Posada Isabel

At the top of the stairs, I caught the scent of a fragrant flower; a scent I did not recognize. The corridor was well lit and, as it turns out, Room 7 (our room) was at the very top of the stairs on the right-hand side. Sharon unlocked the door.

The room was not what I expected. In truth, the entire hotel was not what I had expected. I had done a little research on the web trying to find out more about the hotel. While I couldn't find any photos of Posada Isabel, I could find the room rates and they were comparable to some of the nicer spots in town -- hotels with large yards and gardens, decks and pools with generous, comfortable rooms and cushy double beds. Posada Isabel had none of those things.

The room was narrow and had few accessories. The twin beds were dressed modestly in traditional woollen blankets and separated by a small wooden table. The bottom half of the walls was painted a cheerful blue. While there was no closet, a wooden clothes rack with hangers stood in the corner of the room to store our coats and pants and blouses.




















The bathroom door was immediately behind the door to our room. You could not open one without first closing the other. The bathroom was simple and small. To the left, a cubby housed a small, tiled shower and immediately across from the door was a toilet. The shower curtain was tattered and dated and smelled of mildew. The metal drain in the centre of the shower was broken and rusted. The bathroom mat was a 2' x 3' rubber rectangle made from recycled tires (I guessed). The sink was in the bedroom itself on the wall across from our beds.

Sharon had already checked in and claimed the bed furthest from the door leaving the other for me. I threw my backpack onto the bed closest to the door and began to unpack some of my things. I removed the sleeping bag from my suitcase, draped it across the bottom of my bed and put my novel on the chair beside my bed. I transferred the clothes from my backpack into the suitcase and stored the empty backpack under the bench next to the sink. I put my camera case in bottom shelf of the




















I opened the window next to my bed and once again detected the fragrance I had discovered on our way up to the room. I opened the door and returned to the corridor in an attempt to discover the source of this wonderful scent. I stood quietly in the corridor.

The street noises came to me clearly and easily as I stood in the corridor. I looked over the railing and found two cars in the terrace there. Hovering over the cars was (or at least what I think was) a beautiful bougainvillea heavy with rich, pink blossoms. In another corner of the terrace was a poinsettia tree(?) over eight feet tall. I could have reached over the railing and picked a petal from its top branch. I looked directly up and saw the night sky and immediately understood the sounds, the shape and the structure of Posada Isabel

Posada Isabel is a hollow square. A break in the sidewalk allows cars to enter the terrace through a large, locked metal door. There is barely enough room to turnaround, to exit the terrace, but it can be done for one or two cars. The guest rooms are located on the first and second floors on the outside walls of the halls.

I would learn later that the first floor housed the kitchen and common dining room as well as the private living quarters of our hosts.


I took a few pictures and returned to my room. I opened the window wider in spite of the fact that no screen served as a deterring for curious insects or misdirected birds. I could barely wait to sleep under the window and breathe in the fresh night air.

We joined the group downstairs and headed out into the night to find Jody and Chris's favourite taco restaurant. As we walked down the streets of San Cristobal, I found myself looking left and right at the many businesses who still had their windows and doors open to the public in the early evening of a Monday -- Internet cafes, clothes and jewelry boutiques, currency exchange offices, classrooms to learn languages, bars, restaurants, electronics stores -- you name it, it was open late on Monday. We passed many buildings similar to Posada Isabel whose open doors allowed us a glance in the personal space of the residents of San Cristobal.

Several blocks later we arrived at the restaurant. The entire front wall of the restaurant had been removed or somehow unfolded-back into itself so that the restaurant was open to the street. The kitchen was nothing more than two large cooktops and we had an unobstructed view of our chefs -- two men and one woman. The woman rolled, patted and cooked on a cook top an endless supply of corn tortillas. One of the men chopped and grilled a variety of ingredients for his patrons while the last fellow did a little bit of everything including serving the food.

Over a round of cervezas we toasted new relationships and new experiences. Within minutes, a series of skillets arrived at our table with an assortment of toppings including chicken, mushrooms, beef, beans, peppers, onions and cactus. Uh huh, cactus.

