Taller de Juan Casa-Hotel

Before arriving in San Cristóbal de las Casas, I’d endured an 11-hour, four-vehicle journey from Guatemala and then four nights in a hostel where, though I had a private room, well, it was a hostel. So, let’s just say I was more than feliz to arrive at Taller de Juan and bask in the tranquillity (and no waiting for the shower) of an eight-room boutique hotel.

I push open the glass doors of the whitewashed building and am greeted by a tropical oasis of a courtyard — typical of Mexican casas (although perhaps not the swing) — and I instantly feel at peace. I quickly check in and am led upstairs to my suite, which is the only room not on the ground floor. My jaw almost drops — it’s the biggest space I’ve stayed in a long, long time — it’s like a loft apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rooftops of San Cristóbal and the mountains hugging the city, complete with a kitchen, living area and even a workspace. Though I always have to work to do, I resist spending time knocking out features at Taller de Juan. The spacious apartment also includes my favourite feature: a freestanding bath (thrilling for someone who has not had a bath — or should I say, access to a bath — since I set off for my Latin American adventure three months before). That will have multiple use, I assure myself.

I linger in the apartment for a while and make use of the equally exciting kettle. I also can’t tell you how much joy a kettle gives me after months of dealing with heating pans of agua, or getting a coffee machine to heat water and being left with a strong coffee after-taste. But enough of my admiration; it’s time to explore more of this city in the valleys, with its cobblestone streets, colourful buildings and strong indigenous culture, which I’d already started falling for.

It’s this indigenous culture I want to dig deeper into and so I take a collectivo (shuttle) to the town of San Juan Chamula, about a 30-minute ride away. One of the key reasons tourists visit this town is for the goings-on inside the white church with a green arch next to the market. Inside the candle-lit church is something you’re not likely to see anywhere else: people kneeling on the floor chanting religious rituals, some holding live chickens (about to be sacrificed) in a black plastic bag, others placing bottles of Coca-Cola and alcohol in front of them. It’s an unreal experience and one you politely and quietly observe. To further witness the attachment to Coca-Cola — seen as a sacred object here due to its burp-causing capabilities (burping is seen here as cleansing the soul) — I make a detour to the nearby cemetery to see bottles of it laid at various headstones. It's absolutely surreal and fascinating to see how a popular soft drink has seeped into religion.

I return to the city and head to Loving Hut, a small Asian-focused vegan joint where I knock back bibimbap and, because I rarely come across vegan desserts, I treat myself to apple pie and ice-cream, all the while people-watching with the sight of the glorious 16th-century Templo de Santo Domingo in front of me. I make a spontaneous and random decision to seek out a facial — all the while knowing that I have just minutes to find a place before all the beauticians close an hour later. After one failure, I find one and it leaves me glowing and feeling like it’s removed all the grit from backpacking for the last three months. I head back to the hotel for a good snooze in the massive bed.

But the next morning, I awake with the dreaded stomach cramps that can afflict tourists unused to the water in Mexico and know straightaway that it has come for me. How grateful I am that if it was going to happen, it happens while I'm staying in an apartment at Taller de Juan. While my stomach rumbles, I play Mexican musicians on the record player, enjoy a soothing soak in the egg-shaped bath, and order a healthy breakfast of a green shake, avocado on toast and fruit, which I save for later. And it’s while I’m feeling bleurgh, wearing no make-up and poring over my Jon Snow memoir, that a local architect turned real estate hombre visiting for breakfast engages in conversation and asks me out, handing me his card. At least there’s some hope that IRL flirtations can still happen, or at least from the Latinos, even if you’re feeling like death.

Despite feeling weary, the sun is shining and I’m eager to enjoy another magical day in this gorgeous city. I manage to take myself off to El Arcotete, a park located about five kilometres from the centre of San Cristóbal. I walk in the forest, decline the opportunity to go ziplining across the trees, am followed by a stray dog (this always seems to happen to me) and find a relaxing spot to read and lie with the sun beating down on me. I had more plans for that afternoon and evening — a boozy night with new friends made, cocktails, dinner, but instead it’s a night of renewing the Netflix subscription to watch the Frida Kahlo film, and order a bowl of pasta to my room. The staff are amazing when I tell them I’m ill, bringing me medication, ginger tea and a hot-water bottle, and giving me a deliciously late check-out.

This might seem strange given the circumstances, but before I leave I have a 90-minute spa treatment at the hotel. It was already in the diary and my knotted back overrides the sickness, and so I have a relaxing massage that helps take my mind off how I'm feeling. Afterwards I head round the corner — there are so many wonderful restaurants nearby — to Sarajevo Café Jardin for falafel (I’m craving a regular comfort) and salad. As I check-out, I am warmly informed that the artworks by a Mexican artist that are dotted around the hotel and rooms can be bought, but on a backpacker’s budget, sadly I’ll have to leave that for another guest to splash their dineros on.