The Mexican Tourism Board has designated a number of cities in Mexico as Pueblo Magico, an honor indicating a place of exceptional beauty, historical significance, and tourist opportunities that provide a "magical" experience. Most are colonial cities, built before 1650, in the first 150 years of Spanish occupation of the New World. Some like San Cristóbal de las Casas and Comitán de Domíngues in Chiapas were founded a mere fifty years after Cortes invaded the mainland of Mexico.

Until 1915, Comitán was known as Comitán de las Flores (of the flowers). It was renamed after its native son, senator Dr. Belisario Domingues, was murdered for speaking out against the Huerta government. President Huerta himself was one of a group of men who murdered Dominguez. They cut off his tongue as a symbolic warning to others. 

Comitán is lower in altitude than San Cristóbal where I have lived periodically for nine months. It's warmer but at a high enough elevation the hotels don't have air conditioning. It is still a place of flowers. Bougainvillea are everywhere, along with many varieties of flowering trees. Every little garden glimpsed through open gates is a flower showcase of color. The Mayans have also used colorful bromeliads from the vast rain forest in their religious celebrations for centuries. Many are now becoming endangered. 

Unlike San Cristóbal, Comitán does not have the foreign tourist draw, and thus has been spared the negative side of massive tourism. There are no wandering street vendors who thrust goods in your face while you sit at a sidewalk cafe trying to eat lunch or talk with your friends. There are almost no beggars. An assortment of shoe shine boys wander the streets with their boxes, and people sit in the shade in the Zocalo with their packets of gum and candy for sale. Little stands are posted here and there on the streets selling tacos, belts and knock-off handbags. But as a tourist, time spent in Comitán is tranquil, without constant bombardment to buy-give-buy. 

Comitán seems to have a forward-thinking city government. Many modern sculptures by some very famous Mexican artists dot the city and Zocalo. Belisario Dominguez' daughter donated her home for a modern art museum, his own home is a historical museum, and the city has a good selection of artifacts from Tenam Puente and Chinkultic in the archeological museum. Housed in that same building is a decent library with a large Internet center and several interesting historical murals. 

Around the Zocalo are small restaurants, side by side, competing with each other by having virtually identical menus. The competition is between the handsome young men who try to persuade you to eat at their particular establishment. And there's a good coffee shop in a corner of the Zocalo with modern murals gracing its interior. 

A few blocks from the Zocalo, another interesting church, frequented by the local indigenous people, is the center for many celebrations and fairs that set up in the large plaza. Iglesia de San Caralampio is a bright yellow church almost always filled with the sweet scent of thousands of flowers. Outside, the sacred jaguar is represented by a lovely sculpture atop a bright red rock.

Comitán is a center of commerce with many businesses lining the carretera, the main highway through town. It has old and modern hotels, excellent restaurants that serve traditional Chiapanecan food, and a few restaurants feature other cuisines. I ate at one, Cucina Italia, recently opened by an Canadian-Italian and his Comitán born wife. The lasagna was as good as any I've ever eaten, even in Italy. He makes the pastas. The sauces are created from fresh tomatoes, picked that morning, and delivered to the market.

The people of Comitán are friendly and courteous. The pace is slow and the desire to enjoy each moment in life is a measure of the local character. A lovely city, and well deserving of its designation: Pueblo Magico.

A combi in Mexico is a van, usually a Toyota van, stripped on the inside with bench seats installed along each wall, behind the driver's seat, and across the back. Packed they can hold upwards of 20 people, with many standing and holding onto bars installed across the ceiling.

I've had some amazing and frightening combi rides. One in particular was along Lake Patzcuaro when the van was packed so solidly that if it rolled, probably everyone would have remained in the same place when it righted itself. Fortunately, even though the driver was going too fast, on a rainy night with all kinds of livestock looming out of the darkness, we didn't have an accident.

Combies stop and go all the time. Anyone can flag down a combi and unless no one else can be squeezed in, the driver will stop and let more people get on. Combi drivers have a reputation for crazy fast driving around turns, passing other cars on blind curves, for sliding over the yellow line into the oncoming lane and all kinds of driving misbehaviors, yet, miraculously, you almost never hear of a combi flying off a cliff and killing everyone. Sometimes they go off the road and people get hurt, but more often than not, the drivers are just careful enough.

Combis that go between towns are usually newer and have seats like a van or school bus. The more expensive the ticket, the more comfortable the seat. Sometimes a combi is owned by the driver who pays a commission to the company he drives for (I say "he" because I have never seen a woman driver....). Sometimes they are paid only a percentage of the take for the day, another reason to pack-out the little bus.

And once in a while a driver is so bad you know your time on earth is limited, so bad an atheist would pray.

Such was the wild ride from Las Guacamayas through the mountains to Comitán.

