bored, and disagreeable. Then it was my turn with Mexican immigration.

I greeted the immigration official in Spanish with “Buenos dias” (good morning), a bright smile, and asked how he was going. I also said I was enchanted with the beauty of the natural sites, people, and food in his country. He responded with a good morning, a thank you for the compliment. I had no problems. He stamped my passport with the exit stamp. He said he was glad I enjoyed his country, to please come back for another visit, and “have a safe journey”. It took two minutes and I’m on my way to Guatemala.

I jumped into a taxi for the three mile ride to the Guatemalan entry point. I told the driver to beat the tour bus with the Dutch young people, so I can get in front of them when going through immigration. He did. I was the first person at Guatemalan immigration. I was there less than five minutes. No visa fee, only an entry stamp on my passport. The officials were friendly, courteous, and impressed with my Spanish speaking abilities, though they said I had an accent. They wished me “safe travels and enjoy Guatemala.”

At the recommendation of an elderly Guatemalan gentleman, I hopped on a motorized tricycle to take me to the bus terminal in La Mesilla, Guatemala. I needed to catch a bus to arrive in Quetzaltenago (known in Mayan as Xela) before dark. The driver dropped me off in front of the bus leaving for Xela in five minutes. It was a “chicken bus” - an aging, converted US school bus elaborately painted and decorated. They are called chicken buses because the local population use them to transport chickens, fruits, vegetables, textiles, pots, any other products that are bought and sold at open air indigenous “markets”. They’re all over Guatemala, inexpensive and are the main form of transportation for the average Guatemalan. I paid about seven dollars for the five hour trip to Xela. It made many stops, sat three to a seat, and was fully loaded, with about a dozen people standing in the aisle when we arrived in Xela.

Chicken buses lining up for passengers

Passengers looking for the right bus

Workers loading and unloading buses

There's my bus, leaving in five minutes

Musings from a Chicken Bus

(Special note from publisher: The following is a stream of consciousness statement written while riding on a chicken bus to Xela, Guatemala. By design they’re thoughts captured in real time without concern with punctuation, with the intention of illustrating feelings of raw emotion and unfiltered experience.)

Inside the chicken bus as the journey begins

Our destination is beyond the banana trees and over those mountains

Terraced fields of corn

Nothing like being the only gringo on a chicken bus, going 60 miles per hour, around windy curves, hard rain hitting the windshield, wipers barely working, clearing only the right side of the driver’s window, he leaning over to the right cleared area to see, all windows fogging up, driver’s assistant periodically wiping a twelve inch square spot for the driver to view the road and oncoming traffic, driver’s face, head, body completely focused on driving, shifting gears with his right hand, handling curves with his left hand, right foot constantly moving from brake to gas pedal, loud Spanish lamenting romantic love songs, smell of human sweat, burning firewood, woman’s perfume, chewing gum, stale milk breath of baby in the front seat, wet pine trees, attempting to pass a semi-truck on a two lane, blind curve, when another bus comes directly at us from the opposite direction, all other sounds drowned out by loud blowing horns from both chicken buses and the semi, to realize you’re on an adventure of a lifetime, possibly the last adventure if we don’t make it pass the semi-truck, the truck we’re passing pulls as far to the right without going over the edge of the mountain, the oncoming bus swerves to the left hugging, possibly scraping the side of the mountain, as we tread the middle, riding the fading double yellow line, cold breeze blowing, I’m sweating profusely, driver and his assistant laughing, apparently jubilant after cheating death, all in a day’s work for them for low wages, for me my hearts pounding, legs and knees hurting from hitting the front seat, smelling hot burning asbestos from brake pads, arms sore from contractions of holding as tightly as possible thinking I don’t want to be thrown from the bus in case we crash, there is no where I’d rather be right now then on this bus, if my life is in the balance, I know I’m still living, and cherishing every second of it, if I don’t make it, and someone finds these notes, have no regrets, sadness, or tears for Manny de, I went with eyes wide open, looking straight ahead, feeling gusto, excitement, with a wide smile at death’s approach, and lusting for more, thank you God and Goddess for the passionate life you’ve let me experience, ears popping as bus comes to a rolling stop, does not stop, bus assistant yells for passengers waiting in the rain to “hurry up”, “hurry up”, they run along side of the bus, stepping in mud and rain puddles, hop on from a running start, bus grinds into second or third gear, we’re at fifty miles an hour within seconds, move over Manny three to a seat, six across, fifteen people in the aisle with babies, packages, bundles, looking out the window at steep mountain sides planted with corn, beans, coffee, bananas, indigenous farmers working the terraced mountain, “Dios Es Amor” (God Is Love) written on the inside front of the bus, over the driver’s head, and on a Mayan woman’s blue navy watch cap, except for the watch cap, she’s dressed in traditional indigenous attire, skirt with vertical purple lines, black and blue stylized designs of triangles, dots and flowers, and a dark blue blouse with red roses along the neck line, other Mayan people are actually sleeping on this wild bus ride, music changes to a fast salsa, with horns blowing, dancing beat encouraging driver to keep the gas pedal to the floor, getting the bus back to top speed, most people look patient, unconcerned, accepting the arduous nature of the journey, they’ve done it before, will do it again tomorrow, and the next day, until death finally catches up with them. This is the commuting life for working people in Guatemala.

