Orquideas Moxviquil September 1, 2021
If the southern hills represent the bleeding edge of development, the northern hills offer a kindler, gentler alternative. The forest here, a mix of pine and oak, is protected as a nature reserve and named after its protected orchids, Orquideas Moxviquil. In a rare sight, a woman is cleaning clothes on the edge of clear flowing creek. The rarity is the creek clarity. This is the first flowing water I have seen in this valley that is suitable for laundry. This must be some kind of oasis.
An Austrian school, in partnership with a local NGO, occupies an idyllic green lawn at the edge of the forest, with happy children playing, and, I imagine, learning. Everyone is speaking Spanish. This is the type of small-scale development that brought European pedagogues to Chiapas in the wake of the Zapatistas victory, to answer the call of the new sovereign state for independent schools. An army of dogs keeps me from getting too close to the walls of the campus perimeter. One enters this independent school by invitation only, and this particular pedagogue lacks the proper papers, so I climb instead, away from the walls of civilization, into the oak woods of Moxviquil.
The small acorns are like ball-bearings on the limestone path, requiring caution. The trees are young, barely 20-feet high, allowing the undergrowth of ferns and thorny vines to receive ample sunlight. Lipstick-pink flowers and blue butterflies provide splashes of color. These wilds are protected from heavy excavation, although the hills are well used by woodsmen, who roam with their dogs and their saws in pursuit of a straight trunk. If they are looking for meat, however, I would appear to be the only option, as I see neither mammal nor bird on this hill today. I am at least relieved I brought cheese for the dogs.
The trees thin slightly at the ridge-line, presenting a clear vista. La Iglesia del Cerillo, meaning “church of the little hill,”forms the most prominent landmark, its 18th-century moorish dome hovering like a pale parasol over the northernmost mound of the old city. North of the red-tiled roofs and cobblestone streets, and directly below me, San Cristóbal transitions into mixed farmland and riverside haciendas, in a peripheral neighborhood called Ojo de Agua, where the filthy Rio Amarillo pools before leaving the valley. North of here flows the only clear water around, gathered from the hills of Moxviquil and spared from the eroded brown silt and foul refuse of the city.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in Chiapas today, President Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador takes the next protest in stride, broadcasting his scheduled press conference from his phone in the back of his car, while surrounded by jeering teachers outside the military base in Tuxtla-Gutierez. “No, I am not a hostage, I don’t think that’s possible,” he says, with a relaxed selfie-smile, white collar loosened, tieless as always. The man was clearly prepped about the teachers in Chiapas before he arrived. He shows no sign of worry. Two hours later, the crowd disperses enough for his car to finally enter the secure facility. The President readily dismisses the stunt, referring the instigators to his education secretary with their list of grievances, where the proper paperwork must be filed.
These road closures have become a regular occurrence, and, since June anyway, they have not been violent. They are, however, hugely inconvenient, particularly if one is trying to get from San Cristóbal to the airport. Checking on the road-block status is like watching the forecast for snowy conditions. Sometimes the road east to Comítan closes for a day, sometimes the closure is on the western road to Tuxtla. Today the closure is around the little man from Tabasco. AMLO’s patience in the face of delay is inspirational but frankly beyond my capacity.
Mosquitos are biting in the middle of the day, so there is no time to rest or deliberate. Somewhere around here is the mouth of a large cave, but I see no sign of it, and my anonymous source has vanished. The apparent route is a traverse to the west, but the trail keeps disappearing in the calcium talus and deadfall. The barking dogs are getting closer, my cheese scent may be detected, or maybe my cursing at the insects has drawn their attention. Keep heading west and down, I say to myself. Wait, some people are coming! Stay low—they might be teachers! No, it is only the laundry lady, and she is not very happy to see me. My aimless rambling must have spoiled her fresh water source. I think the trampled flower on my boot is an orchid. The Austrian school can release the children at any moment. If I keep running, I will be home in an hour.