I had a clue. I could have gone with my gut and not gotten on in the first place, but combies go to Las Guacamayas only when they are called, it's not a regular stop, and I'd been waiting for two hours. The driver was young, probably not yet 25 years old. The van was old, rusty in spots, the back tires bald, and the interior had a foul odor. I knew from experience the odor was the least of my worries.

Clue number two was the windshield. There was a big crack running across it. The top 1/3 of the windshield was covered with some kind of sun shade material to block all light The bottom 1/3 had an opaque layer of white with writing on it, something about trusting God. And directly in front of the driver, just above the steering wheel and directly in his line of vision was his radio with a springy cord holding the mic. And to block his vision even further, he had danglies hanging down that swayed back and forth as he zoomed around corners.  I'd guess he had maybe 20 percent of the normal visual range.

THEN, he had a radio blasting scratchy Mexican folk music full volume so he couldn't possibly be further distracted from the job of driving a van full of trusting passengers. Oh but I was wrong. He could be further distracted. Not ten miles into the trip we picked up a pretty girl who sat in the front seat next to him, and his driving took an immediate turn for the worse, the showing-off and driving fast to impress a girl kind of worse.

I sat in the far back, my arm out the open window, hanging onto the ladder used to put stuff on the roof. I was thrown back and forth across the bumpy seat until I thought my arm might come out of its socket. The window was a slider and it occurred to me that should we go over the edge, the window might just slice my arm off below the elbow. Of course, I might also be dead so it wouldn't matter too much.

They say travel changes you. I thought it had changed me. Long ago I took the attitude that there is only so much I can do to keep safe, the rest is fate.  But in that combi, I was back peddling like a reformed druggie at a Rolling Stones convention.

I was scared. I wasn't at all serene about the idea of a violent end. I wanted OUT. But there was no getting out. We were flying through curves on mountainous roads in the middle of nowhere, in the jungles of Chiapas, zipping past guys on horseback, for Pete's sake. What would I do, alone on that road with my backpack? Could it possibly be any more unsafe?

Ultimately we made it out of the mountains and down into a valley to a small town called Maravillas Tenejapa. I told the driver I was sick, which wasn't the whole truth, but not a lie either. He offered to let me sit behind him. I said no, I wanted out. On solid ground I found a restroom and a nice lady who was selling tortas under a porch. Together we waited in the cool shade for another combi.

This combi also had a cracked windshield with only one dangly, a cross with Jesus on it. The driver was an older man and the tires had tread. He drove fast too, but somehow it was different.

There comes a time when you have to do something, anything, to change your own fear even if you can't really change anything else.

The Marimba was invented in Chiapas. Chiapa de Corzo appears to be the Marimba capital with a school and workshop where marimba building is taught. It is the music of Chiapas, with many compositions over the years created specifically for this instrument, though just about any lively piece of music can played. The bars of this type of xylophone are arranged just like a piano. The bars are made with hardwoods (rosewood from Honduras is the best, or mahogany is another expensive alternative, or padouk which grows locally.) Beneath each bar there's a resonator. The most authentic marimbas have resonator boxes built from wood that hang down, varying in size depending on the bar's tone. Commercial instruments often have aluminum tubes, and in the folk instruments made in the jungle, empty gourds are used.

In San Cristóbal de las Casas, there are concerts almost every night. A large white gazebo in the Zócalo is the center for Marimba music. It's a two story building with a restaurant on the bottom floor and a large covered performance space above. Last night the door to the upper part was open and a 5-man band with 3 guys on the one Marimba, were playing. A few people were standing around so I went up to listen. It's odd that after almost 9 months of living in this town, I'd never gone upstairs in the gazebo!

A few people over fifty and some twenty-somethings were standing around listening while a whole lot of dance floor was going to waste. The music was not overbearing and very joyous, like a fiesta! The band was clever and played several styles including a fast waltz and big band numbers.  A nice-looking young man was trying to get his girlfriend to dance with him. She was a bit embarrassed, quite a bit overweight, and not a good dancer. He was doing his best to show her the moves, but she seemed more interested in checking the messages on her cell phone. I was sorely tempted to go over and give her a good shake! "Chica! You have a handsome man here who wants to dance with you! He wants you, not some other woman. Wake up and pay attention! Twenty years from now you will remember this night, but you won't remember the stupid text messages."

As I watched them, I was unconsciously jiving to the music myself, and got noticed by a different handsome man, closer to my own age, who asked me to dance. He was good and once I figured out his signals we made a good couple. We were swinging and swaying, having a great time. Pretty soon more people came up the stairs and started dancing. "Me encanta" ("You enchant me!") he said. I headed for home after promising to come again tomorrow night. And I will, it's been awfully hard to find men to dance with. Those who can dance bring their wives. Those who can't stand around wishing they could.