We made it to the halfway point of Huehuetenango

Manny de after writing his musings on the bus and

resting at "Huehue"

Comitan, Exiting Mexico

On The Way To Comitan

It’s a three and a half hour bus ride from Tuxtla to Comitan. Along the way there are numerous military check points staffed by the Mexican “Policia Federal”. The bus is passed by scores of army trucks full of soldiers patrolling the highway as we approach San Cristobal. They are dressed in green military fatigues with shiny new assault rifles swung over their shoulders. These areas are a Zapatista stronghold. The Zapatista are a rural indigenous group who in January 1994 declared war against the “Mexican State”. They are seeking indigenous control over their land and local resources. Armed clashes are temporarily suspended. Currently there is a tense stalemate between the group and the Mexican government. Periodically, I observe soldiers stop cars and trucks, pull the Mayan drivers and passengers out, and interrogate them, as other soldiers search their vehicles.

Zapatista supporters

The landscape is rolling hills and steep mountains covered with a dense forest of pine trees, thick jungle shrubs and overgrown grasses. There are occasional clusters of homes with corrugated tin and tile roofs. They look like basic dwellings, many in need of a fresh coat of paint. I see most of these homes have outhouses for toilets. Mayan people are walking with machetes on the side of the road. They are bent over and look tired, probably from laboring all day in the fields or clearing jungle.  They look downward to where they’re stepping to avoid rain and mud puddles. It’s lightly raining and I smell the sweet odor of pine trees, smoke from burning pinewood, wet mud, and bus exhaust. 

Zapatista country

Land and resources in dispute

Homes in the rural countryside

Modest dwellings

Rich productive farmland worth fighting for?

I meet Jairo on the bus, sitting on the seat next to me. He is a college student from Comitan and studies business administration in Tuxtla. He is going home for a short vacation during a break from classes. He’s twenty years old, a couple of inches shorter than me, light skin color, handsome with curly medium length light brown hair. He looks very different from the Mayan features shared by most of the people on the bus. He’s dressed in blue jeans and a maroon pullover cotton shirt. He enjoys his studies and is doing business math homework as we travel. 

When Jairo finishes his assignments, I strike up a conversation with him. I asked him what he thinks about the Zapatista. Before he answers, he looks over his shoulder at the other passengers on the bus. He lowers his voice. He talks softly and tells me, “I don’t want to talk about the Zapatista. They’re all corrupt. They are just after what is best for themselves. I don’t vote, never will. They’re all alike. All politicians, leaders, and so called revolutionaries are corrupt. There will always be corruption in Mexico. It will never change.” He says he would like to go to the United States and work, but would have to do it illegally, and it’s very dangerous. He’s seen on television abuses and death that immigrants face when crossing illegally into the United States. After his studies, he hopes to get a job in a big city like Tuxtla with an established company. Maybe a US company because “they pay better and usually have superior working conditions.” 

