Life in Chiapas, Part 1

[Sorry for the two-day delay, but the blog is finally back. I beg a sore neck and the busyness of settling into a new place. Thanks for all the demands I resume (...Dad). Glad I can finally fulfill them. I've got a bit of a backlog of travel writing to do, so for now I'll post about twice a week. As I said before, look for more writing by searching my name at EverywhereMag.com. Best.]

I arrived in San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas on Tuesday before the sun. It showed up 45 minutes later, turning the black sky to indigo, then deep sea, then Elvis Presley suede shoe, before settling into a washed jean. I saw it all from a bench in el parque, San Cristóbal’s main square, waiting among the trilling and gurgling birds for the city to awaken.

I am staying in a brown-gated house a few blocks down from my new school, La Casa en El Arbol, The House in The Tree, or better still, the Tree House (and yes, there is a tree house, though no, I haven’t ascended). The double metal doors of my spacious if bare room open onto the courtyard-cum-open-air-garage of my Mexican family’s main house. I suspect I’m living in what was once a storage room.

My first trip of the day is, no different than in the States, to the bathroom. I step into the hallway that opens just past my doorway, then duck, literally, into the bathroom. The toilet is crowded against the metal door—all the doors in the house are metal, which demands careful maneuvering in the later hours. Once I’ve clanged through the doorway, I turn around and go back out, since if I want a hot shower, I’ve got to turn on the water heater by hand. The shower area is enormous, taking up the rest of the long bathroom. But despite the space, the shower drops only a fine and narrow spray to one side. On the dirty blue wall above the shower tiles, someone has written in a red marker: Bañate rapido y te sentirás mejor. Wash yourself quickly and you’ll feel better. So far, the shower itself has proved enough encouragement.

From the bathroom, I dress in my room and then go on to breakfast, through another low doorway. I’m greeted by my latest Mexican mother, Señora Navarro, and a plate of freshly cut fruit—some mix of mango, apple, papaya and melon. I sit at the corner of the table facing a line of gloomy, opaque windows, apparently the spot designated for visiting students. I pour myself a lime tea—which actually tastes more like lemon—and she brings me two more plates, one of frijoles, beans, and another of huevos, eggs, and a giant basket of tortillas. Then she sits herself down at the head, without a single plate—she eats at 11 with her husband—and watches me work my way through the meal. She’s got short, raven black hair—seemingly dyed—less wrinkles than expected for a woman with eight grown children, and generally wears a crimson shawl and a friendly, if unsmiling, expression.

(April 11: A couple of edits)

To be continued...