“The colors come from our land and our celebrations. Every piece carries our joy and our struggle.” – Antonia López Pérez, Tzotzil artisan (Chiapas)

CHIAPAS – Part 2

ZAPATISTA ROOTS

Amatenango del Valle and Aguacatenango are two Indigenous villages that played a meaningful role in the Zapatista Movement; a chapter of Chiapas history that still lingers in the hills, fields, and daily rhythms of community life. The small pueblos are on the far outskirts of San Cristóbal de las Casas and are worlds apart.

Back in the early 1990s, the Zapatista Army of National Liberation, aka the EZLN, a mostly Indigenous rural force named after the Mexican revolutionary, Emiliano Zapata, emerged from the jungles and highlands of Chiapas to protest decades of marginalization, land dispossession, and economic policies that threatened the Indigenous ways of life.

On January 1, 1994, the same day the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) went into effect, the Zapatistas seized several towns in Chiapas, including San Cristóbal de las Casas, calling for land reform, cultural autonomy, and political inclusion for communities long excluded from power. It was a tense time throughout the Americas.

Walking through these villages today, painted murals, collective farms, and community meeting spaces quietly remind visitors that the movement was not only political, but deeply cultural – rooted in dignity, autonomy, and self-governance.

There’s a definite sense of the peoples’ resilience and strength that permeates the landscape. It lends itself to a deep respect and knowledge that it took centuries of persecution, enslavement and discrimination to spark a change from the Mexican government.

One can also sense, too that this area doesn’t see too many outsiders or tourists. The somewhat subversive and dark EZLN emblem is seen everywhere to remind one that watchful eyes are keeping a close tab on things.

There’s a tiny shop on San Cristóbal’s main shopping drag that features all things Zapatista. We bought a couple of small EZLN souvenirs to take home and remind us of the ongoing struggles.

AMATENANGO DEL VALLE AND THE ART OF THE JAGUAR

Amatenango del Valle (pop: 12,000), beckons with a creative, and artistic streak that immediately drew us in. It’s famous for its clay workshops, and we had hoped to meet the renowned clay sculptor, Juana Gómez, the Maestra known as “La Reina de los Jaguares,” one of the region’s most celebrated Tzeltal Mayan artisans.

Juana’s story begins generations back, with women in her family selling pottery by the roadside. Though Juana has never seen a jaguar in the wild, she was inspired as a child by textbook images and dreams, sculpting her first clay jaguar at the age of twelve. (It should be noted that jaguars populate the highland rainforests and jungles of the state.)

Today, her work has been exhibited internationally – from the United States and Belgium to Spain and Australia, and in 2013 she was greatly honored as a Grand Master of Popular Arts by Mexico’s Ministry of Culture. Her pieces are more than art; they carry ancestral symbolism, strength, and a spiritual connection to the land.

Such is the demand for her work, and the time required to create each piece, that there is often a two-year waiting list for commissioned works. Despite her international recognition, Juana chooses not to sell her work in galleries, believing that keeping her work rooted in her community makes it easier to preserve the soul and spiritual intention of each piece. Kudos to her!

Unfortunately for us, Juana was away that day attending a nearby governor’s rally. As we entered town, we saw many hundreds of people – young and old, babies in arms, all walking towards the gathering.

It appeared all of the surrounding villages were emptying out for the big rally; as the endless lines methodically marched on; the women always following the men. Again, barely an eye contact was made as our car was in stop-and-go mode.

Not knowing what was brewing, we rolled down the window and asked a group of women what was happening. They cheerfully broke out in smiles and engaged in conversation and related about the impending governor’s appearance. We scored eye-to-eye contact! A moment to savor.

Once at Juana’s workshop, Adrián, Juana’s younger son, graciously stepped-in as our teacher. He patiently explained the clay-making process before sitting with us as we tried our hands at sculpting.

David, for reasons known only to him, chose to make a rabbit. Jayne and I attempted jaguars. My effort was ambitious at best – it resembled a dinosaur more than a cat, but in Adrián’s skilled hands it was gently reshaped into something that, with generosity and imagination, passed for a jaguar.

To the Indigenous peoples of Chiapas, the jaguar is far more than an animal. In the Mayan study of the universe, it moves between worlds – earthly and underworld; serving as guardian, guide, and symbol of strength and protection. Sculpting one, even imperfectly, felt like I was quietly participating in their traditions.