Our meal ended early as many of us were still tired from our journey south. Sharon and I headed back to the Posada and noted that many of the businesses that we saw on our way down were still open, two hours later. It was very nearly 10 pm and the businesses were still open to the public. The atmosphere was almost carnival-like. I thought that Ottawa could take a lesson from this captivating city.

Using the buzzer to summon our hostess, we were once again admitted into Posada Isabel where we retired to our room and prepared for bed. As I curled up under the woolen blankets, I remember thinking that the bed was about 8 inches shorter than I was. The next thing I remember is sweet, blissful sleep and then the crowing of roosters.

Finding San Cristobal de Las Casas

As I entered the airport at Tuxtla Gutierrez I was met with the most wonderful breeze. I slowed my step, closing my eyes so that I could take in its smell and enjoy the feel of it washing over my travel-weary body. I had left winter behind in Canada and was delighted to meet up with this old friend in Mexico. This breeze pulled me towards the baggage claim, just one doorway away from the airport entrance. I could sense the impatience of it as it pulled at my clothes and beckoned me to join it outside.

I stood next to the luggage carousel and waited for my bag to make its appearance. I closed my eyes and gently swayed left to right savoring this pause in my day; and more, this first delightful break to my long, cold winter. I sensed someone in front of me and opened my eyes.

"Do you have a lot of luggage?" Amavida Coffee asked.

"No, just one bag," I said looking at her tiny backpack. "I thought I packed light, but...."

"Yeah, I know," she shrugged, "it's hard to pack light with a sleepin' bag. Annie stumbled 'cross these little babies last week an' got us each one," she said nodding towards the tiny sleeping bag perched upon the top of her backpack.

She had the most wonderful southern drawl I had ever heard. I was looking forward to talking to her more; in fact, I was looking forward to hearing her talk more. It was musical.

"D'you need a hand with 'yer bags?" she asked.

"No, I'm OK. Thanks for asking though," I replied.

"Well we're just hangin' out on th'other side of that wall there," she said. "We'll wait 'til you get 'yer bags and then we'll go find Chris. I thought I saw him on th'other side of the airport."

I watched as she walked through the glass door and joined the second Amavida Coffee girl whose name I now suspected was Annie.

My bag was one of the first to arrive. Ironic, I thought. My bag from Canada is here even before a bag from Mexico City. How does that work? I found a break in the lineup of waiting passengers and made a quick grab for it pulling it free of the carousel. When I had packed my bag, I tied a blue ribbon around the handle so that I would be able to spot it easily from amongst the hundreds of other black bags making their way around the world. I checked to make sure that my zipper locks were still intact and then headed towards the doorway to join my new friends.

"Thanks for waiting," I said as I came through the doorway.

"No probl'm," Amavida said as she started walking across the airport. "I'm Sally, by the way, and this here is Annie."

"Hi," said Annie.

"Nice to meet you both," I smiled.

As we walked across the airport, two men began to rise from where they were waiting on benches by the large glass windows. One was a curly-haired American dressed in dockers and a button-down shirt and the other was a Mexican man who wore a white linen shirt and the most joyful expression I had ever seen on his round, dark face. The American extended his right hand to us as we approached.

"I'm Chris," he said, "and this is Julio. He's going to be driving us back to San Cristobal."

We exchanged greetings and some small talk while we waited for four other passengers. We learned that a few people had arrived over the weekend but that this flight carried the last few members of our group. Within minutes we were joined by Joe the extreme athlete from Peace Coffee, Gary part owner of Heine Brothers Coffee and Casey and Aleck who were students from the University of Michigan. We exchanged greetings and headed out of the airport in search of the van.

On the sidewalk outside, the wind danced through my hair pulling at its curls and drying the dampness from my scalp. The tiny straps of my backpack slapped at my arms as I reached up to pull the hair away from my face. I walked through the parking lot wrapping myself in the sun that was offered to me by the last few hours of this day in Chiapas. I felt especially peaceful, perfectly happy and decidedly blessed as I made my way across this parking lot in the company of strangers.

Julio opened the back door of the van so that we could pile our bags inside. Casey and Aleck hopped into the van and spread themselves out across the back seat of the van. Sally, Annie and I found spots in the row second from the rear, while Chris, Joe and Gary took seats toward the front of the van. Julio closed the door to the van and took his position behind the wheel while a lovely Spanish Senorita rode shotgun. We were off.

