It is all too easy when describing a country to fall into that old cliché ‘a country of great contrasts’ but, when it comes to Mexico, it surely is impossible to avoid.
We’ve been in this huge country for a month now and yet we are still frequently surprised at the variety it has to offer.
Most noticeable has been the constantly changing kaleidoscope of landscapes we have passed through - from sparse deserts to huge mountain ranges, thick forests to sprawling cities - and their associated different climates.
We’ve taken it all, sweating in the parched north, shivering in thin mountain air, baking on the beaches.
All that is, except rain. It never seems to rain in this dry, dry, country.
Our backpacks are groaning with the sizeable wardrobes required to suit these varying conditions, our hat collection expands inexorably as we delve into the local millinery delights.
And still it continues to change, as we head further and further south, leaving the beaches of Oaxaca for the mountains of Chiapas.
Twelve hours on a tarmac ribbon separates them yet, once more, we stepped from one world into another.
Yesterday afternoon we finally tore ourselves away from our beachside idyll, swinging out of Mazunte in a rattling old camionera heading for the inland town of Pochutla, and our bus on to Chiapas.
These converted pick-ups bomb along the dusty roads, a hail-and-ride service ferrying villagers and tourists alike between tiny coastal communities for the price of a few pesos.
Hopping into the back you park yourself on a narrow wooden bench, sat between hawkers heading home and sacks of oranges bound for the market.
The flimsy canvas roof flaps wildly in the breeze as the road weaves up and down little hills, the camionera frequently stopping for passengers or veering wildly off onto a bumpy little dirt track, where neatly-pressed children are dropped off at a church and plump chickens peck in the dust beneath stubby banana trees.
As the road bent north for Pochutla and the camionera lurched over a hilltop we said goodbye to the sunkissed sands upon which we had lounged, the patrolling pelicans and the slow pattering of flip flops, the pounding surf and the strange goose which paid a daily visit to the sands, honking indignantly at the sunbathers as if they were invading conquistadors.
We bade farewell, too, to the Pacific Ocean, the last time we will see this sporadic companion of the last two months.
We have swum in its waters in the east and the west, and indeed have taken a dip right in the middle, albeit in the Hugo’s pool, which drew its waters from the briny aqua through which it passed.
The next sea will be the Caribbean, when we visit Belize; perhaps it’s just the beach but it felt to me like we’ve had a taster of what is to come: bougainvilleas, ‘coco loco’ (’crazy coconut’) cocktails, the laid back pace of life and reggae booming out of palm-thatched shacks.
We won’t find out for sure for a few weeks yet, I reminded myself as we pulled into Pochutla and boarded a night bus for Chiapas, for we were now heading for the mountains.
It was a long night, an arduous journey, as the road rose and rose and chubby fellow passengers serenaded us with nocturnal calls blasting out through their cavernous nasal passages.
In the dark outside we could see little of the famed beauty of the mountain scenery through which we were weaving, only the odd provincial bus station or lonesome army checkpoint, where jeeps idled and jumpy-looking recruits fingered large automatic weapons.
We recalled the advice of our guidebook: try and avoid night buses in Mexico, particularly in this part of the world, for Chiapas is the home of the Zapatistas.
As dawn broke and I scrapped the crud of a disturbed night’s sleep from corner of my eyes, our destination hove into view: San Cristobal de Las Casas.
Soon we were zipping along the narrow empty streets, through inextricably-wound down windows our taxi blasting out salsa and sucking in fresh mountain air.Too fresh for us - the thermometer now barely creeping up to single figures having merrily hovered in the mid 30s back down on the coast.
The Chiapas highlands peered through the mist, mountain peeks soaring above the undulating streets. Low grey clouds blocked out the sun and seemed to press down on the low buildings, squashing them into the ground, resentful of their bright liveries.
Only the blinged-up churches dared to rise above a single storey, their exteriors coated in pastel blues and yellows, a wigwam of plastic flags fluttering over their yards.
Boiling on the beach to freezing in the mountains. Sea level to 6500 feet. All within half a day’s travel.
We feel we’re entering new lands, new zones of influence where the US is far over the horizon and Guatemala - and central America - is hoving into view.
