“Chiapas is the most indigenous, the most forgotten, and the most revealing face of México.” – Carlos Fuentes, Mexican novelist

Chiapas – Part 1

Chiapas, México … its name comes from the ancient language, Náhuatl, meaning the “place where the chia sage grows.” Chiapas is officially known as the Free and Sovereign State of Chiapas, due to its incredibly strong association with its deep, independent Indigenous heritage, and cultural identity.

Agriculture plays an important, economic role with its plentiful tropical fruits, corn, coffee, and cacao. David contributed to the economy with his ample, and assorted artisanal coffee and chocolate purchases!

Chiapas was once part of Guatemala from 1524 to 1821; becoming a Mexican state in 1824. This southernmost state borders Guatemala to the east; with the Mexican states of Oaxaca to the west, Veracruz to the northwest, and Tabasco to the north.

Chiapas has a significant coastline on the Pacific Ocean to the southwest. Coastal towns offer beaches and surf spots, though it’s not as heavily developed as Cancún or Cabo; attracting visitors seeking more natural, less crowded experiences.

The state is one of the most biodiverse regions in Mexico, with its extraordinary, natural beauty, and rich landscapes of tropical, lush jungles, dense rainforests, pine-covered highlands, and volcanic mountains reaching over 13,000 feet (currently, there are two main, active volcanoes).

There’s dramatic canyons such as the spectacular Sumidero Canyon, with the 300 mile long Grijalva River cutting through it. Plentiful and significant Mayan ruins dot the countryside. 

The top drawer in Chiapas is the Palenque Mayan Ruins, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. David and I have previously been, so we concentrated on visiting the amazing sites close by San Cristóbal de las Casas, our base for the next eight days.

For history fans, you may recall, too, that Chiapas is the home and land of the Zapatistas, and the infamous, and notorious 1994 Zapatista uprising. They are a reminder of Chiapas’ ongoing struggle with social inequality. Its movement has brought global attention to Indigenous rights and community autonomy.

Our short, two-hour flight from Guadalajara took us to its capital, Tuxtla Gutiérrez. We had long been told that Chiapas inspires awe, and from the moment we stepped off the plane, and with all that followed, it was easy to believe.

The small airport’s corridors glowed with large, vivid video images of the state’s natural beauty, with ivy climbing the walls. And all the while the steady rhythm of a marimba band drifted throughout, welcoming us into an exotic locale alive with its soul showing.

¡Bienvenidos! What a fun welcome mat. We’d arrived in Paradise! Without any preconceived notions, our excitement began building.

SAN CRISTÓBAL DE LAS CASAS

About an hour and a half east of the airport lies San Cristóbal de las Casas, a Pueblo Mágico, and cultural capital of the state. There, too is a smattering of retired expats and expired hippies. It sits high up in a valley surrounded by mountains, at an elevation of 7,200’; population: 200,000.

We were to meet up at the hotel with our traveling companion, Jayne, from Minnesota’s Twin Cities; enjoying a Mexican respite from her wintry, cold (and troubled) city.

It was a Saturday night, and the city was alive with locals, with few tourists about (it’s off-season). Walking through the market gave us a good sense of what was to come: its stalls overflowing and alive with color: tropical fruits, Indigenous people in traditional dress, and the lively hum of evening life.

The state is home to one of the country’s largest Indigenous populations, including Tzotzil, Tzeltal, Tojolabal, Zoque, and the isolated Lacandon Maya communities, and their distinctive ancient languages, clothing, crafts, textiles, and long established customs enriching the scene.

I’ve mentioned Indigenous several times, and that’s because the great majority of Chiapas’ inhabitants are just that. They’re very friendly, but also somewhat wary and leery of “foreigners/tourists.” They’ll quickly turn their glances away; not because they’re unfriendly, but history shows that foreign invaders didn’t leave a very positive image.

However, a very friendly, elderly woman approached Jayne and shared a spirited, loving chat and embrace, with neither speaking one another’s tongue; leaving a lasting impression for each.

We’d take discreet photos of them in passing, or by request when directly engaged. They were just so endlessly fascinating to encounter.

I spotted long strips of fried green plantains and gravitated toward them. When the vendor asked if I wanted condensed milk poured over them, I declined. “No, just salt.” She looked at me quizzically as I looked at her, but no matter, we delightfully shared this delicious and tasty treat.

Continuing on, our stroll led us to the main plaza, surrounded by pedestrian streets filled with local shops, artisanal stalls, watering holes, and restaurants of every kind.

After soaking in the colors and high, festive energy, we chose to eat at Fogón de Jovel, a charming restaurant specializing in local cuisine. The meal began with an unusual tamale flight – featuring five different tamales, ranging from savory to sweet.

