I awake sometime around three. Whoa... where did the time go to? Stick my head under the cold water in the shower... mmmm that feels good. Stagger out the door, up the three blocks to the colectivo station, and climb onboard. In the afternoon light the jungle mountains look fiercely attractive. I've had my siesta, now I'm going back for more!
"Drop me off at the staircase, please..." I ask the driver. He stops, I climb out, slip him the five-peso fare, and cross the road as his van roars away, up toward the main gate. A gardening crew, machetes by their sides, are sitting on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. The leader approaches me, "Su ticket, por favor?" I show it to him. He smiles, sits back down again. I start to climb the stairway path. Slowly.
Before the waterfalls, turn right, into one of those side groups I skipped before noon. Come upon walls and arches partly cleared away and stabilized, but with several huge trees still left clinging to the ruined buildings. Enchanting, almost like it must have looked after Stephens and Catherwood did their first clearing away, a hundred fifty years ago... snap a picture. Hope it comes out.
Then I see the next set of stairs... up and up and up... oh, shit! Well, at least I don't have to climb up the raw mountainside! And I know these will lead me directly to the central group. Where I can settle in and study the afternoon light on the larger buildings. So I climb. Slowly. Steadily. Gasping for breath.
S'alright, boy, you run, I'll pant!
And then... gasp... gasp... I am... gasp... there! The path emerges from the top of the stairs, 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.
Sit down in the shade. Just sit, and look, and then, maybe, take a picture or two....
Yes. Well, yes. I'm back. Think I'll just wander up through the grassy plaza, keeping in the shade, of course....
There 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."
"Ah. I went into town for a siesta, then came back."
We walk up the path, climb the short hillside trail, and emerge into the cross group. They were right. The afternoon sunlight is splendid. They go off to explore the different buildings. I get into a conversation with a guard -- Otemio -- who's sitting in the shade. Show him my book by Linda Schele and David Freidel, A Forest of Kings, with its chapter about the carvings here at Palenque. He asks me to translate some of it into Spanish for him.
"Ai, Daniel, if I could only read that in Spanish -- it tells so much!"
"Yes." I struggle to translate Schele and Freidel's translations of the carvings:
On December 7, 3121 B.C., when the eighth Lord of the Night ruled, five days after the moon was born and the second moon had ended, X was the moon's name and it had 29 days. It was 20 days after God K had set the south sky place on November 16, 3121 B.C. that Lady Beastie was born.Otemio sighs, "That is magnificent. I must write down the name of that book."
I scribble it in Spanish and English on a sheet of paper, with both authors' names. Hand him it.
He reads their names. Lips moves. Eyes come back up to mine, and he shakes his head. Touches my arm. "I knew her."
I eagerly answer the glance from his eyes, "You mean Linda Schele?"
He nods. "Yes. She was always here. Working, climbing, walking. Sometimes we talked together. She was a very... uh, entonces... a very special woman. But she climbed like anyone else. All the time, up and down the pyramids." And again he sighs. Takes his hand from my arm.
I suddenly feel very worried. "Otemio, you say you knew her... that she worked here... she climbed... all this in the past... as something that was, but now is not?"
He frowned. Caught my eye, "Yes. You understand what I am trying to say. She...."
"She... no. She didn't... die?"
"Yes. Last year. I think it was a heart attack. Or... no, it was cancer."
Silence on the golden grey stone. The sun is falling. Otemio shakes his head, "If you want to climb the temple of the cross before we close, you better start now."
I stand. Shake his hand. He smiles. Holds the tiny piece of paper. Looks at the name of the great book. "Thank you for reading to me."
I walk away, whispering a prayer for the soul of a great anthropologist/archeologist.
"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...."
"Ah, yes!"
She is from Spain. Madrid. No wonder her Spanish is perfect. I pull out my book and try again to translate some of the Schele/Friedel translations. Explain how it is believed that Pacal and his son Chan-Balum were showing how it was legitimate for them to inherit the royal power from a woman, because Lady Beastie had created the world, didn't she?
"Que raro...." she whispers. Turns, steps out into the golden afternoon sun, gazing into the jungle where the monkeys are howling. "Tomorrow I will walk in the woods, I believe. Perhaps I will see you here?"
"Perhaps. I will be here, yes."
"Good."
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.
"There is a guide here, you must talk to him, he has the most... interesting theory."
The other laughs, "As if you believe it!"
"No, not neccesarily, but... I think it is worth listening to."
"What does he say?"
"Well... he says that the tomb discovered over there, in the temple of the inscriptions, you know it, Daniel?"
"I haven't seen it, but I know about it. The tomb of King Pacal."
"Right. Well, Victor, the guide, says that was the tomb of an Egyptian Pharoah."
"A what?" I don't understand his Spanish word for Pharoah.
He repeats it, using the word "king" -- "rey."
"Oh!" I say, understanding.