As we browsed the workshop’s gift area, a small, unfinished jaguar caught my eye – somewhat rough, imperfect, and deeply expressive. Adrián explained his mother had not yet completed it. That unfinished quality was precisely what drew me to it: the intimacy of work still unfolding and becoming.

We agreed on a sale price, and that little jaguar now sits in our home, the best kind of souvenir – a wonderful reminder of this incredible place, the amazing handwork of its imaginative creator, and the enduring spirit it represents.

AGUACATENANGO

A brief stop in tiny Aguacatenango (pop: 4,500), often described as a town with a strong Zapatista spirit, brought us to its main plaza, and its imposing yet restrained church … eerily a silent witness to countless, heated town-hall discussions and communal decisions.

Architecturally, the church is modest and functional rather than grand, with simple lines, thick walls, and a solid façade. Unlike the ornate Catholic churches found elsewhere in Mexico, this one has a feeling of having lived its faith, where Catholic practice is interwoven with Mayan beliefs, emphasizing community vs. spectacle.

It became obvious that we were the only foreigners in town, but with our fearless new guide, Joyce, who seemed to know nearly everyone, we were quickly welcomed with warmth and ease. And yes, knowing the Zapatista history, you might wonder if it felt safe. It absolutely did.

The atmosphere was calm, respectful, and grounded in a strong collective spirit where visitors are met with curiosity and kindness rather than suspicion.

BIRRIA

With our jaguar in tow and our stomachs growling, Joyce suggested a stop at a humble roadside café in his hometown, Teopisca. And yes, Joyce is a man. Curious, we asked about his name. He laughed, calling it “Mexican parents’ revenge,” though in truth, he was named after James Joyce, author of “Ulysses.”

The café specialized in birria, and it was served in every imaginable form: tacos, sopa, quesabirria, tortas, tostadas, and a revelation – chilaquiles birria. Unable to decide, the three of us ordered everything and shared the delicious bounty.

The chilaquiles were transformative … crisp tortillas soaked in deeply flavored consommé, the meat falling apart with each bite, rich and warming, perfectly paired with a cold cerveza. By the time we drove back to San Cristóbal, we were stuffed, content, and dreaming of jaguars, clay, and winding highland roads.

Originally from Jalisco, birria, much like mole, has been adopted, adapted and reinterpreted across México, with each region adding its own distinctive twist; resulting in flavors that reflect local traditions, ingredients, and culinary identity. This version was sublime and we couldn’t eat enough of it!

Exhausted, we returned to our hotel for a well-deserved rest and tentative dinner plans, though truthfully, we were still satiated from lunch. Jayne and I later wandered a few blocks to a small watering hole for a Pox and Tonic, while David wisely stayed behind to rest, saving his energy for another full day ahead.

CHURCHES, TEXTILES, JADE AND THE CITY OF THE DEAD

Chiapas is well-known for its intricate, exquisite textiles. Today’s outing took us to the Mayan Textile Museum (Centro de Textiles del Mundo Maya), housed in the historic Ex Convento de Santo Domingo de Guzmán. Inside its exhibition spaces sits unbelievable, rich, textural treasures.

Opened in 2012, the museum preserves and celebrates textile traditions from Maya communities across Chiapas and beyond, with more than 2,500 pieces in its extraordinary collections.

Stepping inside the museum felt like entering a living tapestry – an explosion of color and craftsmanship. Beneath the illuminated displays, rows of drawers invited exploration, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to pull them open and be astonished with its contents.

Opening them felt like being a child on Christmas morning: every drawer revealed a new surprise: fresh patterns, unexpected textures, and stories carefully stitched into cloth; each one leaving me in a quiet state of awe.

It was impossible not to linger, moving slowly, savoring each discovery. More than a museum, the space functions as a living cultural center, where artisans collaborate with conservators to ensure ancestral techniques of weaving, dyeing, and embroidery endure, keeping these formidable traditions alive and well.

Nearby stands the Templo de Santo Domingo de Guzmán, a Baroque masterpiece begun in 1547. On our first visit, Mass was underway, and although we couldn’t enter, the church’s ornate, pink stone façade, richly carved with floral and symbolic motifs, was awe-inspiring.

