Post 18- Dealing with Breakdowns

2/27/26

From Tule, the small village near Oaxaca, we set back out on the road with Sylvie freshly washed and clean (of course, not for long), heading toward a city called San Cristóbal de las Casas, or simply San Cristóbal - nestled high in the mountains somewhere far to the south. The drive is long, so we split it into two days with an overnight stop along the Pacific coast. I’m always happy to meet the ocean and wait for it with anticipation.

As we’re driving, we notice that the slide-out - our seating area that moves in and out with the push of an electric button - is slowly creeping outward. With every curve in the road, it sticks out a little more. We stop several times to try to understand what’s going on. We’re worried the camper may have shifted out of balance when we unloaded it from Sylvie, but we’re not sure. Either way, every few kilometers we have to pull over and push it back in, because it’s truly dangerous to keep driving with it protruding like that.

The awning also plays a starring role here, in its misery, the result of hitting a tree after we disembarked from the ferry in Mazatlán.

After another hour of driving, an orange warning light suddenly comes on, along with a message saying the fuel filter needs to be replaced. Almost immediately afterward, Sylvie goes into limp mode to conserve power and manages to move us forward at only 20 km/h.

We’re on a winding mountain road, far from any proper town with repair shops. We realize that if we stop for about ten minutes, let the engine rest, and then continue driving very gently — slowly, and without pressing hard on the gas pedal — we can actually make decent progress.

With the help of our overlanders’ app, we eventually reach a parking spot at a seaside restaurant just outside a city called Salina Cruz.

On the left — the orange warning light — indicates that the fuel filter needs to be replaced.

On the right, the light made it hard to capture clearly, but you can see we’re driving at 20 km/h, with 31 kilometers still to go.

The beach is stunning, with dunes that quite literally take your breath away. We arrived starving — and the food was terrible. What a disappointment. Well, that happens too.

But the ocean here makes up for everything. Quiet and Peaceful.

We can’t stay and enjoy it — we need to take care of Sylvie. I find a mechanic through the app who says they know how to work with diesel engines. We arrive at a place that looks more like a junkyard, but is filled with the kindest people who immediately come over to help us.

Miguel, the owner, removes the filter right away and heads out to find a new one. After a few hours, he returns empty-handed and tells us he can order one, but it will only arrive in a few days. This town doesn’t exactly invite us to stay, and we decide to keep moving. Before we leave, he even offers — and generously cleans — our old filter.

Miguel is holding the filter that has reached the end of its life.

In the background, you can get a sense of the level of order and cleanliness there.

And the three sweet guys finished putting everything back together after Miguel had practically breathed his soul into the filter, trying to clean it out.

At 2:00 p.m., we leave the mechanic and set out on a four-hour drive toward San Cristóbal. We know it always takes longer than expected, so we try to be very efficient with our timing.

But Sylvie is struggling. Cleaning the filter didn’t impress her at all, and she slips back into slow limp mode. The mountain climbs certainly don’t help, so we pull over and let her rest. We eat something, take a short break, and then get back on the road — this time extremely carefully — and manage to make steady progress.

On the left, we’re crawling up a brutal incline on the side of the road — inch by inch.

At one of our fuel stops, I notice this map showing exactly the route that lies ahead of us: first, the center of San Cristóbal; then a pyramid called Toniná, which is supposed to be fascinating and that we’re really looking forward to visiting (that story is for next time); and also Agua Azul in the plans.

On the way, we leave the state of Oaxaca and enter the state of Chiapas. The landscape shifts — becoming more mountainous, with vegetation that feels less desert-like. The sky turns deep blue, then blushes red, the sunset glowing behind us.

The last twenty minutes we drove in complete darkness, fully aware that we’re breaking rule number one of driving in Mexico: don’t drive at night.

We arrive at a family’s yard — we had arranged our arrival in advance — and the owner is waiting for us with a wide smile, showing us where to park. It’s pitch black, and we can’t see a thing. All that matters is that we have a place to park and sleep for the night.

In the morning, we wake to the sound of birds chirping and friendly dogs coming to greet us. Slowly, the place reveals itself: a beautiful, lovingly maintained yard, carefully organized with pathways, trees, shrubs, and little seating corners.

