My first week in San Cirstonal De Las Casas I hardly rode my bike at all. Aside from going in search of local bike shops and mechanics, my bike stayed parked at the hostel. The narrow cobblestone roads were just too difficult and annoying to properly explore the historic city on two wheels. A week off of the bike was a well needed break, but it also ignited my impatience to return to my life of cycling. On the bus ride to San Cristobal from Villahermosa I watched through the window as we passed sensationally beautiful scenery: the kind of untouched natural beauty you only see on hallmark calendars and fundraising postcards for the sierra club. The views from my bus window were so unbelievable, so astounding, so prepossessing, that I actually experienced, perhaps for the first time in my life, the full expression of the English phrase “breath-taking”. On more than one occasion I ceased to perform the bodily function of respiration and momentarily thought to myself, “You have got to be fxxking kidding me. This is unreal sh#t.” My inner dialogue proving to be even more of a poddy-mouth than my external dialogue.
In fact, the landscape of Chiapas was so incredible that I had a hard time describing it in words for this post. It was Hollywood scenery: hobbit land. Lord of the Rings meets Jurassic park. The biodiversity was shaggy and unkept in a way that only exists when lowland tropical jungle meets high elevation mountains. There were so many different varieties of vibrant greens that it made me of what the Emerald City (capital city of the fictional land of oz) might look like after it’s rainy season. The vistas seemed endless: Indigenous villages, picturesque ranches, farmland, gratuitous waterfalls, perfectly placed boulders, cliffs, bluffs, mountains and rolling hills. I felt like I was in a luxurious European passenger train: first class, window seat. Referring to Chiapas as the Mexican alps is perhaps an unfair or unreal comparison, but it may be the best I got.
Seeing endless beauty from the seat of a bus window while wishing I was outdoors experiencing it by bicycle felt like the proverbial “kick in the nuts” (hello vulgar external dialogue!). It was the equivalent of driving through an amusement park, seeing all of your favorite exhilarating rides and games, and each one had a hand-painted sign that read, “Sorry gringo, too dangerous”. For a backpacker-cyclist-camper-adventurer and travel enthusiasts, who had just cycled over 600 miles, it was a miserably soul-crushing experience.
As you can imagine, a week off from bike riding – after nearly 2 months of cycling and camping – felt like a lot! I was enjoying my time in San Cristobal, but it was time to get back on the bike and do some exploring. Despite a large majority of the locals telling me Chiapas was not safe to cycle through, the family I was staying with advised me on day excursions which could be accomplished by pedal power within 50 miles of where I was staying. Caves, underground rivers, waterfalls, hidden indigenous villages, eco parks and countless beautiful views awaited me. And, according to the locals, they were all a reasonable distance in every direction. I just needed to cycle up and into the Chiapaneco mountains which surrounded me. I found a cycling buddy in the hostel who was interested in joining me for a few excursions, I mapped out a week of cycling adventures and went exploring.
Grutas De Mamot:
The first place on my list was Grutas de Mamot, an eco-park located about 10 miles outside of San Cristobal which required cycling straight up the side of a small foothill. This resulted in me having to ascend one steep angular stretch of valley, ultimately placing me an additional 2000 feet higher in elevation. I hadn’t realized that San Cristobal already sits at an impressive 7,200 feet above sea level. Ascending into the surrounding hillside immediately exhausted me and deprived my brain of what remaining oxygen (and nutrients) it had left. Halfway out of the city and ascending the first foothill and I was light-headed, dizzy and severely out of breath. Once I summited the first small mountain, I began cruising through the Chiapas highlands and found myself surrounded by small indigenous villages and the foliage of trees and plant exclusive to that elevation. The surrounding sights were mesmerizing. The air felt crisp, clean, cool and fresh.
