Savor this moment. I am here, really here, jungle birds and chickens in the trees. Up the street to catch a collectivo. Man calling in the street, "Ruinas! Ruinas! Ruinas, Senor? Pasale por aca, compra su taquilla, ya estamos listo para salir!" Ruinas, ruinas, to the ruins, Sir? Step right in there, buy your ticket, we're ready to go!
Old Volkswagen Van, bending out of town, left onto the highway, and then right. Down the rolling, winding road through farmland that used to be jungle, and now is hamburger pasture. Pass a couple hotels and camping grounds. Several "touristic lots for sale!" signs. Maya-thatched farmers' huts. Enter the national park. Thick trees. Ah... the jungle primeval. Or an island of it, at least.
Up the steep hillside, into the entrance parking lot. Climb out. Buy your ticket at the building. Enter the gate. Walk up the path, stop to study the map, ah yes... it's a vast zone of ruins, and only the very center -- El Nucleo -- has been reconstructed and transformed into open lawns and pathways amid the huge treasures of stone. You will spend days and days here.
Up the hillside path of steps toward the central heart... then into the trees, eyes straining
through their branches toward the ancient staircases that open up on my right, marching one, two,
three toward the left, and... oh God, what a setting! Look... there is the tomb of the archeologist.
Stop. Gasp. What can I say? Nothing. I have studied so many photographs through the years, and read so many descriptions and analyses, everything from Stephens to Schele, and... well, I may know exactly what I see, but... well... a little photo on a page of paper is nothing, nothing compared to this... this presence, this sheer, full-sensory kinesthetic experience of being here, being there. You have to see it.
Wow. All around me.
Standing beside the little tomb of the Archeologist, the Temple of the Inscriptions towering on the right, a gaggle of tourists at its feet. Beyond, the path leading across the stream, toward the group of the Cross that waits, above, there, those temple tops in the jungle. Then, left, sprawling before me, the huge bulk of the Palace, with all its promise of endless corridors, patios, doorways, staircases, tunnels.
It Won't FIT All in One PICTURE!!!! so cut an'paste little poet....
And further left, across this vast plaza of grass and trees, the northern group waits. And this is only the center. The nucleus. The ancient downtown. More, and more, waits hidden in the forest all around us.... Listen! The monkeys are howling!
I nod. We exchange names. Adam. Daniel.
Hike up to the group of the cross. We stand on the front on the temple top, looking across the group, toward the distant palace. The view is magnificent. I snap a couple pictures, thinking I can paste them together with the magic of computer editing. MMM--mmm, I will even add a little cloud effect to try and cover up the seam between the two photos. See? :
"You traveling by yourself?"
"Yes. I am alone."
"Ah. I'm with the Green Tortoise. Ever hear of it?"
"Oh, yeah! So, the Tortoise is here? In Palenque?"
"Yeah. Camped down the road. But we're leaving today. So I snuck back in for a last look around."
"Oh."
"Now I better be going. Already missed breakfast."
"Ah." Stick out my hand. "Good meeting you, Adam."
"Likewise. Or, should I say, igualmente...."
"Ha, that's right."
Spend more than
an hour exploring courtyards, hallways, narrow corridors and high rooves. Gaze up at
Moorish-looking arches, ponder the haunting, half-destroyed stucco reliefs of lords
trampling on captives, explore the tunnels underneath the south end.
Asking their permission, photograph two gardeners cutting weeds in the west courtyard.
They are the life of this dead city. Finally, I just sit for long, long minutes in the
east courtyard, admiring the architecture. Tour groups come and go, but I remain, soaking in the
ambience of this place, occasionally walking over the grass to stare at the carved stone images
set alongside the courtyard steps. Their curious, tilted foreheads seem to be facing up the
steps toward a central door, where, perhaps, ages and ages ago, their king came out to speak.
Begin to share a few words with two European tourists, the husband from France, wife from Sweden. Like me, they remain blissfully unattached to any of the chattering tours. We sit for long minutes together, not saying much, just experiencing the ancient feel of these walls and steps and carved stones.
In the heat of noontime sun, I wander into the forest shade, down the trail beside the cascading Otolum River -- really more like a creek -- as it falls down the mountain from the ruins, toward the valley below. This is the back way into Palenque ruins. The water topples down steep cascades and rushes through inviting pools, one named the Queen's Bath. Young Mexicans are hooting and hollering in the water, splashing and enjoying themselves. It's getting hot, even in the forest shade. I want to visit the air-conditioned museum. The stairway path emerges onto the road. But the museum is closed. Bummer. So I catch a colectivo van back into town, walk to my little hotel, climb upstairs, and lie down for a brief rest. Soon I am peacefully asleep. Ah... but I will go back, I promise you. I must see the ruins in late afternoon today, and perhaps, even sunset light....
I awake sometime around three. Whoa... where did the time go to? I've had my siesta, now I'm going back for more ruins! Take another colectivo to the zone.
"Drop me off at the staircase, please..." I ask the driver. A gardening crew is sitting on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Their leader asks me for my ticket, smiles. I start to climb the stairway path. Slowly.
I turn right into a side groups I skipped coming down before noon. Walls and arches partly cleared away and stabilized, but several huge trees still cling to the ruined buildings. Almost like it must have looked after Stephens and Catherwood did their first clearing, a hundred fifty years ago. I snap a picture & hope it comes out.