We can see this in the changing ethnic makeup of the people amongst whom we walk.
The inhabitants here are markedly difficult from those farther north; smaller and slighter, their faces darker, their appearances wilder and stranger.
These ‘Indigenous people’, descendents of the Maya, are now greater in number, comprising some 40% of Chiapas’ population, their numbers almost equal to those of the majority mestizo (mixed European / Indian ancestry).
They come in a bewildering range of ethnic groups; many don’t even speak Spanish, even more still wear their traditional costumes.
Tzotzil women scuttle about in black, hairy, woollen skirts and multicoloured shawls, heaving children and wares on their backs in brightly-coloured bundles as they hawk heavy strings of beads to the multitude of Goretexed westerners.
Their menfolk trot alongside them, sporting cream, sleeveless jackets made of wool and dusty black cowboy hats. Some seem to dispense with trousers altogether, preferring instead a rather short type of woollen tunic tied at the waist and hanging several airy inches above the knees.
I tower above these strange people, shivering under four layers of Karrimor and nylon, trying to avoid our icebox of a room, a chilly wendy house set amongst the gardens of a hostel, where hummingbirds hover as bundled-up staff tinker with malfunctioning gas heaters.
In an effort to warm ourselves up we go for a hot chocolate in the town’s traditional Spanish plaza, taking in the ornate iron bandstand and the neatly kept gardens, admiring the dirty yellow walls of the Cathedral and the smart wide colonial-era municipal buildings.
It was hard to imagine what the scene must have been like here on 1st January 1994, the day the Zapatistas came to town.
As Mexico celebrated the day that the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) came into effect, these guerrillas shook the nation, a rag-tag army of balaclavas and bandoliers army which emerged out of the Lacandon jungle and temporarily assuming control of San Cristobal and other towns.
Also known by the catchy acronym of the EZLN (Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional), they draw their inspiration from famous 18th century revolutionary Emiliano Zapatista and his rallying cry ¡Tierra y Libertad! - Land and Liberty!.
As the state with the largest proportion of indigenous people, is also the poorest and life many seems to have improved little for them, in comparison with their mestizo compatriots, ever since the first conquistadore showed his pointy beard in these parts over 500 years ago.
It’s hardly surprisingly, then, that after all this time, some of the impoverished and disenfranchised indigenous peoples of Chiapas might turn to more drastic measures in order to improve their lot.
Whilst the violence might have abated somewhat the sentiments remain.The signs of this are everywhere: graffiti on walls; impressive EZLN murals in cafes and Zapatista merchandise on sale in shops and markets.
Revolucion is, as ever, a nice little earner and you can leave San Cristobal with a mountain of Zapatista memorabilia, from balaclava-clad dolls and Zapatista t-shirts on sale to postcards and hand-woven cushion covers.
With the latter, the revolutionary pin-up of choice is, of course, the enigmatic figure of ‘Subcommandante Marcos’, one of the leaders of the EZLN and very much the modern revolutionary.
The secret of his success surely lies not in his deeds so much as his image.
In the battle for hearts and minds Marcos would have the Pentagon drooling, a savvy spin-doctor who has carefully crafted his image so that he has gained an almost mystical status, attracting a level of adoration amongst some which is almost as intense in its adoration as that of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
Marcos’s image is striking and enticing: a romantic revolutionary, a rebel with a cause. Like Batman, another hero of the people, his identity is unknown, hidden behind his ever-present balaclava. Clad in olive combat fatigues he tops this off with the ultimate in revolutionary accessories: a pipe.
Forget Che and his beret, Fidel and his cigar, Marcos has a pipe . And not only this but he sports it through his balaclava.
I make a mental note to refer his balaclava and briar antics to The Chap magazine. whilst ascending the slippery cobbles back to our hostel.
Another dog siddles by with a bandana tied round its neck and again I ponder whether the townspeople do this to their pooches out of fashion or to distinguish their pet from the many wandering strays.
My thoughts are cut short though when a strange liquid hits my cheek. Then another. And another.
What is this strange watery thing falling from the sky.
It cannot be, it is…rain!
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