Will it ever be distributed equitably, or 

"They're all corrupt . . . It will never change."

Jairo asks if I have a hotel reservation or know my way around Comitan. I tell him I’ve never been there, don’t have a reservation, and am hoping to find an inexpensive hotel for the night. He tells me that currently schools are on a brief vacation and many people are traveling. It may be difficult to get a hotel room and offers his parent’s couch for the night, if I’m unable to find a room. He says at least he can help me negotiate my way to the central plaza area where the hotels are located. I thank him and take him up on his offer.

When we arrive in Comitan, Jairo’s girlfriend is waiting for him in the bus station with a loving embrace and a passionate kiss. I feel a little awkward and embarrassed with this public show of affection. When we go outside the bus station, the girlfriend’s mother, father, and older sister are waiting. They all have strong facial and physical Mayan characteristics. They do not seem happy to see Jairo. I sense tension between Jairo and the young woman’s family. I ask Jairo about this observation and if it’s on my account. He laughs and says no, that he’s been “living” with his girlfriend for a couple of years, is not married to her, and that “there’s family problems that he can’t discuss”. He insists on escorting me to the central plaza and help me find a hotel room. Both he and his girlfriend lead the way walking, and I follow. The rest of the family goes in the other direction.

We walked for about twenty minutes. It was a longer walk then I wanted to take. When I asked how much longer and should we take a taxi, Jairo insists that the hotels are close by, “look see the yellow church over there on the hill, that’s where the plaza and the hotels are located”. With a thirty pound backpack and another six to eight pounds in my messenger bag, it taxed me. If alone, I would have taken a taxi. I don’t want to insult or seem like an ungrateful guest. If there are no rooms available, I want to at least have the option of sleeping on Jairo’s couch. After another fifteen minutes hiking uphill, we arrive at the Hotel Delfin (less than $28 dollars a night), situated on the side of the central plaza. The room is clean, safe, with a wireless internet connection. I’m not carrying the backpack another step. I take the room. I thank Jairo and his girlfriend for their help. We exchange e-mail addresses, say good-bye, and they leave holding hands. After removing the backpack, I collapse on the bed fully clothed.

We're in the plaza of Comitan, I can see the yellow church

Following a brief siesta I’m refreshed and ready for a meal. It’s starting to rain heavily with large raindrops coming down in waves, so I hurry across the plaza to the “Pollos y Antojitos del Centro” restaurant. Since chicken (pollos) is in the name, I order half of a roasted chicken, served with beans, rice, a mild red salsa, and homemade, thick corn tortillas. It is tasty and the salsa adds just enough spice to remind me we’re in Mexico. The delicious tortillas are fresh, warm, hearty, and make me think of my mother’s homemade tortillas I grew up eating in New Mexico.

Two sides of the restaurant are open to the street and I watch people coming and going. Most people look Mayan. They’re under or around five feet tall. To me they look like miniature people. Proportioned correctly, compared to me, but in a smaller package, very stocky, built with big, strong muscles. Many have flat, broad noses. A few posses long, eagle like noses. Most have dark skin, large calf muscles, short limbs, broad shoulders, and both men and women have wide chests.