Within minutes, my peaceful, easy feeling was replaced by my rising blood pressure. It seemed, in those minutes, that my heart rate was inexplicably linked to the van's accelerator and as our speed increased, so did my anxiety.

I've driven in Montreal which is, in my opinion, host to some of the most dangerous roadways and drivers in Canada. Imagine if you will, four-lane highways with no lines dividing the lanes; just tens of feet of black asphalt for drivers to share freely as they meander their way through the city at breakneck speed.

Mexico is kind of like that, except Mexico took the time to draw the lines on the highway. Lovely double-yellow lines mark the opposing lanes of traffic, while pristine white lines clearly identify the shoulder. There are many reflective markers to further assist drivers find the safe passage between the white and yellow lines. As far as I could tell, however, the lines had no purpose whatsoever except perhaps to identify this paved thoroughfare as a highway for visiting tourists. The money they spent in paint, I felt, would have been better spent in guardrails.

I decided in very short order that I have neither the skill nor the stomach to drive in Mexico.

The highway from Tuxtla from San Cristobal coils around the mountain tops of Chiapas. As we climbed toward the ceiling of heaven, we were captivated by the amazing vistas. I had never seen such beautiful countryside. Deep ravines carved their way through rugged mountains as far as the eye could see. The higher we climbed, the deeper the slope that fell away from the side of the highway. As I looked into the distance, the highway appeared to be nothing more than a ragged slash in the mountains ahead.

Julio and his sweetheart were carrying on an animated conversation in Spanish and I was worried that he was not entirely focused on the task at hand -- delivering eight weary gringos to their hotel in San Cristobal safely.

On a particularly steep mountainside, I watched as Julio raced towards the bumper of a slow moving 18-wheeler. I caught a passing glimpse of a "no passing" traffic sign in my peripheral vision as Julio edged out across the double yellow line. In Canada, this means no passing in either direction. In Mexico, a double line is more of a suggestion -- I wouldn't pass if I were you, but if you're going to, well...go ahead...whatever. The 18-wheeler moved slightly towards the right so that the white line indicating the shoulder passed between its two rear tires. Even this generous act would afford us less than half of the south-bound lane which mean that the double-yellow line was passing roughly between our two rear tires. Cars were rounding the curve ahead and approaching us in the northbound lane. As we began to overtake the 18-wheeler, a small VW sedan decided to follow our lead and began to overtake the northbound traffic. The cars began to steer to their right allowing the VW sedan to gain speed as we headed toward each other at breakneck speeds. At roughly the time we found ourselves in line with the cab of the 18-wheeler, the family in the VW Sedan passed within inches of us. I swear I could smell the perfume of the woman in the front seat.

Had this been an isolated incident, I would have relaxed and enjoyed the passing countryside. As it happened, however, this was the rule rather than the exception that defined this white knuckle drive to San Cristobal de Las Casas. I didn't know whether these drivers deserved my awe or my disdain.

I turned toward Sally with eyes wide and mouth agape. I was relieved to know that I was not the only person who found the ride a little upsetting.

"It's like a continuous game of chicken," I whispered to Sally who laughed and nodded in agreement.

I spent some time considering the differences between traffic in Canada and Mexico. It seems that in Mexico, turn signals are not necessary. In fact, they are misleading and must be ignored at all costs. Horns however, are musical and they must be shared at every opportunity. Drivers herald the arrival of green lights with festive "honks." The most important five-letter word in driving is not "skill" but rather it is "speed."

As we rounded a long curve to the left, we saw a large white city nestled in the distant foothills of another mountain range. It was San Cristobal de Las Casas. It was much larger than I had expected. Chris explained that we would be staying in the colonial district which was much safer and neater than other parts of San Cristobal.


We entered the colonial district through a large gated road and found ourselves driving on narrow streets in a complicated grid of one way and two way streets. I could not easily determine how the drivers knew which car enjoys the right-of-way. There were traffic lights at maybe one in every 30 intersections. I saw no stop signs.