I descended the giant hill I had just biked over, my burning muscles feeling instant relief as I picked up speed on the downhill. As you descend a mountain you just fought to summit there is an unbelievable sensation that comes over your body. The burning tension in your muscles relaxes and you instantly feel fast and liberated. It’s exhilarating, like the downward plunge of a rollercoaster. The sensation is feels particularly unique when the road is windy and is framed on one side by an unprotected cliff which promises imminent death if one lost control of the handlebars. Today though, on this mission, I had the continual and painful reminder that each hill I cycled over meant I had to conquer it a second time on the return trip. One thing I did NOT expect about the mountains of Chiapas was…well, that I was in the mountains. Whatever fatiguing kilometers and exhausting elevation I tackled on my way out of town I had to revisit on my return: sweating…swearing…spitting…grunting…pedaling.
Truth be told, I wasn’t quite sure what Grutas De Mamot was before heading in that direction. This was entirely my fault since a brief review of a pocket Spanish dictionary (or internet search) would have easily illuminated the fact that the word “grutas” translated to “caves”. I could have prepared myself for what adventure lie ahead, but did it matter? The suggestion to visit Grutas de Mamot came from Sariano, one of the owners of the hostel. He was a first-rate adventurer and had the social media photos and stories to back it up. I took his advice, strapped on my bike helmet and headed directly into the hills in search of….well, I had no idea what I was looking for other than a sign that hopefully read, “Caves this way!”.
The eco-park Grutas Mamot reminded me of a poorly maintained campground which the locals used for parties and an auxiliary bathroom more often than it was used to enjoy the wonders of nature. The entrance fee was $0.50 and one of the main draws of this nature preserve was a walking path which meandered in and out of multiple caves: one of which had a river flowing directly through it. Sounds kinda cool, right? Sadly, the caves were used as a deposit for empty beer bottles and they smelled like urine – primarily of the human variety. It was nice to be in nature, to go for a hike and to enjoy a bike ride in the hills…but I’m glad the entrance fee was only 50 cents.
I had intended on checking out a second set of caves that afternoon called Arcotete, but the elevation was fatiguing and I knew that anymore hills that I ascended meant I had to tackle them again, head-on, in the opposite direction. The magnificent thing about cycling up and into such high elevation meant that the return trip was nearly all downhill. I threw in the towel that day and decided I’d give it a try again tomorrow. The ride to Grutas de Mamot took me nearly 2 hours of combined cycling and walking in order to arrive at my destination. Returning to San Cristobal took me a swift 20 minutes. It felt fast, effortless and exhilarating. Tomorrow I will visit the caves of Arcotete.
Arcotete:
For this excursion I was joined by an adventure buddy whom I’d met in the hostel. My cycling and trekking companion was Jackie, a talkative indigenous woman from the Yup’ik people of south central Alaska. Jackie proved to be fascinating and educational, being that we were exploring the countryside of a region comprised predominantly of marginalized indigenous folks. Conversations with her were incredibly enlightening. Her perspective on indigenous life and indigenous rights, particularly those concerning woman, was pivotal to my experience in Chiapas.
Arcotete was just slightly farther than the ride I had done the day before. Even though I felt like I was dying the previous day, that challenging ride seemed to acclimate me a bit. Today as I pedaled in the same direction and up to the same elevation I felt strong and competent. Arcotete was NOT easy to get to nor was it easy to find. In order to get there, we traversed a confusing and curvy polygraph of a roads that subdivided multiple indigenous villages. The route eventually dumped us onto a poorly maintained gravel road which contained enough sharp rocks to guarantee a popped tire. It was a STEEP descent and the famous caves we intended to visit were at the bottom of the hill. Luckily, with heavy grips on the handlebars and trigger fingers on the brakes, we slowly descended the unpredictable road, and safely arrived at the bottom.
The caves of Arcotete were cleaner, larger, better maintained and substantially more beautiful than the previous days discovery. They were easy to explore and smelled significantly better than the ones from yesterday. Arcotete also had bluffs to climb, caves to crawl through, adult-size swings to play on, rivers to traverse and many beautiful scenes to take photos of. It had trekking routes, rock climbing spots, BBQ areas and lookout points. Similar to the adventure from the day before, the difficulty of the route to Arcotete was inversely proportional to the easeful return ride. Getting there was slow, hot, sweaty, tiring and arduous. Returning to the city center was an enjoyable, fast and furious cruise. We made it back in time for sunset and to enjoy a well-deserved michelada near one of the many eye-catching hilltop cathedrals.