My favorite was wrapped in banana leaves and filled with chicken mole. Happily, the dinner menu featured mole and I was immediately drawn to that. I can never get enough mole! Every region, every cook has their own unique version, and it was going to be a treat to discover the local recipe.

But first, a cocktail. Here, I quickly began to immerse myself in a Mayan tradition with a drink featuring the locally made spirit, Pox (pronounced posh); a distilled corn, cane sugar, and wheat liquor. It was incredibly smooth – posh to the palate, and possibly a new found favorite. I chose a Pox Margarita to toast the start of our new adventure.

It should be noted that Pox is a traditional, sacred alcoholic spirit made by Mayan communities, and used for centuries in religious ceremonies, and as a remedy. The word “pox” in Tzotzil means “medicine” or “cure,” reflecting its historical use by healers (curanderos) for spiritual purposes.

Modern versions are often flavored, and gaining commercial popularity; now enjoyed neat or in cocktails. And I’d concurred – it’s neat to drink! We made sure that we came home with a couple of bottles. Luckily, for the future, our local spirits chain carries one brand of Pox.

SAN JUAN CHAMULA

Sunday morning, church day, and we headed to the Indigenous town of San Juan Chamula (population: 5,000), with the added bonus that it was market day. Before we arrived, our guide, Gaby, made one thing very clear – absolutely no photographs in the market and none inside the church.

The community enforces this with strict penalties, ranging from having your phone erased or confiscated; to substantial fines. The only exception allowed was panoramic shots, but with no people. The rule immediately set the tone, as this was not a place for casual tourism, but a living, breathing sacred community that demands respect.

The people of San Juan Chamula, are primarily Tzotzil Mayan, and are fiercely independent. They have preserved a powerful, cultural and spiritual identity that blends ancient Mayan beliefs with selected elements of Catholicism. These traditions shape daily life, governance, dress, and healing practices, and they are lived authentically.

The town itself feels less like a place you visit and more like a world you enter by permission. Governed largely by its own customs rather than conventional municipal systems, Chamula operates by different rules.

Men in black wool tunics and straw hats gather quietly in the plaza, while women move through town wrapped in heavy, handwoven skirts and shawls dyed in deep blues and blacks; clothing that signals identity, status, and belonging.

We began with a visit to the local cemetery surrounding the ruins of the old church; destroyed centuries ago by an earthquake. Unlike most Mexican cemeteries, there are no mausoleums. Graves are marked simply, recording the day of death rather than birth.

Wooden crosses are painted in specific colors to identify whether the deceased was a child, man, woman, married person, or elder. Many graves still held dried pine needles from the Day of the Dead; symbolizing purification, and the connection between spiritual and earthly worlds. We quickly realized that we were treading on a mystical, and spiritual, magical place.

From there, we navigated the nearby maze of market stalls – my camera phone practically begging to escape its zipped pocket. I kept it there intentionally, thereby resisting temptation. In doing so, we were forced to record the images in our minds, to truly be in the moment, rather than reduce it to pixels to be reviewed later over coffee or a drink.

The market was an amazing kaleidoscope of color, remarkable faces, and smiles; vibrant textiles galore, fruits and veggies; household goods … all etched into memory instead of stored on a screen. Respecting the no-photo rule slowed us down and sharpened our attention to the lively and animated atmosphere. It seemed like all of the town was out and about.

I found a couple of wonderful, unique textile souvenirs to bring home: a pom-pom detailed pillowcase and shawl to brighten our living room; fondly recollecting Chiapas memories.

CHURCH OF SAN JUAN BAUTISTA

The white-and-green Church of San Juan Bautista, stands at the heart of the town, fronting a broad plaza where daily life and the sacred quietly intersect. Stepping inside, and here I must confess – that despite having visited hundreds of churches around the world, nothing prepared me for what awaited. For it’s not your typical catholic church.

I’ll try to attempt to convey the imagery found inside; it’s unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed.

The interior is dark, smoky, and profoundly intimate. There are no pews. The floor is blanketed with fresh pine needles; their sharp, earthy scent mingling with copal incense and the heat of perhaps thousands of candles placed directly onto the ground.

Each candle was arranged carefully by color and size; each one carrying a specific meaning. Families gathered round in small, intimate circles with a healer leading them in seeking remedial and curative help, all while murmuring prayers in Tzotzil.

Nearby stood bottles of colored drinks; Coca-Cola and Pox among them. Each is chosen for its symbolic role in the ritual. The flickering candlelight casts a warm, golden glow, making the space feel less like a church and more like a living ceremonial sanctuary.

Along the walls stand rows of Catholic saints; each situated within glass enclosures, dressed in vibrant garments. They’re all holding a mirror, except those brought over from the ruined church we had visited earlier – those hold none; they having failed to protect it from ruin.