Julio drove through street after crowded street. Cars were parked everywhere including on top of sidewalks. Double-parked cars were dripping passengers out into the busy streets before rejoining the flow of traffic. Passengers were walking on sidewalks and in the streets. Cars passed other cars within inches of one another. Cars passed within feet of pedestrians, blowing up their hair and clothes in the gusts they created by their passing.

The streets narrowed.

Minutes later, we pulled up in front of La Posada Isabel. Home. Well, home away from home.

Getting out of the van was not nearly as satisfying as getting in. My legs had stiffened from the ride and so I walked around in tight little circles at the back of the van as I tried to loosen up my muscles.

Julio opened the back of the van and we all pulled out our bags.

Chris herded us into the foyer of La Posada Isabel and quickly paired us up with our roommates. Sharon and I were introduced as roommates and handed the key to Room 7 on the second floor. We were instructed to clean up and meet back in the foyer in 30 minutes before we headed out to dinner together.

For the last time that day, I grabbed my backpack and hoisted it upon my back. I bent to pick up my bag and checked for my camera case and purse. I slowly climbed the stairs of Posada and followed Sharon to Room 7.

Touching Down

I woke as we began our descent into Mexico City. I was pleased to have a window seat because I have never seen a larger city. It seemed as though it spread into the horizon with no end. Even at tens of thousands of feet in the air, we could not see the beginning and end of this city at once. I had been told before I left that Mexico City was the largest city measured by land mass. In fact, it is the sprawling suburbs to Mexico City that, when added to the Federal District, allows it to take first prize as the largest metropolitan area in the Western Hemisphere -- the second largest in the world. Greater Mexico City is made up of the city's centre, 58 adjacent municipalities and one municipality of the state of Hidalgo.

Here is an aerial photo that I found on the website of a helicopter pilot from Mexico. If you would like to see more, you can visit: homepage.mac.com/helipilot/PhotoAlbum31.html

I could not see the airport. In fact, I could see nothing but miles and miles of concrete buildings and glass skyscrapers. Absent were the pools and parks that usually dot Canadian and American cityscapes. The houses were built almost one on top of the other so grassy, green backyards were replaced by more concrete houses. I watched cars crawl like ants through the complicated grid of streets. I saw no cloverleaf turnpikes...in fact I saw nothing larger than a two-lane highway and I wondered how long it would take to drive from one end of the city to another with no apparent bypass. Surely there is more that I could not see.

We touched down and prepared to disembark. As I stepped off the plane, I was hit by a wall of heat and humidity; I knew I would have to find a washroom and ditch my sweater. I followed the signs to immigration and kept an eye out for other passengers from my flight. I had about two hours to make my connection but I was uncertain as to how long it would take to clear immigration, check in to Mexicana and find my next gate. I finally found the queue for foreigners, pulled out my passport and tourist card application and found my electronic documentation for the connecting flight.

Waiting, waiting, waiting...."AQUI!" A beautiful Spanish woman took my documentation with a blank facial expression. I wondered whether customs, immigration and airport security personnel are instructed to remain expressionless during their customer transactions. What is to be gained by this? Do they feel that we would take the process less seriously? We would not. I truth, I decided, smiling airport workers might encourage a more honest exchange.

"What is your reason for visiting?" the smiling immigration lady would say with a twinkle in her eye.

"It's educational," would be my tentative reply.

"Sounds boring," she would say with another coaxing smile feigning commiseration.

"Oh not at all," I would say. "Instead of visiting your rich resorts and being brainwashed by your tourist-focused propaganda, I'm going to head into some of your most remote locations and witness how the impoverished indigenous people are oppressed and harassed by your government. Then I'm going to go home and blog and talk about how corrupt Mexican politicians rape the land and exploit the people to line their own pockets and the pockets of rich lobbyists and greedy heads of industry. It should be really interesting."

She would continue smiling even as she calls out, "Security!"

But she didn't smile, so our exchange was perfunctory at best.

"You are here for education?" she asks eyeing my backpack.

"Yes," I answer with a small smile. No elaboration. No details.

Ka-thump. She stamps my tourist card application (but not my passport), rips off the wallet-sized card and returns everything to me with lightning-speed, before pointing to a corridor on my left and saying "Through there."