View from restaurant with two open sides to let the public look in

and me look out at life in Comitan

When I finish my meal, a Mayan looking man of about thirty years old comes in with his eight year old daughter. He’s hold her hand and in his other hand has a plastic grocery bag with a bottle of orange soda sticking out. It looks like they just came from a super mercado (grocery store). He orders a whole roasted chicken to go. As he’s waiting he notices me looking at him. I look different from everyone else and stand out because of my height. He comes over to my table, asks where I’m from and welcomes me to Comitan. He wishes me an enjoyable visit and says he’s happy I’m visiting his town. With a dignified, noble attitude he proclaims, “I’m Mayan”. I respond with a “gracias” (thank you). He smiles, begs his pardon, pays for and picks up his chicken, and off he and daughter go. He wasn’t trying to sell me anything or ask me for any favors or money. He just wanted to welcome me to his town that he obviously is proud of.

There’s a television on in the restaurant showing a Mexican telenovela (soap opera). Everyone in the restaurant is mesmerized by the show. Even the workers are watching with avid interest. People (men, women, children) walking by the restaurant, stop, are captivated by the show, watch a while until a commercial comes on, then move away. The story is about infidelity, a presumed dead male spouse who miraculous returns from being lost and missing, and questions of child paternity. Like most “soaps” it’s melodramatic, over acted with exaggerated facial and body expressions. Mexicans in Comitan love and enjoy this stuff. While everyone around me is Mayan looking, all the actors on the show are light skin, some with blond hair, attractive facial and body features by US standards. They look very different from the people in the restaurant. The show features modern furniture, new American cars, modern homes, and fashionable clothes. This must all be very foreign to the residents of Comitan. But, they just can’t turn away.

The rain is still coming down, but not as heavy as before. There’s a cold breeze, the first since leaving Creel in the Sierra Madre Mountains. I’m a little cold. I’m going to run back to the hotel, after I leave the waitress a big tip. The dinner with it’s enormous portions and tasty food, including a freshly squeezed orange juice only costs me five dollars. I leave her a 50% tip ($2.50). A large smile comes across her face. She graciously thanks me, calls me a “cultured gentleman”. Given the inexpensive fulfilling meal, inviting atmosphere, her kindness, I feel I received the better deal. I’m off on a run through the rain.

The next morning I return and have a huevos rancheros for breakfast -- excellent. I walk around the plaza before getting ready to catch a local “collectivo’ (mini-van) to the Guatemala border. The colonial plaza is shady, quiet, and well maintained. I see no trash on the walkways. On one side there are vendor booths selling locally made handicrafts like jewelry, reproduction Mayan artifacts made of stone, plaster, wood, and handwoven textiles and garments. A marimba band composed of elderly men are setting up to play in front of the church. A very relaxing, safe place. I’ll have to come back and spend more time in Comitan.

Huevos rancheros: inexpensive, wonderful flavors,

highly recommended

Comitan central plaza

Next morning waking up in a quite little town

Very clean and safe

Colorful and welcoming

Well maintained Comitan

How Pigeons Treat Each Other 

(US & Mexico relations)

Today is my last day in Mexico. Later this morning I cross the border into Guatemala to continue on my quest south to the end of the Americas. Yesterday at the Plaza Central in Tuxtla Gutierrez, I observed a flock of pigeons eating crumbs left by people passing by. Two birds stood out from the flock because of their behavior towards each other.

One pigeon looked robust, oversized with full clean feathers, large breast, and standing inches above others in the flock. He appeared to be the strongest, certainly the powerful leader. He strutted his gray chest and underbelly on long red legs, charcoal color on his head and back, with iridescent green, pink, and streaks of white feathers. He looked well feed, healthy, confident, and in command.

The second bird was undersized, compared to the general population. Next to the leader pigeon, it was significantly smaller. In the middle of its back it was missing plumage, and a three inch hole of raw skin was exposed and was oozing light red blood. It’s remaining feathers were a dull gray color, with ragged edges. It looked hungry, even though there were plenty of crumbs on the cobble stone walkway. I was eating a “pina empananda” (flaky crust pineapple turnover), and feeling sorry for the bird, tossed a piece of the crust for it to eat. 

