Newsletter

My Night with the Polyglots in San Cristobal

A window into my future?

Michael Vaughan

08 Feb 2026 — 10 min read

I spent five days in San Cristóbal de las Casas, a tiny mountain town in the region of Chiapas—one of the poorest states in México. The region has a large indigenous population, most of whom are farmers, some of whom only speak Tzotzil. With cobblestone streets, an old colonial feel, and tucked in a valley with lush mountains on every side, San Cris felt immediately different than anywhere else I’d been in Mexico. After the stifling heat of Puerto Escondido and Mazunte, the mountain altitudes and green hillsides made me physically sigh with relief.

Subscribe now

Zapatistas

Chiapas is home to the Zapatistas, a separatist group who staged an armed rebellion against the Mexican government in 1994, after having trained in the jungle for 10 years. They were fed up with poor treatment by the state, having little access to basic public services like healthcare, education, and shelter, and decided to make themselves forcibly heard by taking the town of San Cristobal. They had a shootout with the government forces, losing about 180 of their soldiers, and eventually settling via negotiations. They have since retreated to their autonomous enclaves in the hills of Chiapas.

Their leader at the time, Subcomandante Marcos, is a warrior-poet type, publishing pamphlets, manifestos, and smoking his pipe through his balaclava with a wry smile. Legend has it he was a philosophy professor plucked from a prominent CDMX university and sent to be the frontman of the movement. If that’s the case, kudos to their PR department. The dude is just cool as fuck.

Subcomandante Marcos - Wikipedia, la enciclopedia libre — Subcomandante Marcos

Having inhaled a few documentaries and bought a few pamphlets, I decided I had to visit the Zapatistas. I read an account of a woman who visited the enclave of Oventic. It seemed like you just found a colectivo headed that way and you simply showed up at their somewhat visitor-friendly village. You must bring your passport and plead your case to the guards at the gate, because technically the enclaves are not part of Mexico. It was entirely up to the guard’s discretion whether you got in. Sort of like a Berghain of the Mexican highlands.

I threw up the bat signal in the hostel group chat, asking if anyone else wanted to join. A French guy responded saying he was also planning to visit the same village later that day. We had breakfast together and I learn he was an active member of the French communist party. I couldn’t have asked for a better travel companion.

We agreed we’d go later that afternoon, so I went around various cafés, reading up about Zapatismo before our journey later that day. At around 11:30 I text François, “We still on?” He then proceeds to bail…

I wonder, is he truthfully not going, or has he assessed me as a liability? Is he thinking that it’s better to go alone than to bring along a gringo with an American passport?

In any case, I would fly solo. I make my way to the intersection where I’m told the colectivo’s leave and sure enough I find a driver who is headed to Oventic. Sadly, I learn that by the time we would arrive at the gates, we’d have to immediately turn around. Tomorrow wasn’t an option as I would fly out first thing. There simply wasn’t enough time. I had waited too long. Even if I had gone, the driver tells me the last time they let in an outsider was over two months ago. It seemed like the trip was doomed to fail from the outset. I wonder if my French comrade had any luck.

So, without my separatist buddies, I walked around and explored the markets. I eventually bought a little wallet made in Oventic and a wool doll of a Zapatista soldier. Maybe it was better to leave them alone and show my support from afar.

Hostel People

Hostels feel like summer camp and I’m not sure if I like it. You sleep in a bunk with a bunch of people you don’t know, adapting to their schedules, tip-toe-ing in the evening to not disturb them, etc. I feel like my bed and belongings are in a constant state of disarray as my two Argentinian roommates have the opposite sleep schedule as me. The act of cleaning up my stuff would cause significant rustling and I don’t want to disturb them. My bed is usually unmade and my suitcase is a volcano of clothes.

Despite the inconveniences, you do meet a lot of people. Some recent highlights include a British 24 year old who hitchhiked through Mongolia, three Dutch skaters traveling through Mexico together (one of whom is a 5th generation bricklayer), and a French data scientist who’s on sabbatical for a year (absolutely alien to the American mind).

I’ve found a lot of common ground with these strangers, but I can’t help but feel immediately different from the Danish kids doing shots off their friend’s asses midway through their gap year. Yet perhaps on some level, we share something. We’re on the road. We’ve opted out of normal life. We’re all self-imposed castaways.

Some of the older travelers I met have lived long enough to have a reason for traveling, like the British woman trying to find clarity after splitting with her husband, or the Frenchman who was fed up with his life, trying to find another city to plant himself in. Other travelers seem to be playing Pokemon with life experience, catching all seven world wonders, visiting every single country on earth, as if life experience were just a list you can check off.

I don’t know where I sit on this spectrum. Perhaps somewhere on the middle. I have always wanted to see Latin America, but I hope to have a deeper connection. I remember watching Mexican or Argentinian movies with my dad, fascinated by the window into a new culture for a few hours. I wondered what would life be like there. I know I’m spurred forward by some angsty longing for something, but I’m not sure what that is yet.

The Polyglot Club

On one of the last days in Chiapas I decided I wanted to practice my Spanish, so I looked up language exchanges and found there was a meeting of the Polyglot club at a nearby café. Excited, I looked forward to an evening spent speaking Spanish, English, maybe learning some phrases in Italian or French. It seemed like a great counterpoint to my adventure thus far, meeting real residents, rather than other travelers. I even went so far as to move around my attempted Zapatista excursion because I wanted to make it back for this in time.