A few days later, on a free afternoon spent wandering aimlessly through San Cristóbal, we found ourselves drawn back. This time, the church grounds were alive with a bustling artisanal market, stalls pressed tightly together and spilling forth colorful and unique: embroidered textiles, amber gems, carved wood, etc.

This time, the church doors were swung open. Stepping inside felt like crossing into another world. Every inch of every altar was covered in golden, gilt paint, glowing softly as daylight streamed through the tall windows.

The light caught and diffused across the gilded surfaces, bathing the nave in a hushed, almost ethereal warmth. The contrast was striking: the quiet, luminous interior set against the lively market just outside. Together, they captured something essential about San Cristóbal and with its coexistence of devotion, artistry, commerce, and community, where the sacred and the everyday exist side-by-side. Photos couldn’t capture the glowing, soft brilliance.

Museo Mesoamericano del Jade

There was one more stop in our day full of touring San Cristóbal de las Casas – nestled between our hotel and the town center on an unassuming street is the Museo Mesoamericano del Jade. Part small museum, part shopping stop, it displays replicas of ancient jade pieces while explaining why jade mattered so deeply in the Mayan world; valued more highly than gold and associated with life, maize, water, and rebirth.

Jade was used for ceremonial masks, beads, and offerings, often placed with the dead to symbolize breath and renewal in the afterlife. The visit flows directly into La Casa del Jade shop, and while it’s essentially a retail experience, it’s impossible not to linger over the many shades of green and the creations born from what begins as simple rock.

I’ve always loved visiting cemeteries, and San Cristóbal’s cemetery feels like a miniature city. Family pantheons rise like homes, no two alike, reflecting the town’s blend of Indigenous traditions, colonial legacy, and personal expression.

The most striking was the Velasco Family Pantheon, a small, striking, neo-classical chapel whose symmetry and restraint speak to prestige, permanence, and European influence. Likely built in the late 19^th or early 20^th-century, it stands not as a single commission, but as a multi-generational marker of the family’s long-standing presence in the city.

Walking about the colorful gravesites, they spoke of remarkable architecture that reflected a humanistic, living archive where history, faith, and identity are carved into stone. I could only imagine how thrilling Día de los Muertos would be experienced here.

Rosca de Reyes

The tradition of Rosca de Reyes in México is celebrated on January 6, El Día de los Reyes (Epiphany), when families and friends gather to share a ring-shaped sweet bread decorated with candied fruit symbolizing the jewels of a crown.

There’s one or more small baby Jesus figurines hidden inside to recall his protection from King Herod. Much like the king cake tradition in New Orleans on Fat Tuesday, the ritual comes with a social obligation – whoever finds the figurine must host tamales and atole on February 2, Día de la Candelaria (Candlemas).

We happened to be in San Cristóbal that day and bought a small rosca to enjoy with our morning coffee, assuming it was just a light breakfast – clearly the rosca had other plans, because both David and Jayne bit into the baby Jesus, and I’m still waiting for my tamales.

Dinner that night was at a charming Italian bistro just a short walk from our hotel. We shared a bottle of wine and I committed what can only be described as a reckless act of indulgence: beef carpaccio, ravioli, and a shamefully rich, pasta carbonara. A textbook case of culinary arrogance. I should have known better, as …

I’m now fully convinced that in a past life I was a Spanish conquistador – swaggering, pillaging, and generally behaving badly on sacred ground. The moment I set foot deep in Mayan territory, the gods remembered. Every transgression. Every misdeed. Every lingering account left unsettled.

They were not amused by my attempt to dodge karmic accountability by hiding behind Italian food. They responded swiftly. And with enthusiasm. Past life sins, apparently, are nonrefundable … for it was time for Montezuma’s Revenge! (Carbonara = raw eggs.)

I was taken down, again, as my body launched itself into a full-scale rebellion. The last time this happened was in Copán, Honduras, when food poisoning hit with such violence that I told our guide, in a delirious fog, that if I happened to be a virgin, they should feel free to sacrifice me immediately and end my suffering.

Spoiler alert: the gods love continuity.

This time, vengeance was just as precise. I missed the following day’s Mayan culinary experience entirely, forced to experience it secondhand through the lively retellings shared by David, Jayne, and Joyce, but more on that in our next blog.

As seen on the streets …

A few food bites …