Immediately, the leader bird skipped over and peaked the smaller bird on its open wound on its back. It chased the littler bird away from the crumb. The bigger bird snagged the piece of crust and devoured it. The smaller pigeon chirped in distress, missed the meal, and look to me for help. I attempted to shoo away the “super bird” to no avail. It was not afraid of me. It was confident in its power, authority, and place in the world. He went back to peaking on the smaller bird. The small pigeon ran away, not flew away, with the bigger bird chasing it and peaking its wound. I lost sight of the two and their struggles, knowing that there is no changing their behavior.

I was left sad, a little angry, and disappointed. Of course this is the state of the natural world. No subjective judgements or illusions that external intervention could change the dynamics of the struggle of existence, only adherence to genetic memory past from generation to generation. These birds are of the same species. They are of the same family, only one is strong, the other weak. They can’t change their predicament, positions, their preprogrammed, instinctual responses. 

Will the US and Mexico ever change their past and current relationship? It’s dynamics? Is peaking and being peaked always going to characterize their interactions? Can human populations and societies move beyond following the nonjudgmental natural world’s example? Is a superpower inevitably going to demand subordination, fear, and adherence to its rule from the rest of the flock? Only time will tell, and time is running short.

I hear the swoop of pigeons above and look up as the sky darkens from the flock flying overhead, blocking out the sunlight . . . . 

Exploring Rio Grijalva, Sumidero Canyon, & Chiapa de Corzo

Rio Grijalva and Sumidero Canyon

I board a “collectivo” minibus for a twenty minute ride to Chiapa de Corzo (10 pesos, less than $1.00), in order to hop on a 15 person outboard motorized boat down the Rio Grijalva, and through the Sumidero Canyon. The sun is out and it’s starting to heat up. I’ve already soaked my shirt in sweat. The collectivo driver is helpful. He tells me when to get off for my stop, how and where to buy the ticket to the canyon, and where to catch the return transport. I follow his instructions.

Bridge over Rio Grijalva connecting Tuxtla to Chiapa de Corzo 

After arriving in Chiapa, I purchase a ticket for 160 pesos (about $16.00) and begin the short walk down to the river front to catch the boat launch. On my way I pass vendors selling an assortment of locally made goods. I’m interested in Mexico’s version of a natural fiber Panama hat. The first vendor quotes a price of 360 pesos (about $36.00). I ask for a discount, and he says that is the discounted price and lowest he’ll go. A block down the street, I ask another vendor selling the same hat, and he quotes 550 pesos ($55.00). I don’t ask about a discount, and decide to wait until I get to Panama and buy the hat there. Panama hats are made in Ecuador, but were sold in Panama in the 19th century to pioneers and settlers traveling from the east coast of the United States, through Panama, to California during the gold rush.

Dense forested high steep walls, sheer cliffs, and narrow passages squeezing the Rio Grijalva characterize the Sumidero Canyon. During the 16th century Mayan warriors after defeated by the Spanish conquistadors threw themselves off the cliffs to their demise, preferring death over enslavement by the conquerors. As you look up at the windy cliff edges you see leaves, tree branches, and foliage debris falling into the river, and can easily image Mayan fighting men and women jumping to the eternal afterlife. The river has witnessed humanities struggle against the elements, hostility and cruelty among tribes, and nature’s threats to survival. Cruising on the river through the canyon you feel tremendous energy and see spectacular vistas. It is natures beauty and frightening awesomeness at the same time.

Rio Grijalva 

Entrance to Sumidero Canyon

Powerful, high water volume Rio Grijalva squeezed through the Canyon

Mayan warriors jumped to their death from the high cliffs

(note the size of the motor boat in the water under the cliffs) 