I geared myself up and set off for the café alone. When I arrived, I looked around the café for a table of worldly, well-traveled multicultural folk. I didn’t see any. I asked the barista, “Is the polyglot club here today?” He motioned to a table of grey-haired, crepey-skinned old dudes. One was wearing a Panama hat, the other sporting urban hiking gear.

I considered bolting right then and there. I have been to many contrived meetups in my life and unfortunately, I know how this goes. Meetup people tend to be thoroughly weird and unsocialized. Unable to make friends through normal channels, they lean on “activity-based”meetups. I’ve been to groups which were ostensibly based on everything from language to comedy to cycling. The activity usually has little to do with the gathering, instead it’s usually more a shared sense of loneliness and awkwardness which bind these groups together. I don’t know why I thought this one would be different. Immediately, it was a deeply fucking weird vibe.

I decided I would stay for one drink. I should give them the benefit of the doubt, right? At the very least, I should see where this rabbit hole goes. A roomful of strangers in San Cristobal were bound to have a few good stories in them. So I bought my beer and braved my way out to the back of the café, announcing myself as I sat down, “Hi, is this the polyglot club?”

Instantly all heads turned my way. “Indeed it is.” One of them cooed.

A smooth skinned man in a faux Indiana Jones hat looked me straight in the eyes. “Hello young man.... Where are you from?”

Frightened, I replied, “Washington DC, but I’ve been living in Lisbon for 4 years.”

“Lisbon! How interesting” They agreed. I could see the subjects forming above their heads, conversations about to start. I gasped my beer and dug into my seat.

They elected a leader to continue their questioning, nominating Stan, an 80 year old from Holyoke, Massachusetts to take charge. The following conversation was entirely in English and included topics ranging from cultural differences between Canadians and Americans, US political tensions, and history lessons from the Vietnam War.

This was indeed the Polyglot Club, but it seemed everyone was American and only spoke English. I ventured a few phrases in Spanish to Stan, who after a great deal of effort and some pained facial expressions, blurted back a few words in the foreign tongue. It was clear that this cost him a lot of mental effort. I didn’t want to pain him any further, so we just spoke English.

Finally after about 15 minutes, or when my obligatory beer was about done, a Mexican dude entered our table. I think his name was Simon. He was from San Cris, and worked as a software developer for Microsoft. Simon comes to the Polyglot Club every week to practice his English, which thankfully, there’s plenty of opportunity to do.

Simon and I speak in a mixture of Spanish and English for about 20 minutes. Then he goes silent. I realize I’m scaring him with my direct line of questioning. I feel bad. I try to talk more to put him at ease, beginning a few mini monologues where I look off into the distance and try to conjure up something to say. This doesn’t work. Simon looks back at me, silent, shellshocked, afraid to speak in any language. Looking around, I wonder, what the fuck am I still doing at the Polyglot Club?

Suddenly, I find myself pinned down by heavy fire as Stan shells me with stories from his heyday. He tells me about dodging the draft during Vietnam, about his political beliefs, about a friend of his who thought he was the long lost cousin of Jesus (he gained a good following in Western Mass in the late 70’s). He’s clearly been wound up by a long solitude, and is eager to unleash his stories on any nearby listener. I try to display facial expressions which convey, “I’m politely listening, but also, please stop.” Stan doesn’t take the hint. He unleashes a few more anecdotes in rapid succession. I hit him with the, “Cool.” With the “wow, that’s crazy.” Unsure if I need to respond with questions or affirmations, I try out a few options. “Nice, that’s sick.” I turn up the disrespect dial ever so slightly, “Mmhmm,” looking away, hoping that might end the onslaught. No luck. He heads in for more, peppering me with one story after another. Abruptly, I take the final sip of my beer and set it down.

“Stan, I’m sorry but I gotta go.”

“That’s a shame. I had so much more to tell you, but I guess… if you gotta go.”

I felt bad for leaving him, but I had to make a run for it. I waved a half-assed goodbye to the rest of the table, excused myself, and bolted off down the street, breathing a deep sigh of relief once I was finally free.

My encounter with the Polyglot Club had instilled in me a new fear. Were they me? Might I become the weird American expat at the end of the coffee table telling stories about his messiah friend to some unsuspecting youngin? Am I already recounting some version of the good ole days to the 22 year old Swiss-German architecture student at the hostel lobby?

I am discovering that I sit at the upper age bracket of the travelers I meet. When I made friends with the Belgians, the 20 year old said, “It’s cool you’re still doing stuff like this at your age.” Another night, after a 25 year old Spaniard learned I am 33, he said, “Wowww man. Being old must be cool because you get so much experience, no? Do you have any advice?”Advice?! Am I now so old that some people see me as the wise sage?!

My body is showing signs of aging. When I look at myself in the mirror I see crows feet setting in around my eyes. My first grey hairs emerged just a few days ago.Already I can count five. I’ve had hip surgery and I’m told I need another. I may be on the early side of this process, but I feel the wave of age coming and it doesn’t seem fun.

Knowing this, I guess I should show more mercy to my elders. It’s just that I just can’t quiet my internal monologue–I simply enjoy hanging out with some people more than others. Older folks are just like the rest of us, there are fun ones and less fun ones.

I will endeavor to be kind to the Stans of this world, but I will surely decline a second beer with them. More importantly, no more Meetups for a while.

When I was safely down the street, far from the eyes and ears of the Polyglots, I ducked into a local restaurant. I had a thick molé overtop plantain tortillas and a delicious cocktail made from pox. I just wanted to be alone. It was fantastic.