Conversations with Jackie:
As we biked out of San Cristobal, Jackie explained to me what life was like living in a small remote village in Alaska where she and her family subsisted almost exclusively off of the land. The cool thing about Jackie was that she was very proud of the subsistence hunting and fishing community that she came from. She needed very little prompting to share at great length what life was like in her village where her family lives off of elk, moose, caribou, salmon, seal and some migratory water fowl. In fact, some of her cycling was limited due to a shoulder injury she incurred from dragging a mouse an untold distance through the snow (Badass!). According to Jackie, their primary source of food is salmon and she knew she would be needed home at the beginning of April so her entire Mexico trip was scheduled around when the ice would melt in Alaska and when the salmon would come up river.
Jackie explained, “I am half Okinawan, but I was born and raised Yup’ik. Southeastern Alaska. I live in a village. I don’t even know how to bike, or drive for that matter, in large cities. I’m a village girl. I don’t need to lock my bike up where I am from. I’m pretty much related to everyone in the village. There is very little crime”.
With each pedal stroke charging her up, she continued, “Subsistence hunting and fishing by native Alaskans is always being disputed by sport fisherman and the local government. Our fishing and hunting lands are supposed to be protected, but sport fishermen are always lobbying to re-draw boundaries and territorial lines. Sport fishing and commercial fishing for salmon brings a lot of money into the state.”
Jackie updated me on her life as we both struggled catching our breath, cycling higher into the Chiapas hillside.
“We are always having to fight local government regarding fishing rights,” Jackie said in between heaving breaths as we ascended into higher elevation. “Sport fisherman are always trying to move into our protected waters. What people don’t realize is that we aren’t doing this to put taxidermy fish or animal heads on our walls. We battle the arctic and sometimes risk our lives to feed our families.”
I couldn’t help by make comparisons between Jackie’s experience as an Alaskan native and the manipulation and discrimination suffered by the indigenous of Chiapas. For example in 1971 the Alaska Native Settlement Act was signed by congress which extinguished native land rights and transferred 44 million acres of hunting and fishing land to be held in corporate ownership. Dick move! Similarly in 1991 the Mexican government revised an article in the 1917 Revolutionary Constitution which removed protection of native communal land holdings. Equally a dick move! In both situations the natives unfairly lost protected land for living, farming, fishing and hunting. This was sacred land necessary for survival: both their culture and their way of life. One may now understand more clearly why the indigenous people of Chiapas declared war on the Mexican government in 1994. No revolution was every started (and won) by victimized people being nice.
Jackie went on to explain that it was imperative that she make it back to help with salmon fishing. It’s all “hands on deck”. The whole family works together spending each day everyday netting, cleaning, dehydrating and fermenting. This is what sustains them for the rest of the year. Jackie had many magnificent photos of the entire fish catching and preservation process from previous years.
“So how to you feel about trophy hunting?”, I asked, even though I suspected I already knew the answer to my question.
As you can imagine, Jackie had a very spirited response.
“We hunt and kill these animals as a means of nourishment and survival. Trophy hunter’s primary motivation isn’t food or necessity, it’s for animal parts – heads, hides, claws or, sometimes, the whole animal – for bragging rights. Do you realize how disrespectful that is to mouther nature and the indigenous who rely on those animals for food? “
Here is what I learned:
Trophy hunters use cruel and unsporting methods like baiting and hounding to target native carnivore species like bears, mountain lions and wolves and even shoot animals in captive hunts. Some states even allow gruesome wildlife killing contests that target bobcats, coyotes, foxes and other species. Most of the trophy hunting internationally is done by wealthy North Americans. American trophy hunters pay large sums of money to kill animals overseas and import over 126,000 wildlife trophies per year on average are killed abroad and imported into the US. It’s the domestic sport killing of bears, bobcats, mountain lions, wolves and other domestic wildlife which damages natural ecosystems especially those concerning the indigenous such as Jackie’s family in Alaska. Dick move!
