Some of them may have pierced lips and pink hair, but for the first time in four days they give me the sound of English mixing with Spanish. And it's English with an English accent. Yeah. Punks from Britain. Oh yeah. Their accented bable pours into my ears like honey on hungry toast. Mmmmm. Now all I need is a cup of coffee. Of course, it will be instant! Viva Mexico!
In the last hour before dawn, walk up the entrance road into the pueblo of Santo Domingo Palenque. Pass shuttered shops barely beginning to open. Jungle birds call from the trees. I think I'm back in the San Diego Zoo. But these birds are really here, in their trees. And then, chickens crow somewhere. And dogs are barking. I walk through this pre-dawn noise, noticing the few people up and walking with me. They smile when I greet them. Ah, I am here, I am here, and I ain't getting on a bus until... when? Two days? Three?
Whenever. It will be. Today, I am here. That is enough. That is all. Get a hotel. That one I read about... yeah. Turn left at the first square corner of the town. Three blocks, no, four. Street slopes down a hill. Ah, this aint no flat map on a page of paper in a guidebook -- this is REALITY! A real town, on this real Earth! This sweet, bumpy Earth. Each block, each set of walls and doors, each turning street corner, reveals something new, something unseen until now.... Ah, here, the third street, turn right, slightly uphill again... yes, there it is -- La Posada Bonampak. The sky has some light in it by now. The door is open to the street. They are happy to show me a room, upstairs, number 15. $55, no hot water, no seat on the toilet. But the fan works. It's away from the noisy street. I'll take it. Pay for two nights. Take a shower. First one since Sunday morning... three days ago, back in San Diego. Brrr, water is cold but I don't care. It's a warm dawn, anyhow, here in the tropics. And the room only costs like five dollars and fifty cents... and the bed felt good.
But I won't sleep. No. No. Out into the dawn streets. Play the zig-zag game. One block left, then one block right, then left, then right, then....
Pass the Maya/Mestizo women selling vegetables along the sidewalk. Say buenos dias to a man sweeping the sidewalk in front of his little house. Reach the center of town, buy a newspaper, take breakfast in a restaurant. Ah. Coffee, eggs, juice, toast. The TV is on, always the TV. They are talking about the Pope. He left yesterday, remember? Eat. Read. Listen. A second cup of coffee, yes, Senor.
Savor this moment. I am here. I am really here. Walk up the street to where you can catch a collectivo to the ruinas. 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!
Good old Volkswagen Van, bending out of town, left onto the highway, and then right off into the road to las ruinas. Down the rolling, winding road through farmland that looks so pretty until you remember it used to be jungle, and now is hamburger pasture. Pass a couple hotels and camping grounds. Several "touristic lots for sale!" signs. Old-fashioned Maya farmers' huts. But then, enter the national park. Thick trees. Ah....
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 has been reconstructed and transformed into open lawns
and pathways. You can spend days and days here. You will. In ecstasy I talk to myself, carress
my thoughts and feelings... we are here, self! I am here! Yes, little self, you are finally 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!
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.
Wow. All around me.
Standing beside the little tomb of the Archeologist, the untouched pyramid behind me, covered with brush. 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.
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!
"Hello," I say.
"Hello," he says. Pauses.
We look up at the tourists. Frown. "It's almost sacreligious, that noise they are making."
I nod. We exchange names. Adam. Daniel.
Hike up to the group of the cross. Climb the path to the foliated temple. Gaze in at the stone carving. "Wow," he says, "you can really understand how seeing a cross like that, transformed into some kind of plant, could have freaked out the Spanish when they got here."
"Yeah."
"'Course, they didn't actually find this ruin, did they?"
"No, but they saw crosses like this in other places. Made them think that one of the apostles -- maybe Thomas -- had come here, centuries before, and then the Indians forgot his true teachings, and fell back into idolatry."
"Sounds like what some Mormons told me."
"Yeah. They think some of the lost tribes of Israel came here."
"Ah. What do you think, Daniel?"
"I... I think these people did this all by themselves, but... in truth, I don't really know."
"Mmmmm." 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, Adam, I am."
"Ah. I'm with the Green Tortoise. Ever hear of it?"
"Oh, yeah! So, the Tortoise is here? In Palenque?"
"Yeah. We're camped just down the road. But we're leaving today. So I snuck back in for a last look around."
"Oh."
"And 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.
After asking their permission, I 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. While we sit, or stand gazing at stones, more tour groups hustle through the palace, their guides talking in German, Italian, Spanish, English, Japanese, French. And then, as quick as they came, the guided groups move on, leaving us alone in the haunting palace.
"So this is your first day here, Daniel?"
"Yes. And you?"
"Our second. Don't want to rush this experience."
"Oh no. I think I'll be here three days."
"Ah, good! That will give you time to enjoy the pueblo, too. You're staying there, in town?"
"Yes. At a cheap little place. Rode out here in the colectivos."
"That's the way to do it." They glance at each other, then me, "Well, perhaps, as they say, nos vemos... we'll see each other around."
"Si."
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. Above their bathing place, I wander through some smaller ruins, probably old apartment houses. Two soldiers with guns over their shoulders are standing there, watching things. Approach them smiling.
"Que tal?"
"Buenas tardes."
"No han visto ladrones?"
"No, no."
"No, todo es tranquilo."
On down the path I go, ignoring other paths beckoning me to other, little known sites. 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....