We meet Carolina and Gabino, the couple hosting us. They tell us they bought the land a few years ago and have been nurturing it ever since, planning to one day build their dream home there.

We say our goodbyes with warmth and gratitude, and continue on toward San Cristóbal. The road isn’t long — it’s supposed to take about an hour — but Sylvie is struggling, and the climb up to the city is steep. We move slowly and patiently, letting her rest now and then, until eventually we make it into town.

Of course, we can’t arrive without a brief entanglement in its narrow streets on the way to the campground.

The place is run by a few young, lovely women who show us where to park, and we settle in with all the necessary hookups. There are other campers here, a stretch of grass, and even a small pavilion where I can practice yoga and meditate.

What a pleasant surprise.

We take the evening to settle in, and the next day we head to a mechanic I also found through the app — within walking distance from us, which is a huge advantage.

The following morning, we take our bikes first just to make sure the shop actually exists and that they’ll be able to help us. We meet Elías, an energetic, smiling mechanic (he reminds me of Ozri). At first glance, I notice the workshop is tidy and well organized — and small, very small.

We show Elías photos of Sylvie, explain the problems and what we need, and he confirms he can handle everything — just not today. He asks us to come back tomorrow morning at eight.

So we have a few hours to work, and afterward we take the bikes for a ride around town. The city is charming — narrow streets, colorful houses, shops, full of people, and encircled by mountains. Mountains all around.

The weather is wonderful — not too hot, not too cold — though at night it gets very chilly, and we find ourselves turning on the heater after a long time without needing it.

The next morning, we show up at eight — only to learn that eight doesn’t really mean eight. We wait forty minutes before Elías arrives, smiling, “Buenos días.”

Now the challenge is getting Sylvie into the tiny garage. We watch the spectacle of cars being moved around, like that plastic puzzle game called “Traffic Jam.” Within minutes, space is made for her, and we leave her there in his devoted hands.

His mission: replace the fuel filter, change the oils, and check the brakes — which had started to feel questionable after all those steep descents.

I quietly flood the garage with good energy and tell him in my heart that I trust him completely to do a precise and thorough job.

On the left, we’re waiting for the shop to open. In the middle — a traffic jam. But in the end, Sylvie will stand exactly where the little gray car is now.

On the right, we’re waiting for them to clear a space for her — for the queen.

We say goodbye to Sylvie and return to our “home” on stilts, which feels half-empty without her steady presence beneath it.

It feels strange — even a little shaky — to stay inside, and we mostly find ourselves sitting outside in the yard or wandering through the city, whose beauty reveals itself to us a little more with each passing day.

And the days go by. Tomorrow turns into the next day, and before we know it, a week has passed.

It turns out the brakes were in rough shape and needed to be replaced — something that took more time but was essential for the safety of our journey ahead.

On one of our walks around town, we realized it was actually Valentine’s Day — so yet another reason to celebrate.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/dbedc6_4b5d8ea1bbc144f3b9af829b5d1b4690/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

During our week in San Cristóbal, we realized this is not just a beautiful mountain town. It was founded as early as 1528 by the Spanish, shortly after they conquered Mexico, right in the heart of the Maya region. The Spanish and Creoles lived in the city center, while the Indigenous communities were pushed to the margins and continued living in the surrounding villages. For centuries, it served as a political and religious center in Chiapas.

History here hasn’t remained in museums. It lives in the streets.

Indigenous communities — mainly the Tzotzil and Tzeltal peoples — still come down from the mountain villages to the city markets, carrying their language, clothing, and traditions passed down from generation to generation.

Winter blankets at the market which remind me of Grandpa Yaakov, who was also a collector… of blankets.

Its modern story is charged and powerful as well. In 1994, the Zapatista uprising began here — a movement calling for social justice and rights for Indigenous communities. Since then, the city has carried within it a rebellious spirit, deep political awareness, and a very strong sense of local identity.

It’s a city of fascinating contrasts:

Colonial and Indigenous, traditional and bohemian, religious and political. The colorful streets and Baroque churches tell a Spanish story, while the markets, clothing, languages, and ceremonies tell a living, breathing Maya story.