I follow the signs for baggage knowing that I will only retrieve my luggage at Tuxtla. I asked an airport worker for direction and head through customs. Nobody asked me for my customs documentation so I didn't offer it up. I didn't have documentation for the roasted coffee that I was carrying and was afraid that might tie my up a little. My paperwork did indicate that I had it in my luggage but, hey, if they weren't asking, I wasn't offering.

I dropped my backpack, camera, boarding pass, passport and purse into the basket and threw it on the conveyor belt so that it could be irradiated for the safety of all my fellow passengers. The moment I realized that I had lost temporary possession of my passport (even though it was part of airport security procedures) I got quite anxious. Never a good poker player, my anxiety was quickly broadcast by my face for all to see. One of the three young workers recognized my anxiety and took a couple of steps towards me in response to my reaction. I rummaged through the basket even as it was still exiting the security x-ray and breathed a sigh of relief when I had it again in my hand. They laughed and teased and I smiled back politely. The only word I caught was "pasaporte."

I found the room for Mexicana passengers to check in and get their boarding passes. I got into queue and waited. Between the passenger queue and the ticket counter was a line of tables with airport workers going through luggage. I was finally pointed towards one of these tables.

"Is carry-on?" the young lady asked in broken English.

"Yes. Si." I reply as she looks it over.

"Wait," she murmured before moving to another table.

My backpack was big. Packed, it fit exactly the maximum dimensions allowed by Air Canada for carry-on. That said, there was a little metal device nearby that suggested my carry-on would only be acceptable if it fit neatly inside the space provided. I had my doubts that I would be able to cram my backpack into that tiny space and began to take a mental inventory of the clothes inside my bag devising a strategy to transport as many layers as possible using my body. The word heatstroke hung in the periphery of my mind as I stood sweating in the light cotton sweater I was already wearing.

I watched as other passengers moved forward from their table to the ticket counter. I waited. Did they forget about me? I cleared my throat to remind them that I was waiting. I waited. I cleared my throat again, ready to break into song. I would sing loudly and badly (but happily so as not to attract the wrong kind of attention) to help move things along.

"Aqui!" said the man at the ticket counter pointing in my general direction.

I looked behind me, and then back at him. I pointed to myself and he nodded.

I handed over my electronic boarding pass and he asked if I had any luggage to check. "No," was my quick bilingual reply. He generated an authentic airport boarding pass, circled Gate B and ended our exchange even before it had begun.

"Where?" I asked.

"Up the stairs," he replied as he pointed towards the doorway.

"Thank you. Gracias." I said turning away.

I walked out of the room and found myself in the busy thoroughfare of Mexico City's Airport. To my left was an exit to the street. It was pouring rain outside and a sudden and loud crack of thunder rolled into the corridor where the sound was amplified. I was shocked by the humidity; the air was thick with it. The airport workers were wearing slacks, shirts, vests and blazers in spite of it and I was reminded that this was Mexico's winter season. I wondered what it would be like in mid-August under a hot summer sun.

I would like to say that I walked to the gate and waited for my flight, but I quickly learned that it would not be so simple because in front of me and to my right were no less than four banks of escalators taking me to various locations upstairs. With 25% odds for success, I decided to hop on one and start moving. I had just under one hour to make my connection. At the top of the escalator I started walking. I walked for about 8 minutes...and I was not strolling...before I decided I had gone in the wrong direction. I stopped a security worker and asked for directions. Without a smile, he pointed back towards the way I had come and said, "Gate B."

"Gate B," I thought, "I know, I know, but there's no gate B. Gates back there are numbered not lettered. Argggh. I found a washroom, took off my sweater, dug out a clean, dry t-shirt and hoisted my backpack once again onto my back. Ten minutes later, I found myself back at the top of the escalator. This time I veered left onto an overpass that took me to a corridor on the other side of the busy airport. I followed the corridor past offices and doorways meant for authorized personnel only thinking the entire time, "This can't be right." I half-expected someone to question my purpose and turn me around, but at the end of the corridor a bend to the right took me towards Gate B.

