Rum, Ron, Rhum... Run, Run, Run !!!

The night was holy, but then again they're all holy if you look hard enough. Nonetheless, you still gotta watch your back around here. There are Poblanos, Swiss, Germans, Swiss Germans, Irish, and even real-life gringos running around. Anyone of which could sneak up on you and force you to drink rum. Rum, the drink of pirates, slave traders and beach bums. This is not just urban legend - it happened, and continues to happen almost daily. If you add this danger to all of the other dangers here, San Cristobal de las Casas is one hell of a lesson in survival. Collectivos and taxis - each trying to make you forget how to walk, loose single cigarettes sold at discount prices, gum and candy galore, strangers smiling indiscriminatly, tempting tacos, empanadas, and tamales, brilliant radiant sun, and heavenly royal mezcal - all of which are trying to sidetrack you - trick you, lull you into a state of relaxation. And there are even more distractions than those - some too graphic and lustfull for the ears of proper society. My personal account is a tragic and sad one. Hopefully, it will serve to warn others of the dangers of smiling charming Poblano rum swillers and others of their kind.

As I stated, it was a holy night. I'd recently been lecturing on the trials and tribulations of a very unfortunate soul, Boris a young lad from Brazil who had fallen prey to the dangers of whiskey, wine, and fast women. After my rousing speech, my coleague from the great American state of Montana and I decided to take our message of temperance to the streets, to the people of San Cristobal. We couldn't have been walking for more than ten minutes when we were ambushed by an infamous couple of dodgy characters - Alain, wanted gun runner, dealer in exotic meats and cheeses, urban terrorist, architect, and notorious rum drinker. He was also under heavy suspicion for his involvment in international piracy. By his side, his partner in crime, Muriel - Swiss, expert jewel thief and raconteur. Lover of wine and dynamite. Indeed, the two cast imposing threatening shadows.
He was from Puebla.
She spoke German.

Not wanting to be impolite, or seen as ill-mannered, we greeted the deadly duo. They were seated at a lovely streetside bar/cafe laughing and sipping wine. Wine, that most diabolical evil beverage - the spark of free thought, romance, poetry, and revolution. Beware of those grapes! Watch out for wine! Their inviting smiles caught this teetotaler by surprise. I can only assume that my esteemed colleage from Montana was also taken aback by their wine-soaked smiles. They asked us to sit, to join them. I was afraid, not only were they drinking wine, but they were smoking tobacco, and eating popped corn. We obliged, again not wanting to appear ill-mannered or ill-bred.

The Poblano attacked first. With a wide smile, charming eyes, and a vibrant head of hair, he offered me a glass of wine. I stood my ground and shared the horror-filled tale of Boris with the two miscreants. After telling the gut-wrenching tale, it was Muriel's turn to attack, again with a smile and an offer of wine. I stood my ground. At this point, my Montanan colleage, (who I should point out is none other than the famous anti-smoking, anti-premarital sex, anti-labor activist/illustrator/public speaker, Abraham Ryan. He also does my taxes) left to distribute some of our temperance literature.
I was alone.
A sheep amongst wolves.
Again, the two began to assail me with laughter, smiles, and tempting snacks. Before I knew it, Alain, that wicked Poblano, ordered a glass of wine for me. As I've already mentioned, I'm a well-mannered sort, so again I had to oblige. I'd fallen, temptation had it's vice-like grip around me - I was drinking that vile mixture.
When my coleague returned, he was saddened to see how far I'd fallen. Not wanting me to feel alone, ashamed, or embarrassed, he nobly took a glass of wine for himself. I thanked him for the gesture. Soon, that devilish drink was taking it's effect - I too was laughing, smiling, nearly dancing. Oh, the slippery slope...
Once I began laughing and smiling, nearly performing that devil's palsey commonly known as dancing - I was actually entertaining the idea of drinking rum - the horrors...
Unfortunitly, directly across the sin-soaked street was a true house of vice - a liquor store.
One glass of red wine and my colleage and I had abandonded all of our ideals. We walked with our fellow sinners into the liquor store. As if possessed by a demon - a smiling, generous, fun-loving, charming, tricky demon, the next thing I knew my colleage and I were in an honest to God den of pure inequity, Alain´s house, his lair.
We had bought rum...

It was horrible, there was laughter, joking, and worst of all - sinful rock and roll music. Rum you are the devil in liquid form. Once inside that temple of reckless abandon, it was as if time had stopped. The lord's name was used carelessly and even vulgar coital expressions appeared. It was hellish indeed. After being mesmerized by those two dark rum sorcerers and their hospitality, my coleague and I were no better than them - lost souls.
Finally (and thank God), the rum was finished. We left. We confessed our trangressions - clean and holy again, reinvigorated to spread the word of temperance, and to warn of the evil dangers of rum, Poblanos, Swiss, and popped corn.
I'm pretty sure we did cocaine too...