Juan de Grijalva, a 16th century Spanish explorer discovered, or renamed, the river during his exploration of the Gulf of Mexico. He is credited with being the first European to set foot on mainland North America, and hearing about the great Aztec civilization and its wealth. He reported back to the governor of Cuba about his discoveries. The governor quickly organized an expedition of conquest under Hernando Cortez and the overthrow of the Aztec empire begins. I claim Juan de Grijalva as a distant relative, since all Grijalvas by definition must be related. While de Grijalva never traveled to the headwaters in Suimdero Canyon, which begins in Chiapas, I’m continuing his explorations by journeying to where the Rio Grijalva starts its long voyage to the Gulf. I trace the genesis of my exploration urges to this early adventurer. Although I do not want to meet the same ends as Juan de Grijalva. He was violently killed, the destiny of most Spanish explorers and conquistadors, in Honduras by other Spanish conquistadors in their struggle and competition to be the ultimate authority in the New World. I’ll travel to Honduras to the area of his death to do my own fact finding. I’ll let readers know the results.

Rio Grijalva seems so calm and peaceful. I see no one swimming and enjoying the warm water and I wonder why. Until we go around a curve in the canyon and see a fifteen foot crocodile sunning itself on the beach. As we approach the prehistoric creature, it opens its mouth and invites us to get closer. The bumps on its back look like hardened armor. The prominent sharp teeth and powerful jaw are massive. It looked hungry. No, I don’t think I’ll take a dip in the river of my namesake. If there’s one “croc” there’s others swimming underwater waiting to feast on human flesh and bones. I see flocks of white herons over head, monkeys in the trees, brown ducks in the water, and gray pelicans diving into the river for food. There’s plenty for the croc to eat and I see how it’s reached its enormous size. Birds of prey, brown and gray hawks, circle our boat looking for something edible. There are black, blue, and orange dragonflies skipping in the waves a few feet over the river. Many variety of yellow, orange, white, and green butterflies are doing their mating dance by the shore. This is a magnificent display of wild natures flora and fauna. I’m encouraged that a place like this still exists and I can witness it from the comfort of the speed boat. I stand in the boat to take a photo and almost fall in. I’ve got to remember this isn’t Disney Land, nor animated creatures. The croc is looking my way, so I snap two photos, quickly sit down, and won’t do that again. 

If there's one, there has to be more swimming underwater

Just a little closer Manny de, I love "American" cuisine

We continue down the river through the canyon. We see lush vegetation, a series of waterfalls, and other boats taking the tour. Over the horizon dark clouds are forming. It’s the rainy season and the area usually gets rain in the early afternoon. We reach a dam, which is the turning point. There’s a restaurant and we get out of the boat to buy food and refreshments. After a fifteen minute stop, we start the trip back to the docks at Chiapa de Corzo. On our return it starts to rain. The boat operator speeds up the launch and the breeze on my wet skin and clothes gives me goose bumps and a slight chill. The croc is no longer on the shore where we saw it before. It’s hunting in the water. I don’t stand to take anymore photos.

Waterfall: our boat also went under the cool water

 It's a long way down, let's get closer

Let's take a cool shower on this hot, humid morning

Taking a break at the dam before returning to the loading docks

(note the launch in the background, similar to the one we rode)

Looks like rain is coming

We arrive back at the loading docks and I’m hungry. I’m blaming the croc for stimulating my hunger with its hungry looks. I eat at a restaurant along the riverfront called “Bahias Del Grijalva”. I enjoy a rich, tomato broth, spicy chile stew of shrimp served with rice and crackers. It’s delicious, tangy and hot, though a little too salty for my taste. They love their salt in Mexico. There’s a marimba band playing in the background, in competition with a soccer game on television with the volume turned loud enough to almost drown out the band. A table of Mexican tourist are sitting next to me attempting to hold a conversation over the noise of the band and soccer game. A joke is told and everyone laughs and giggles with gusto. The atmosphere is right. The food is satisfying. A great end to my adventure on the Rio Grijalva.