Gate B is a complete misnomer by the way. Gate B is actually a doorway to boarding gates 0 - 300,000. Alright, I'm exaggerating a bit, however Gate B is a doorway to a huge number of gates used to shepherd the passengers of Mexicana's many domestic flights. I was so suddenly flooded with a sense of relief that I forgot about my thirst, my hunger and my fatigue. I found my flight and dropped onto a bench next to a very old Mexican man who smiled and nodded. I closed my eyes and caught my breath. When I opened my eyes again, the old man was gone. I looked around and saw a motley crew of people at the gate.

A trio of Spanish cleaning ladies were chatting quickly and passionately in Spanish. They leaned against their mops and carts as if bracing themselves for the exchange. Most people chatted on cellphones. The older lady across from me sat quietly with hands folded over the purse in her lap. I caught a movement from my right and realized that the old man had returned. I realized that he had forgotten his parcel; in fact it was a Spiderman lunch bag. I smiled in his direction.

A gentleman and his wife entered the lounge and dropped onto the bench across from me. She closed her eyes and he began fishing around for their boarding passes and documentation. An announcement flooded the lounge and people began to walk towards the counter. I waited. I didn't know which seats were filling, but I thought I would wait and board the plane at the last possible moment. Another announcement prompted the couple to stand.

"Excuse me, what seats are boarding?" I asked the couple.

"Well, they said that anyone needing assistance may board, but everybody is getting on," said the gentleman. "Where are you going?"

"San Cristobal." I replied.

"Us too," he replied. "We are going to a wedding in San Cristobal. Our daughter is a missionary there. After the wedding, we're going to Guatemala on a missions trip. Are you just visiting?"

"I'm actually joining a fair trade delegation," I explained, "through Higher Grounds Trading."

This comment drew a reaction from two ladies to my left. They turned in my direction and began talking to one another.

"You are doing important work," he said.

"You too," I offered. "Friends from work just returned from building homes for three families in Guatemala. They were just returning as I was leaving."

We began walking down the gangplank towards the plane as we continued our chat. At a pause in our conversation, the two ladies I noticed earlier turned towards me and one said, "Amavida Coffee," in greeting.

"Equator Coffee," I replied.

"See you in Tuxtla," they said.

I lost sight of them on the plane as I looked to find the window seat identified on my boarding pass. With my backpack in front of me, I struggled down the narrow aisle drawing a few angry looks from the passengers coming into contact with the straps and sides of my massive carry-on. When I found my seat fourteen nasty looks later, I lifted my backpack towards the overhead storage. "Um....no," I muttered reconsidering my plan. I threw it onto the floor in front of my seat and began trying to stuff it under the seat in front of mine. That space was awfully small. I looked at the space to my left; it was bigger. I kicked at my bag with one and then both of my feet leaning against the back of my seat for leverage. Halfway. Good enough.

Within minutes we were in the air. When we had reached our maximum cruising altitude, the flight attendants made their way down the aisle with refreshments. Peanuts! It's been years since I've seen peanuts on a flight. Peanuts! What with all the allergies, I thought that this airline offering had long since disappeared. What a treat. There was no bottled water, so I asked for a Coke. It was Coca Cola or juice and I just wasn't in a mood for juice. I savored my peanuts and watched out the window as Mexico City was replaced by flatland and then rolling hills.

As we approached Tuxtla, we decreased our altitude and I could easily see the landforms below. For as far as I could see, the highlands spread out towards the horizon. It looked like the back of a sleeping dragon with brown spikes rising up from the earth. I spotted a river winding its way through the mountains with a kind of harmony only found in nature and art. The pilot announced our descent as I gazed out the window.

Tuxtla Gutierrez is a city nestled within a valley surrounded by mountains. It was spectacular, I thought. As we flew even lower, I could see tin shacks dotting the mountainsides reflecting the light of the sun. Within minutes we touched down and it occurred to me that this trip was just about to begin.

I could barely contain my excitement.

Leaving Home

I woke early on the 11th. I showered and dressed and prepared myself for a long day of travel. I reviewed the contents of my luggage one last time before locking them up. Sleeping bag...check. Binoculars...check. First Aid Kit...check. Insect repellant, flashlight, rain gear, Pepto Bismo...check, check, check, check. I made sure one last time that my carry on luggage did not contain liquids or gels of more than 100ml (no sense getting held up at airport security). I tied my running shoes, grabbed my jacket and headed down the stairs stopping only to gently plant kisses on the forehead of my two sleeping angels. I knew already that I would miss them terribly when I was away.