Nuevo Rancho:
Nuevo Rancho was a nature preserve that bordered on an amusement park. It was located about 30 miles outside of the city – about half of which consisted of biking directly up the side of a mountain – most of which I had to walk. There was an entrance fee ($0.50), a separate fee to enter each of the three caves ($1 each) and an additional fee to use the bathroom ($0.50). I was caught off guard by all the additional surcharges, but I was ultimately happy to help fund such a beautiful place…however I have a small bladder, so I spent a fair amount in bathroom fees. Nuevo Rancho consisted of three caves, a deer park, pony rides, a picnic area, food court, indigenous handicrafts shops, opportunities for hiking and three caves which were truly remarkable natural structures! Each was a deep cavernous hallway which allowed you to walk a considerable distance into damp bat-infested caves. They were clean, well maintained and well-illuminated so visitors were able to see the wild rock formations inside. I wandered in and out of the caves and allowed myself to get totally lost in the experience. For a brief moment, my child-like sense of wonder allowed me to imagine I was Indian Jones…the illusory mindset was AWESOME!
It was this illusory mindset that allowed me to imagine what it would have been like to be a child growing up here before the invasion of the Spanish. There are so many beautiful wonders of the natural world in Chiapas. The region really specializes in caves, unique rock formations, turquoise rivers and extremely scenic waterfalls. Often times an entire nature preserve or tourist attraction is created around one or multiple of these natural spectacles. I truly appreciate it when the beauty of nature is federally protected and properly funded in order to keep it pristine. But when an attraction is so incredibly astounding, I can’t help but wonder if it were a once sacred place to the locals. These caves were most likely some of the most incredible natural playgrounds a child could ask for and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they were also hallowed ground to the aboriginal inhabitants: people who have lived there for hundreds, if not thousands of years. I am speaking of the very people who were forced off the land due to false treaties and land re-appropriation, whom now have to pay 10 pesos (and 5 pesos to use the bathroom) in order to visit their sacred space. As I stood in the caves of Rancho Nuevo attempting to wrap my mind around the complexities and beauty of this underground world and place of sanctity, I couldn’t help but think about…church.
Take me to “Church”
I would like to forewarn the reader that I am about to get REAL hippy for a moment. In fact, the following may even sound quite pretentious, but please bear with me. The first time I experienced the sacred and soul-transcending properties of nature I was repelling down a waterfall in Ecuador (Ya see? Just that statement alone makes me sound like a pretentious tree-hugger asshole). The entire experience felt so wildly divine that it struck me that I had never previously come close to any perceived “holy” experience like it in a conventional brick and mortar place of worship: commonly referred to as a “church”. Perhaps what I experienced could be called “communion with the divine”, if you believe in that sort of thing. The event took place in the mountains of Ecuador near the town of Baños, also known as “the gateway to the Amazon”. I was part of a day-long canyoning excursion where, with the help of experienced guides, we slowly made our way from one side of a canyon to another, descending multiple waterfalls and small rivers. It was surreal!
Our adventure group was completely enveloped in a curtain of water-saturated mossy nature. Vines, fuzzy micro-pants, gnarly Amazonian trees, salamanders, tree frogs and fragrant soil: all of it shrouded in mist and dripping with the high vibrational frequency of life-giving water. I recall sitting near the bottom of a 40-foot waterfall. I was perched on an over-sized tree root which naturally created a perfect seat for supporting the human frame. My feet were dangling in the rushing river and water continuously dripped on my head from the huge palm fronds above me. In a state of complete euphoria I whispered out loud, “This is church”. I immediately felt sorry for all of the people Sunday morning cooped up in stifling buildings like temples, synagogues, mosques and tabernacles. I encourage any seeker of truth, any searcher of divine wisdom, to go spend more time in nature. Go camping, and I can almost promise you that you’ll find the god that has been evading you all these years.