Spicy shrimp with rice

Great food at Bahias Del Grijalva restaurant

And great atmosphere

Chiapa de Corzo

Chiapa is a small town on the bluffs overlooking the Rio Grijalva. There’s an ancient Spanish colonial water fountain in the center of the plaza. The mood is tranquil and slow paced. There are vendors selling wares to the people coming to take a trip through the Sumidero Canyon. No hard sell. You ask a price, negotiate, and buy if you want. The vendors do not pursue you. There is more of a colonial atmosphere, with cobbled stone roadways, gardens, and arcades bordering the plaza than Tuxtla. The church is surround by orange blowing trees and I ask a vendor selling tacos and tortas if she knows the name of the tree. She calls it a “flamboyan”, and agrees that it’s striking and very beautiful. 

Trees with orange blooms surround the town of Chiapa de Corzo

Cobbled stone roadways of Chiapa

Shop under colonial arcades

Sixteenth century Spanish water fountain in the center of town

Chiapa de Corzo is a quaint little town and I enjoy spending the afternoon relaxing and taking in the sites. The Spanish being spoken sounds different from that of Northern Mexico. It’s pronounced with clicks and accent on the end of words, and the cadence is slower. I hear and understand every word. 

The rain is over. The sun is high in the sky and it immediately becomes humid. It’s time to return to Tuxtla to prepare to travel to the Guatemalan border tomorrow. I need to plan carefully. Given my experience crossing the Mexican border, I am nervous about crossing another international border. I want to make sure I’m prepared. This time I’m keeping my new camera in my pocket.

On the way back to Tuxtla on the minibus, I hear a loud thumping noise in the right rear tires. The driver pulls over. There’s a milk carton size rock stuck between the dual mounted tires. Probably one of the cobblestones from the roadway in Chiapa. He attempts to dislodge it, while we wait in the hot, humid bus. After ten or fifteen minutes of working on the problem, he calls for help on his cell phone. He tells everyone to get off the bus, refunds five pesos from the ten we paid, and tells us that there will be another bus coming in the next fifteen minutes. There’s no shade, so we wait in the sun. In about fifteen minutes another minibus comes by and stops to pick us up. The driver of the disabled bus is still attempting to dislodge the rock using a bigger rock he found on the roadway. All in a days work for him.

Never did get the rock out from between the tires

When I return to Hotel San Marcos in Tuxtla ($29 dollars a night, includes free internet access), I ask Rafael the desk clerk if he knows the bus schedule to the Guatemalan border. He says no problem and immediately looks up on the internet information on buses going to Comitan and Ciudad Cuauhtemoc. Unsure how accurate the data is, he makes a series of phone calls to two different bus lines (ADO and OCC) to get current departure times, cost of tickets, and to see if any seats are still available. He takes the time to do some scenario modeling to determine what would work best, to accommodate my desire to not travel at night through Guatemala. He agrees that travel after dark through Guatemala, especially the border area, is unsafe. 

He helps me develop a couple of options. We settle on me traveling to Comitan, Mexico tomorrow morning, staying the night, and from there it’s one and a half hours to the Guatemalan border. I would cross into Guatemala early the next morning and than five hours to Quetzaltenago. I should be able to complete my trip before dark. I appreciate that he went out of his way to formulate a plan with accurate, up to date information, that limits unsafe risks, is affordable, and creates reasonable assumptions on what I should expect. I’m in his debt and tell him so. He thanks me and then starts a conversation about California and my life back in the United States. He’s genuinely interested in me, in my safety, and that I have an enjoyable, safe journey. 

I’m delighted I stayed in Tuxtla. I found the local culture and values enriching, and I’m satisfied that I’ve seen a part of Mexico that is reserved for the few foreign travelers who venture this way. I have a light dinner of three chicken tacos in the restaurant where I’ve been enjoying the huevos rancheros. I go to bed early, confident that I have a solid plan of action for crossing the border into Guatemala. Tomorrow is my last full day in Mexico, and it’s time to experience another country, another culture, another adventure. Get your passport ready, secure the locks on your backpack, stow some purified drinking water and light snacks, tomorrow we are back on the road heading south to the edge of the Americas -- next stop Guatemala, land of the living Mayas.