Then I see the next set of stairs... up and up and up...! At least I don't have to climb up the raw mountainside! I climb. Slowly. Steadily. Gasping for breath.
See the little dog? S'alright, boy, you run, I'll pant!
And then... gasp... gasp... I am... gasp... there! The path emerges into the central nucleus. Jesu, it is gorgeous! The Temple of the Count rises on my right, where a loonie European nobleman lived for a couple years, hoping to convince the world that Palenque was a colony from Atlantis. The north group behind my back. And in front, the central plaza, with Ball Court on left, and then the Palace, and behind the trees, the Temple of the Inscriptions, with its hidden tomb of the great King Pacal.
Yes. Well, yes. I'm back.
I meet the French couple. "Ah, hello, have you been here all day?"
They smile, "No, no, we took a rest, then came back to see the group of the cross in the afternoon light."
We walk up the path into the cross group. They were right. The afternoon sunlight is splendid. They go off to explore. I get into a conversation with a guard -- Otemio -- who's sitting in the shade.
On the top step of the Temple of the Cross, a group of Brits are sitting, listening to the monkeys howling in the jungle. "Damn, sounds like they're having sex," one says.
"Well, maybe they bloody well are, Jack!" -- another cracks back at him.
I laugh as I step past them. Enter the sanctuary. Gaze at the stone carving. Feathered gods and kings stand on either side of a great cross -- the tree of the world, with the celestial bird on top, and the Earth monster crouching underneath. On the far right, God L smokes a pipe. I suddenly want a cigarette.
"Don't you think," says a woman in elegant Spanish, beside me, to me, "that one with the pipe is a healer -- a curandero?"
"Yes... I suppose it is. But why do you say that?"
"See his mask... a curandero mask...."
As she leaves, a group of three young men and a woman come up the steps. I look down, see the Brits far below, walking away. The new four step onto the top, and begin chattering in Spanish, but with a way different accent. I listen as they step past me. Their voices chatter and flow with such an enchanting tone, and I wonder where... and then I recognize it. Argentines.
Ah, yes....
"Buenas tardes," I venture.
They answer, and we begin to talk. Climate in Buenos Aires, climate in California. Maya history, known and unknown. Lady Beastie. Pacal.
A whistle sounds from below. The sun hovers above the trees. Another whistle. The guards are beginning to sweep the grounds. We climb down the steps of the pyramid, and walk the paths back toward the main gate. I try to snap their pictures as we walk through the trees. Unfortunately, I didn't focus properly on one of the beautiful young women. But here is the other, and the two boyfriends. I will merge the two pictures together to create an unreal triptych. Ah, computers! On the way to the gate, we join up with a couple other small groups. More Argentines! I am in accent heaven! They invite me to ride back into town on their tour bus. I accept. Go through a pleasant round of introductions, my ears filled with the voluptuous sound of Buenos Aires....
The group from the pyramid set me down in the back of the bus, with them, and hand me a little gourd with a tube. "Have you ever tried mate?"
"Uh... no. I've heard about it, of course, but never tasted it..." I sip. The sharp taste thrills my palate... "ahhhhh..." I sigh.
"Es demasiado amargo, Daniel?"
"Es magnifico."
The bus rolls down the road toward town. The sound of their voices washes over me.
In town I wander back to my little hotel. Change my shirt. Wash my face. It is now dark, and I am feeling a bit tired. Glance longingly at the bed on its simple platform. No. First I will eat. Head outside. On the way up the main street, passing a nice-looking, small hotel lobby, I hear a voice calling me. Turn, look inside. Ah, one of the Argentine women. This woman is a little older than the ones I met on the pyramid. God, she is beautiful. I am filled with desire.
"Ah! Hola!"
"How are you doing?"
"Quite well, thank you, and you?"
"Wonderful," she smiles. "Just waiting for my companion. We are going to shop for a while, before dinner. Would you like to dine with us, Daniel?"
"Yes, that would please me very much. A las nueve?"
"Si, we will be meeting here at ten minutes before nine."
A little while to walk alone, then. More than an hour.
Up the main street to the plaza. El jardin is filled with life. Parrots jabber in the trees, every bench has groups of men, women, and children. Locals and tourists stroll along the sidewalks, settle an open wall or bench, lean over the vendors' blankets spread on the cement, buy refrescos, ice cream, candy, nuts, flowers, from the little jingling carts, listen to music from different radios....
I walk through it all, dropping "buenas noches" here, "hola" there, or "bon soir" or "hello" or "kon ban wa...."
Spend the next hour waiting here for dinner. Talk with two incredibly tall, blonde, nordic looking young women, Scandanavian.
Eventually the hour approaches. The two women head back toward their hotel, thanking me for the conversation. I thank them.
Back up toward the Argentines' hotel. Eventually, by nine-thirty, more than twenty have arrived, and we all head out around the corner to the Casa Maya restaurant, where the waiters manouver seven tables together until all twenty-eight of us sit down around one long, long table. With a great deal of debate and questioning, we order. But the chicken mole is too hot for the woman on my right. And the Corona beer is too watery for her boyfriend's taste. I offer him my Bohemia, which he tries, and agrees it is better. Almost good. He asks for one. But mine, it turns out, was the last in the restaurant.
We talk for quite a while over dinner. It is a delicious, long conversation. The next day writing I will only remember a little bit of it. But it is there.
At last, sometime after 11:00 pm, I will return to my hotel. Climb the stairs, undress, and fall into a deep, restful sleep. Tomorrow shall be another day.