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA 
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
For any North American who is reading this and who identifies as a hiker, trekker, climber, camper, fisherman, hunter or general outdoorsman (woman) – anytime you are immersed in nature it is very possibly that you are enjoying time on land that was once considered sacred to one of 574 indigenous tribes (aka Native Americans) which once populated the continent before it was invaded. This awareness is not meant to incite a feeling of guilt; only gratitude and appreciation.
San Juan Chamula:
San Juan Chamula may be one of the most intriguing places I visited in Chiapas and possibly all of Mexico. The town is located about 20 miles away outside of San Cristobal. The cycling was good other than a few hills which required a small amount of walking to get up and over. Nothing we couldn’t handle. Today was my adventure buddy Jackie’s birthday and she joined me on this mission.
San Juan Chamula is an indigenous village that reportedly is autonomous and self-governing. The town is comprised of the Tzotzil population and they exercise authority based on their own unique system of uses and customs. The town is so unique and beautiful that it usually receives a daily influx of tourists, specifically to visit two major attractions: the local cemetery and the cathedral in the central plaza. I was sternly warned of two things by locals before visiting San Juan Chamula: “Make sure you go during the day. It’s safer” and “Don’t take any photos”.
The central cathedral in this peculiar town is quite possibly the most fascinating draw for tourists. Visitors are allowed to go inside, but photos and videos are strictly strictly prohibited. Inside the huge ornate cathedral was other-worldly! It was completely dark other than about 10,000 (this is no exaggeration) candles lit. The floor was covered in pine needles and candle wax. There were no chairs and the devotees were sitting on the ground, singing, chanting, playing traditional flutes and I even witnessed two animal sacrifices. Some people were kneeling, others were lying face down. Votive candle holders were filled with Coca-cola or liquor which were used in healing rituals and spiritual offerings. The air was thick with incense and candle smoke. What I found so deeply fascinating about the church in San Juan Chamula is that what the faithful practice is a blend of Mayan ritual and Christianity. They call their faith “traditional catholic” however what they practice bears little resemblance to anything one might consider Vatican-approved.
If you’re wondering why locals advise against taking photos when visiting this charming and fascinating place, allow me to explain. The native people are attractive. They have an auburn mahogany skin, they wear beautiful traditional clothing and their children are impossibly adorable. Many tourists who visit wants to snap hundreds of photos of everyone they see. As you can imagine this turns the members of their family and community, into a human zoo, which brings up the serious topic of socially conscious and responsible tourism. When visiting another country, I encourage any traveler to be sensitive to the comfort level of the locals and indigenous, especially regarding taking photos. It’s important to ask before you aim your camera and NEVER take photos of children without the permission of their parents. If you see someone interesting and exotic looking and you want to snap a photo, remember that they are a human being and not a wild animal. Ask permission! You may be the 35th gringo that day to have the wild idea to take a photo of them for your Instagram post.
After our birthday bike ride that day to San Juan Chamula, Jackie and I returned to San Cristobal and joined some friends from the hostel for some excellent live music.
El Chiflón:
Chiapas is known for some incredibly beautiful waterfalls. I tried to find out exactly how many waterfalls exist in the state of Chiapas and it was hard to get an exact number (even with the help of google). Part of the reason for this is because many of the larger more impressive waterfalls consist of multiple smaller waterfalls as part of their natural structure. The one we visited here, El Chiflón for example, consists of five waterfalls which meander through and around a remarkably turquoise river. The colors are so vibrant, they appear fake.
Jackie and I did not cycle to El Chiflón because it is located 101 mountainous kilometers south of San Cristobal, near the Guatemala border. It would have easily taken us 3-4 days of pedaling and my ultimate plan was to head north towards Puebla. Jackie and I booked a day tour which included a visit to the waterfalls of El Chiflón and the Lagos de Montebello on the Guatemalan border. For any nature lover or hiking enthusiasts, El Chiflón is a must visit! It consists of a beautiful hike which follows the electric Rio San Vincent which happens to be one of the mightiest rivers in Chiapas. The trail continues on to a series of vibrant pools of intensely turquoise water, ending at the largest and most impressive waterfall of them all, standing at 120 meters.