I got into my car and prepared to drive myself to the airport. My sister had offered to drive me, but I prefer to do things on my own. It allows me the freedom to be spontaneous and keeps me from straining to fit into the schedules of others.

The driving was good; the highways were clear and traffic was light. I realized about 15 minutes into my journey that I hadn't left myself a lot of time. I probably should have left home at 3:15 am instead of at 3:45. No sense worrying about that now. I pushed a little harder on the accelerator. I took the Bronson exit and headed towards the Airport Parkway. I briefly entertained the notion of stopping for coffee, but decided instead to postpone that treat until I was seated safely at my gate.

More cars were starting to join me on my journey to the airport. We danced and wove our way through the streets until we arrived at the Airport Parkway where we settled into single file. I checked the clock - 4:05 a.m. -- I wished I had left earlier. "Please help me get to the gate on time Lord," I say. I follow the cab in front of me as we continue down the parkway. The road is dark, the sky is overcast and there is no moonlight to help me see. I begin to spot signs for the Park & Ride and realize that I am getting close. I see lights in the distance. "Must be the traffic lights at the airport," I think. As I approach the lights however, I moan under my breath. There's been an accident at the intersection. Where I should be turning left into the long-term parking lot, two police cars act as a barricade. "Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no," I repeat out loud, "please help me find my way Lord."

I followed the road to the arrivals lane. I ease my way past the entrance to the airport and its long line of taxi cabs. I continue past the airport and approach the accident from a new direction. I press on the brakes as an officer motions for me to slow down. I turn right into the long-term parking and a white van is blocking my path. I can't tell if I am supposed to stay behind the van or go around it. I decide to go around and see that the front end of the van is missing. Clearly this was one of the cars involved in the accident.

I punch the button on the electronic parking attendant and retrieve my ticket as I enter into the long term parking lot. I begin to snake my way through the rows of parked cars. P1, no empty spaces; P2, no empty spaces; P3, no empty spaces. I turn down P4 and mutter, "Isn't anybody coming home?" I find a spot in P5. It appears to be the only parking space that has not been cleared in the last month. I try to back in and my tires spin on the ice and snow. I shoot forward, throw the car into reverse and then stomp on the gas pedal. I bounce into the spot and jam the car into park stealing a look at the clock - 4:12 a.m. "Gotta run!"

I grab my bags from the backseat, lock the car and run towards the airport. The wind tears at my skin and my hands begin to ache with the cold. In the absence of mittens, I pulled my sleeves down over my hands. My eyes begin to water and I try to blink them away. I finally see the entrance in front of me and I jog towards the door. It feels great to be inside again. I put down my bag and rub my hands together.

I go to the web-check in counter and hand over one of my bags. The lovely lady informs me that she checked them all the way through to Tuxtla. What a relief! I grab my backpack and my camera and head towards the departures gate. There is barely a lineup at the pre-boarding security check and I am at my gate in just a few minutes.

I drop down into my seat and put my head in my hands. I'm here. I made it, and I have time to spare. I pull out my reading material and begin the task of researching my destination.

Chiapas:

• is the southern most state of Mexico;
• has an area of 74,211 km²;
• has a population of 4,293,459; a quarter of which is made up of individuals who are full or predominantly of Mayan descent;
• suffers from the highest malnutrition rate in Mexico;
• was the site of a violent uprising in 1994 when the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) fought the Mexican government's treatment of its indigenous people; and
• is home to over 32 "rebel autonomous Zapatista municipalities."

An announcer tells me that my flight is about to board. I gather up my reading materials and fish my passport out of my purse. As I stroll down the runway, I smile in anticipation of what is going to be the adventure of a lifetime. I find my window seat and nearly burst with joy when I see that there is no seat in front of me. I stretch out my legs and lean back in my seat as I close my eyes. It was an early day, I think to myself, I think I'll catch a nap.

Chiapas, Mexico

I returned from Chiapas last night shortly after midnight. I have many, many stories to share with you. I would like to start tonight but I am still exhausted from the trip and my bed is calling to me, coaxing me to lie between its warm blankets.