The belief is that when you confess before a saint with a mirror, your own reflection looks back at you, making it impossible to lie to yourself.

There is no resident priest. Catholic clergy visit only a few times a year to perform group baptisms and are not permitted at the altar. This is truly a people’s church, where faith is practiced rather than prescribed.

Healing here is focused less on curing physical illness than on restoring emotional and spiritual balance. In certain rituals, live animal sacrifices, most often chickens, are used (which we inadvertently witnessed); with the imbalance believed to be transferred to the animal and later they’re taken to sacred caves.

In San Juan Chamula, health, belief, balance, and community are inseparable, woven together into a system that has endured for generations.

Let me emphasize that the town isn’t a somber atmosphere, but an active and stimulating environment with its inhabitants watching out for one another, respectful of traditions. Those traditions aren’t preserved for display – they’re lived fully, protected with quiet, and mutual resolve.

Leaving Chamula, I wasn’t sure what I felt and experienced. Had I already been changed, or would the impact unfold over time? What I did know was that the experience left a deep and lasting impression; one that lingered well beyond the drive back to San Cristóbal.

Zinacantán

Flower Town. Zinacantán, is a large Tzotzil Mayan town (pop: 45,000), whose name means “land of bathed flowers.” It’s nestled in a bowl-like valley that’s just over the mountain from San Juan Chamula, but it felt like a different world altogether. Greenhouses dot the area with a flourishing flower industry. We arrived on an active flower market day, and it delighted me to saunter among the vendors and peruse their offerings (prices were incredibly low).

Also known for its textiles, families pass weaving patterns down through generations. Clothing signals artistry and identity. We were welcomed into a family home, offered food, and shown their backstrap loom. Behind the house, greenhouses were filled with beautiful, white chrysanthemums ready for harvest.

Back in the kitchen, handmade tortillas cooked on a wood-burning comal; they were light, crisp, and full of fresh corn flavor. They were served with white beans, salty cheese, tomatillo sauce, and pumpkin seed powder. Just when we thought we were finished, quesadillas appeared.

Here was simple, tasty food seemingly just picked and harvested from the rich earth. A perfect example of a true farm-to-table meal.

We returned to San Cristóbal in the late afternoon, and a coffee break calling me once again. At the Esquina San Agustín complex, we wandered upstairs to Amor Negro (Black Love). Over shared sandwiches, I ordered my first ever coffee flight, consisting of espresso, mocha, and a Mexican version of a Cuban cortadito.

Each small glass held two ounces, and every sip was intoxicating. Not for everyone, perhaps, but for me, puro placer – pure pleasure!

It was January 4^th and dinner marked a celebration of my 69^th birthday. David chose one of San Cristóbal best, Tierra y Cielo (Earth and Heaven). By the final course, our taste buds had truly been satiated and transported.

Led by award-winning chef, Martha Machado, the menu honored the best of Chiapas cuisine. I debated between ordering pumpkin seed aguachile or fried pork ribs. However, it was the seasonal offering, Green Ceviche, that caught my eye in the end. Trusting the chef proved to be the right choice.

All three of us followed this path of ordering the season’s highlights; each plate different and incredibly delicious.

Tierra y Cielo felt less like a restaurant and more like a sacred space, where nourishment is offered as ritual. In the heart of San Cristóbal de las Casas, each dish is born from the soil (Tierra) and lifted toward the heavens (Cielo).

Corn, cacao, fire, and time come together in quiet devotion. Here, you do not simply eat – you receive, you remember, and you give thanks. Amen.

NA BOLOM

Our hotel, Na Bolom (“Jaguar House” in the Tzotzil Mayan language), holds a deep connection to the local culture; one you feel the moment you step inside. In 1950, the property was purchased by Frans Blom, a Danish archaeologist, and Gertrude “Trudi” Duby Blom, a Swiss journalist and photographer.

They devoted their lives to exploring Chiapas and chronicling the lives of its Indigenous peoples, especially the Lacandon Maya. Frans often said with a proud smile, “This land speaks – if we listen.”  Trudi, camera always in hand, would add, “And we must record what the world forgets.”

They restored the neoclassical house around its central patio and transformed it into a living museum, cultural hub, a library of artifacts, and a space for scholarship and genuine exchange. It’s open daily for public visitation.

Today, that spirit remains in every corner of Na Bolom. Our room felt organic and lived‑in, filled with local artwork and finished with a cozy, corner fireplace to warm us on these cold, winter nights. Staying here is not just a place to rest, it’s to step into a legacy of curiosity, respect, and deep affection for the people and land of Chiapas.

Tomorrow, we explore Chiapas’ more recent controversial Zapatista era.

As seen on the street …