Lagos de Montebello:
The series of lakes at the Mexico/Guatemala border are called Lagos de Montebello which translates to “beautiful mountain lakes”. The description did not disappoint. The elevation was high, the scenery beautiful, the air was cool and the water was CHILLY. At one of the lakes we rented balsa wood rafts and paddled around one of the most scenic areas. Our exploration brought us to a jungle cenote and to a remote island which hosted an orchid plant nursery and a 45-foot diving point, which I neglected to throw myself off of. Usually I love these kinds of fear-inducing plunges, but on this particular day I declined to jump into the frigid mountain water. After docking our balsa raft we went shopping for coffee and crafts in Guatemala. Perhaps this was the one and only time I was ever allowed to enter a country without requiring my passport stamped or being diligently searched by customs agents.
Sumidero Canyon and Chiapas De Curso
An hour (by bus or car) outside of San Cristobal is an enormous canyon which is part of Parque Nacional Cañon del Sumidero, a national park covering 50,000 acres. Allegedly this canyon is 35 million years old and was formed by the Grijalva River carving through the landscape. The tallest edges of the canyon are 1.6 miles high which makes you feel remarkably small and insignificant while craning your neck to try and look straight up. The ride through the canyon was fast and fun and the scenery was marvelous. Alligators, monkey’s and iguanas could all be seen from the safety of the boat. Unlike other travel experiences I have had, the magnitude and beauty of the canyon was all around me, causing me to spin and twist in efforts to unsuccessfully view it all at the same time. 360 degrees of unbelievable jaw dropping scenery. I began snapping as many photos and videos as possible, but when I reviewed them on my phone, none of them looked as impressive as what I was witnessing in person.
Then something occurred to me as I put my camera away and fell into a defeated slouch. So often during my travels I desperately try to hold on to experiences: may it be a colorful sunset, an exotic animal or a memorable fiesta. I want to share it on social media, create a short film about it or just remember it vividly when I am old and forgetful. I want to capture the smile it gave me or the caliber of laughter that I experienced. I want to bottle those positive feelings, put them in an air-tight jar and keep them on hand the next time something shitty happens. What occurred to me in that canyon was that I just keep hopelessly trying to cling to something that needs to be observed and enjoyed, but then let go. There is so much magic in the world, but trying to hang on to it is futile. It’s an act of desperation and eventually suffocation. All we can really do is stay present and allow it to move through us like an electrical current, then release it. The practice of letting-go and surrender will ultimately allow more room for beautiful experiences to enter us.
So, I put my camera away, sat back and truly enjoyed the rest of the tour. On my way back to San Cristobal I stopped in a quaint colonial pueblo called Chiapas De Curso. The small town is magically beautiful with old colonial architecture, a historic central plaza and a pervasive indigenous population. It is known as the gateway to the majestic Sumidero Canyon which I just visited. What I loved most about wandering around this town was the continual sound of marimbas in the background from local musicians performing in the main square. I took the advice of locals who said I MUST try pozol, a local “refreshing” beverage made of corn and cacao.
I slurped down a huge bowl of pozol, before boarding my bus back to San Cristobal. The soupy drink was served to me by an indigenous woman who scooped the brown liquid out of a huge bucket and served it to me in a hollow gourd. I questioned the hygienic integrity of the whole experience, but in the name of table fellowship and cultural humility, I finished every last sip of the chalky libation. Nausea, profuse sweating and fatigue ensued almost instantly. Fortunately, I made it back to my hostel just in time to sprint to the bathroom and get violently ill. I then proceeded to spend the next 30 hours sick in bed with intermittent episodes of vicious and terrifying travelers’ sickness.
“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.” -Anthony Bourdain