A look inside the large Catholic Church revealed thirty or so worshippers giving alms and praying. But this was Mexico; these people weren't here because it was close to Christmas. A visit to the church was a daily ritual for some.

I took a seat and examined the crucifix hanging before me. The body of Jesus had been painted to look life-like, but in places it was blackened by centuries of candle smoke. Other life-size statues showed Jesus kneeling and weakly holding up a hand, silently begging for mercy. In one scene Jesus was tied with pieces of rope and injured in places I had never noticed before. Parts of the wood had been worn away by human contact and devotion.

I visited a Mayan church about an hours drive away and was told that no photos were to be taken inside. "Many Mayans believe photos steal one's soul, causing illness or death," my guide told me.

Outside, the church looked like any other Spanish colonial place of worship. Inside, the floor was covered with pine needles, flowers, and people kneeling before rows of candles. There were neither pews nor any semblance of order; the people knelt and prayed where they found open spots. Pine resin incense burned, clouding the interior and shrouding the Catholic saints housed in their wooden boxes.

"The people here used to have their own nature deities but placated the Spanish authorities by substituting them with pictures of Catholic saints. Over time, the names and characteristics of the original gods were lost," my guide informed me.

Pine branches were tacked to the walls, which made it feel a bit like Christmas; but that was not the reason for the greenery. Instead, it helped the place look more natural, like the mountains and forests of the deities. And instead of dressing-up for church, the women I saw went without shoes. "Keeps them close to Mother Earth. Helps with fertility."

"What's in the bottles?" I asked.

"Coca-Cola."

"No, the clear bottles."

"Alcohol. It's used for religious and social purposes. Alcohol is always offered and never refused between host and guest. Babies are given a taste from their mother's finger…drink is even offered to musical instruments, poured directly on them so they can enjoy too," the guide explained.

"Like Christmas parties back home," I half-joked.

"Healers use it to get their patients to open-up about their problems. They also use it to make them burp, something they believe releases demons and illness. But recently they've turned to cola. More effective."

"And the eggs?" I had noticed a few people had chicken eggs strewn beside them, along with their thin candles and cola.

"They're used to absorb illness. The egg is rubbed over the body and then thrown away. When dealing with a child, the egg is broken in water. If it has a black speck in it, the child has the evil eye, a most serious affliction where the child becomes cursed due to an envious onlooker."

I took another look around noticing the immense piety of those inside. I heard fireworks outside when my guide motioned toward the door. Outside he told me that a father would make a circle in the front of the house. The first animal to cross the circle becomes that child's animal 'companion'. Whatever happens to that animal will happen to the person.

When one's animal is sick or dies, one may take a chicken to the church, rub it on the person and then break the chicken's neck. This gives the chicken's soul to the animal that has died.

"One's death saves another's soul?" I asked.

Another firework went off. "The Spanish used to fire their guns near the church to attract the people. They would come to see what the commotion was. The local people thought it was part of the ritual," the guide explained, smiling at the notion.

Sipping a excessively strong coffee, I realized that I had seen no traditional (for me) Christmas images in the village: no manger scenes or wrapped presents. There were lots of colorful decorations with fruit and flowers but I was told they were not for Christmas. In fact, for all I knew they did not celebrate the birth of Christ. But they did see themselves as devout Christians and heaven would certainly not exclude them.

"The people in this village have great faith," my guide said. I agreed.

The next day I went to the magnificent ruins of Palenque, a five hour bus-ride from San Cristobal. The backdrop of the growing jungle and rising fog contrasted with the immoveable immenseness of the stones. I resisted touching the carvings, some with patches of original paint. I spent hours wandering around and climbing the steps of nearly every temple. I stood where only the highest Mayan priests were allowed; then sat and rested next to an ancient toilet.

I read of their complex culture and religion, the abundance and sacrifice. I tried to imagine the tables of offerings, the king dressed in jaguar hide, the priests reenacting legend. What would it have been like, watching a ritual that involved killing a human, maybe eating the blood and body? Could I believe that the death of a man kept the world spinning?

A tick and a headache for Christmas

It was December 24th, about 8 in the evening. Just down the street from my room was a German bar called Jardin Bavaria. I decided to celebrate with a beer.

On the way to the bar a small group of kids ran by throwing firecrackers at cars and in doorways. It reminded me of the Fourth of July. I later learned it was to scare away evil spirits.

The bar was playing Christmas songs in English. On the wall were pictures of other travelers who had been there and I suddenly felt very far from home. I wondered what my family and friends were doing. What time was it there? Were they sitting around the tree, maybe drinking hot chocolate? Did Jesse still believe in Santa Claus?

An old Guatemalan guy tried talking to me but I couldn't understand a word he said. He was so drunk he was barely able to stand.

"Don't worry, Roberto is harmless. What can I get ya?" asked the bartender as I was deciding whether or not to stay.

I ordered a beer and tried to believe it was really Christmas.

The bar filled slowly but I was soon chatting with Greg and Aili from London, Yumi and Tomo from Japan, a guy from Oregon, and a few locals. The owner of the bar received a long distance phone call. I could tell it was from a good friend; the way he spoke was familiar. I watched him gesture, speaking in rapid German and holding his hand to his forehead from time to time. The receiver against his ear seemed to bring him physical pleasure. It was a long time before he could talk without a smile.

By the end of the night we had traded stories and reveled in the culture shock of being in a foreign land. It was a great time.

The next morning I woke-up with a headache and found a small black tick on my leg. There were no presents to open, no family to whom I could wish a Merry Christmas. It felt strange, but it wasn't long before I forgot about it. I still had plenty of other things to experience and understand.

Feedback: "I liked the story, found it insightful and thought provoking and it caused me to want to see some of the sights." Mike