This trip was, by far and away, the most exciting experience of my life. As I told my bosses, it was the coolest thing I have ever done. I was challenged physically, emotionally, spiritually and intellectually during my journey through Chiapas and it has left me reeling. Its fascinating history and political environment make it a compelling study and I know even now that I will continue to learn about it in the months ahead.

Even as I woke this morning, I could feel the pull of its unanswered questions and so I found myself connecting to the Internet briefly over the noon hour to check in on events that are unfolding in my absence. My thoughts keep returning to Agua Azul and the families that live there as I worry helplessly about their safety.

Where do I begin?

Trip to the Mayan Highlands

I'm going to check the mail today. I'm waiting for my passport to arrive. I am leaving on February 11th for a trip to Chiapas, Mexico. We're setting up at San Cristobal de las Casas and taking day trips into the mountains, surrounding villages and (hopefully) the Lacandon rainforest.

I'm going as part of my work with Equator Coffee Roasters to visit the coffee cooperative we deal with in Yachil. Higher Grounds Trading Company organizes Fair Trade Tours to help people in the industry better understand the social impact of fair trade on the farmers and their villages. This is one of those tours. I will be travelling with a group of other people representing buyers and resellers of Mexican Yachil coffee. The green arrow in the picture here, just north of Guatemala is our destination.

Fair trade is really just better money than coffee sold on the common market. It is a supply chain absent of the greedy middleman taking a cut of the raw coffee by diminishing the farmers' pay. I think the point of the tours is to ensure that people in our industry don't rest with the self-satisfied belief that they are doing their part. The farmers that grow and harvest our coffee struggle to find water and medicine and other necessities of life that we take for granted. These farmers need our help and support and that extends far past the extra $4-5 we spend on a package of coffee.

This weekend, I'll get my suitcase packed and buy the items that I need for my trip. Among the things on my packing list are sleeping bag, raincoat, insect repellant, toilet paper and bottled water. I have to admit, when I saw the sleeping bag, I got a little nervous. I thought that we would be staying in a modest inn or hotel but I'm wondering now what to expect. A hostel? A house? A tent? I'll be happy with anything that has four walls and a roof. Of course I'll take my camera. There is very little drinking water where we're going so I don't think I need to concern myself with many of the toiletries that I would normally pack for vacation. I've crossed-off shampoo, conditioner and mousse. I won't bother packing my perfume or evening-wear. I will, however pack something that would be appropriate to wear into a church in case the opportunity arises.

Winter Storm Warning & A Squirrel

Well, the buses have been cancelled today. There's not a single snowflake in sight, but they are predicting 30 - 40 centimetres of snow. That's 15 - 20 inches of snow! They say it will come mixed with freezing rain. It's already in Toronto (4 hours west of here). I wonder if my brother's flight home from Cuba will make it in or if he and his family will be forced to layover somehwere. If so, I hope he his layover is in Cuba and not Toronto's Pearson International Airport.

I checked on his house this week and he doesn't have water. Now he didn't mention that he was going to shut off his water but I sure hope it didn't freeze. What a terrible homecoming present that would be.

We have been feeding birds this winter and have lots of fun watching their antics. It's attracting squirrels too. I know some people get bent out of shape when squirrels dip into their birdseed supply but I don't mind. They're cute (at a distance) and funny, funny, funny to watch. They are persistent and playful and ingenious.

We watched this little guy pick up seeds from the ground below the bird feeder. He sat pretty so we could take his picture through the window. I wonder what he's going to do today when the snow starts to fall. Will he tunnel into a snowbank and then tunnel back out tomorrow morning all the time wondering why it's taking twice as long to get out? Will he find a hole in a tree and sit in his little den eating his stockpile of nuts until the storm passes? Maybe he'll run around trying to catch snowflakes with his tiny little hands or on the tip of his little squirrly tongue. Probably not that.

Well, I had better get started. The drive to work will be fine but I am predicting an early end to my day.

Winterlude starts today. I'm going to try and find out if the ice sculpting contest begins today or tomorrow. I'd like to go downtown on day two of the contest and watch them finish up their works of art. I'll take some photos and post them here.