After nine fantastic months spent in Guatemala, the country began to feel small to us. From Río Dulce—where we had just finalised the sale of our sailboat—the pull of neighbouring Mexico grew stronger by the day. Our first destination was San Cristóbal de las Casas, at the heart of High Chiapas, a place many digital nomads we met spoke of with great admiration. The journey itself could fill an entire book, as we were on one of the clandestine migration routes that leads from Honduras to the so‑called North American El Dorado. Unintentionally, we confronted this reality. But that’s another story. A week after leaving Río Dulce, we found ourselves in a shared taxi driving from Palenque—where we had stopped—to San Cristóbal de las Casas. We hoped to discover a multicultural city brimming with history and traditions, a truly fascinating place.

A City of Many Facets

San Cristóbal de las Casas sits within a crater, reached from above with a breathtaking view. The city unfurls silently beneath a misty sky and red-tiled roofs. Its cobbled streets feel as though they flow backward through time. Balconies overflow with geraniums. We stayed in a colonial house in the Guadalupe neighbourhood, with a beautiful mountain view. A cosy fireplace—very useful, as we hadn’t expected the evenings to be so cool. Doña Teresa, our host, welcomed us with a hot chocolate as thick as a promise. San Cristóbal unfolds on foot, with an open mind and heart. Every morning, I strolled down Calle Real de Guadalupe, wandering among cafés, art galleries, and stalls selling hand‑embroidered huipiles. The city is a tapestry of cultures: colonial, indigenous, and rebellious. Here, everything speaks: Spanish, Tzotzil, and silence. I sometimes sat on the cathedral’s steps, in the central square battered by wind and alive with music. Bells rang out while children with sunburned cheeks sold colourful bracelets. The number of museums and sites of interest seemed endless. We got lost in the rooms of the Museo Na Bolom, former home of the Lacandon culture; we visited the discreet yet moving Mayan Textile Centre; we admired Santo Domingo Church, a baroque masterpiece… Around, the artisan market overflowed with textiles, incense, amber necklaces, and ancestral voices. Embroidery designs vary by village—Zinacantán, Chamula, San Juan Cancuc—each thread narrates a unique cosmogony.

A Gastronomy to Discover

Another way to fall in love with San Cristóbal. In the morning, I drank mountain coffee—black, dense—grown on forested hillsides in Tzeltal villages. Sometimes we added a drop of high-altitude honey or a pinch of grated cacao, as the elders used to do. In the streets, vendors offered fresh-pressed orange juice. At the market, we tasted tamales wrapped in banana or corn leaves—some filled with sweet, spiced mole, others with chipilín, that soft green herb; sopa de pan scented with garlic and coriander; blue quesadillas made by patient hands. In the evening, we lingered in cocinas populares, where recipes are passed from mother to daughter: Chiapanecan mole—thick, dark, mysterious, with hints of cinnamon and chilli; huitlacoche tacos, that velvety black corn fungus; steaming squash‑based broths, served with still-warm tortillas. Don’t miss pozol, an indigenous cold drink made from maize and cacao. And finally, artisan chocolate, sometimes infused with chilli, sometimes with dried rose petals.

San Juan Chamula

One morning we took a colectivo to San Juan Chamula, that Tzotzil village where the earth seems more ancient. There, the church is like no other. The Church of San Juan Bautista rises as a white-and-green enigma, framed by flags that flutter in the wind. Inside, nothing is fixed: no pews, only a floor of pine needles, hundreds of flickering candles, and a thick scent of resin, smoke, and life. Families whisper prayers to saints whose statues are dressed in mirrors and colourful ribbons. Live chickens, eggs, sodas, and whispered rituals in Tzotzil—all participate in a vibrant, animist spirituality where Catholicism feels like a veil draped over older worlds. Entry is free, but photography is strictly forbidden, as if pictures could steal the mystique that reigns there.

The Zapatistas

I hiked up to Cerro de San Cristóbal and then to Cerro de Guadalupe, the two hills that guard the city like open arms. They belong to Zapatista communities where entry is monitored—you must register and get permission to pass. It is doable alone and on foot, contrary to what one might hear. It requires patience and respect. Here, land is not owned—it is protected. Visiting the Caracoles is essential ("Caracol" means snail): autonomous governance centres, community hubs where the quiet, unbreakable rebellion of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation pulses. They are named after the snail because it symbolizes slow listening, patience, and the spiral of the world. At the entrance, a painted gate proclaims: “You are entering a rebel territory. Here the people command and the government obeys.” There are several Caracoles—Oventic, La Realidad, La Garrucha, Morelia, Roberto Barrios—each representing a Zapatista region and autonomous community. These are living places: schools, clinics, women’s houses, councils of good government. Nothing here is decorative—everything is necessary. The Zapatistas are not legends from the past. They are here, alive, discreet, tenacious, and their struggle is not limited to the 1994 uprising. They build, day by day, another world on the margins of ours—a world without bosses, without parties, without electoral promises. A world woven from collectivity, dignity, and horizontal organisation. * * * * * San Cristóbal is a blend of colours, struggles, and suspended prayers. A month in San Cristóbal is a month outside of time. A month of altitude and history. This crossroads of cultures that resist without disappearing is a wonder for those who love difference. One of the slogans painted on the walls illuminates its complexity: “A world where many worlds fit.” On the final morning, the mist was so thick we could no longer see the mountains. San Cristóbal reveals itself if you accept not to understand everything. We then departed for Oaxaca.