Parque del Arcotete July 15, 2021
In the green hill country east of Guadalupe Church in San Cristóbal de las Casas, a lazy brown creek flows though a travertine limestone gorge of what must have once been an immense cave system. White flowstone covers the canyon edifices, leaving signs of ancient springs, while a 20-foot thick, 30-foot high natural bridge provides the remaining evidence of a dripping ceiling. Grottos ooze with old calcium precipitates. Dark alcoves furnish prime hangouts for any number of contagious bat species. Named after its impressive arch, El Arcotete is one of the magical natural places near the city.
The Colectívo van runs east to the Parque from the front of the main market every 15 minutes until 6 pm, price 10 pesos. After then, you will have to stay the night. We see one tent. Otherwise, this place attracts day-visitors, picnickers, zip-liners, and screaming children. If I sound grumpy, it is only because I crashed my head getting into the metal shell of the public transportation. These vans were designed for Tzotzil Maya. My anonymous source, however, is not Tzotzil, and she managed to board the bus with no problem.
The swinging bridge that crosses the canyon upstream from the Arcotete presents a perfect scene for a harrowing action sequence in the deep wilds of Chiapas, involving frightened pack animals and a machete. Thankfully, this paragraph is short.
The pine-forested hilltops beyond are parklike, resembling the subalpine slopes of many western mountains, but the understory reveals the strangeness of this place. On one bed of needles sits a spectacularly colorful reptile—a Bocourt’s Emerald Lizard—displaying its distinctive iridescent blue tail with a black tip, a metallic green body, and a yellow head with a blue chin. This creature is perfectly camouflaged to hide among rainbows, but here on this dry brown detritus it is utterly exposed. Its jittery behavior at my arrival suggests that it recognizes its predicament. Perhaps it is willing itself to become a chameleon.
On the clattering, bumpy van-ride home, the driver’s loud Cumbia soundtrack makes my teeth ache, like one of those rhythm-jaw instruments, Quijada del Burro. A Spanish lesbian couple speaks mostly Basque, but I imagine they talk about an incident yesterday, in which a young woman was robbed at gunpoint someplace nearby. More likely, they are discretely remarking about the creepy old gringo staring at their gross lip rings. Listening to their lisps, coupled with the shuck-chuck sounds of Tzotzil passengers, this becomes a bus ride through Babel. The annoying Cumbia singer calls for a response. I practice universal sign language with my extended finger.
Soon the white Moorish dome of Guadalupe comes into view, as we settle back into the city. Poor, brightly-painted homes cling to the green hills, poised precariously over escarpments that look scooped from an ice cream cone. As the demand for cement only rises, these quarries will continue to eat into the hillsides, assisted by floods and quakes and slides, and these cursed homeowners will be along for the ride.
Finally, mercifully, we gingerly disembark at the main market, in front of La Iglesia de Santo Domingo. It is a magnificent creation, but the church’s ornate gothic exterior cannot compare to the intricate walls of the canyon we traveled today, in Parque de Arcotete. Nevertheless, one has to admire the architect’s quest to emulate such exquisite beauty, although I could do without the gargoyle bishops. A brief rain shower lets up, and the sun peeks through. Somewhere there must be a rainbow—Un Arco-Iris. At least one sheltering Bocourt Emerald Lizard is free again to roam without fear.