Perhaps that’s why San Cristóbal feels different. Both colorful and picturesque in its colonial charm, and at the same time a place where an active encounter takes place between ancient Maya culture, Spanish heritage, and a complex contemporary reality.

Here, for the first time, we witness a demonstration in support of the Palestinians' right in the city center — and perhaps it’s connected to the political atmosphere that lingers here.

We visited the Cacao Museum, where we learned that cacao was integral to ancient rituals and ceremonies, and at the end, we enjoyed wonderful tastings. We had no idea cacao could be so diverse in its flavors.

Since we were without a vehicle, we decided to sign up for a guided tour to Sumidero Canyon.

Sumidero Canyon is one of the most impressive natural sites in Chiapas. This enormous canyon was carved over millions of years by the Grijalva River, and its cliffs rise to heights of up to a thousand meters. Sailing between these towering walls makes you feel just how small we are in the face of vast, untamed nature.

The visit to the canyon is done exclusively by boat. Independent navigation isn’t allowed, as it is a protected national reserve. Boats depart from the town of Chiapa de Corzo, operated by licensed captains who explain the rock formations, the history, and the local wildlife. The ride lasts about an hour and a half to two hours, and along the way you look for crocodiles, monkeys, and water birds among the cliffs.

We joined an organized tour run by an Israeli guy who lives in San Cristóbal, since in any case, it’s not possible to explore the canyon independently. We usually shy away from organized tours, but this time all the signs pointed in that direction.

There was something surprisingly pleasant about sitting in a small minibus, looking out the windows, without the need to navigate, double-check routes, or stay constantly alert. A sense of resting from effort.

The minibus gradually filled with tourists from different hotels around the city until there was no room left, and then we left town. Our first stop was at the viewpoints above the canyon. It’s an impressive experience — though definitely less powerful than the boat ride inside the canyon itself.

Sitting in a packed minibus felt a bit strange at first — but the beauty quickly made us forget the discomfort.

The second stop was at the river itself, where we transferred to a boat with a Mexican guide who told stories in flawless Spanish — while maybe four people on board actually understood him the entire time. I caught a few words here and there and imagined the rest of the story.

The boat ride turned out to be fascinating. We encountered birds, monkeys, crocodiles — and the scenery was breathtaking.

That part felt a little strange at first, too — until we began spotting the wildlife and taking in the beauty around us. Bottom right — we started the tour with a stop at a floating snack kiosk, heaven forbid anyone should be hungry during the cruise.

It’s impossible to ignore the less glamorous side of Sumidero as well. The river that feeds it passes through populated areas, and at times, trash accumulates in its waters, carried downstream — especially after heavy rains. Seeing plastic floating in the heart of such powerful scenery is a complex experience.

At the same time, we read that real efforts are being made to address this — including trash-collecting barrier nets installed at the entrance to the canyon and dedicated boats that regularly gather waste. The nature here is immense and breathtaking, but it also reminds us of its vulnerability — and of the responsibility humanity carries, even in places that appear completely wild.

More broadly, Mexico feels very, very dirty to us. It’s one of the biggest challenges of this journey. Seeing the amounts of garbage along the roadsides, in streams, behind homes — it’s a difficult and unsettling experience.

Fortunately, you can’t see the trash here — just countless species of birds, and a tiny monkey tucked among the trees.

Encountering a crocodile is a powerful experience. They’re usually frozen in place, barely moving — yet undeniably intimidating.

Finally, on Friday, Sylvie is ready — and we come to pick her up almost ceremoniously.

We say a warm goodbye to Elías, who handled everything with precision, commitment, and genuine care.

Elías is holding the worn-out brake pads — good thing we replaced them in time.

The task of reconnecting the two parts of the Bear is becoming easier and easier for us. I drive, and Guy guides me. Each of us has our own role. I’m learning to listen and follow his directions precisely (which basically means calming the impatient horse within).

By Saturday, we’re ready to head back out on the road — and toward the next adventures waiting for us. But those will be for the next post.

As always,

We’re so happy to hear from all of you —

Those who send a little WhatsApp message, and those who share songs, reflections, and suggestions for improvement.

Everything is received here with great joy.

With love,

Guy, Efrat, and the Bear 🐻