"Don't laugh!"
I smile, "All right. What is his evidence?"
"The clothing you see the nobles wearing on the stucco and stone panels -- a cotton skirt like they wore in Egypt. The strange arches in the palace -- like nothing else in all of the Maya country. The carving of the slab over the sarcophagus. The fact that there is a sarcophagus at all -- a very Egyptian custom. The burial, too, inside a pyramid -- very unlike anywhere else in the Maya cities...."
I scratch my head before the view of downtown Palenque. The sun is sinking. The palace, the different groups of ruins, the forest trees, all hang before us in a delicious tapestry of green, gold, and grey....
"Well, Daniel, what do you think?" Lionel asks in his delightful Argentine dialect.
"I must confess I do not believe it, myself, but... well, I also am aware that I do not know what the truth is. I only know what I believe."
"And you believe that...?"
"That the Maya did all this by themselves, without any help from Egypt, Atlantis, or outer space."
"It's getting late. We better get back to the bus."
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. Entonces, con este mate, voy a transformar, desde estadounidense hasta argentino gaucho!"
They laugh. The bus rolls down the road toward town. The sound of their voices washes over me. Their guide rises, begins taking a vote as to whether they will eat dinner at 8:30 or 9:00 p.m. I smile. Oh, yes, these definitely are Argentines... such a wonderful people, to eat dinner so very, very late....
"All right, all right," their leader laughs at the heated debate raging through the bus over how late to eat dinner, "who wants to eat at midnight?!"
That settles the argument. It will be nine o'clock, by a slim majority.
We part 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 out into the street. Shadows from the few streetlamps reach for me, underneath a grey sky of scattered clouds that reflect the town lights. I feel perfectly safe walking these streets. Make my way toward the main plaza -- or "jardin" -- garden -- as they call it here. On the way up the main street, passing a nice-looking, small hotel lobby, I hear a voice calling me. Turn, look inside. Ah, it is 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."
"Ah, yes."
"Would you like to dine with us, Daniel?"
I smile. Even though it wouldn't be until like nine o'clock... "Yes, that would please me very much. A las nueve?"
"Si, pero... we will be meeting here at ten minutes before nine."
"Good. Well, I will see you then."
"Yes."
Continue on my way, 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 sitting on it. Dozens and dozens of locals, and tourists, stroll along the sidewalks under the branches, settle for a moment on an open patch of low 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...."
Yes, I can easily spend the next hour waiting here for dinner. But... I want to talk with someone. There... those two Mexican guys, late 20s, early 30s, no. Not talk with them, they don't want to, but they are... they are watching the girls, yes. I will do that. Sit down on a patch of wall opposite them. Wait. A single woman. Three together. A family. Oh, this is nice. Just watching the world go by in the garden....
Wait, there... those two. Incredibly tall, blonde, nordic looking. Yes. Must be Scandanavian. Very pretty. They pass by, then stop, and settle down onto a bench. That was lucky. They found an empty one.
I glance at the two guys. They look back at me. We both look down at the two women. I shrug almost imperceptibly and stand up. The men smile and then look away, toward the other senoritas. I walk down toward the two nordic women. One has taken out her camera. I stop. Smile, "Hello...?"
"Oh, hello. Uh... could you take our picture?"
"Certainly."
Cinci and Inge. From Norway. Somewhere up by Lillehammer. I will sit with them for almost forty-five minutes, swapping tales of travels in Mexico, life in California and Norway. Inge loves volkswagen beetles. She was in VW-heaven when she got here, and saw the zillions of beetles that swarm on the city streets and country roads. I tell her about the factory up in Puebla. She smiles. The time goes by. Once, twice, I see the two guys glance my way. These two beauties are too tall for them, I think. But who cares? I just want to talk. And the young women speak excellent English. Not very good Spanish, but....
And I, regrettably, speak absolutely no Norwegian. Although they do complement me on my attempt to pronounce their names. I smile. We talk some more. About weather, and how happy they are to be away from Norway's winter. "Of course, it could be worse, if we didn't have the gulf stream coming up toward England, and then our coasts."
"Ah yes, the gulf stream."
"Right. Even so many thousands of miles away, the warm breath of Mexico still reaches out for us."
"Why, Inge... that's very poetic."
"Thank you."
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. Two of them are in the lobby. They greet me. We sit and chat, waiting for the others. 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.
They begin to tell me tales of their hotel. "We are used to expecting the very best in Buenos Aires, but, even here where we did not expect first class service, we have been shocked. For example, our bathroom does not have a curtain on the window."
"But can't you just close the glass?"
She laughs, "Ai, Daniel, you don't understand, this is not your typical bathroom window, no, this window is from floor to ceiling, and all clear glass."
"Oh?"
"And, listen to this, this huge window looks right out into the courtyard of the hotel, so everyone walking out their door can look up and see right into our bathroom, and... when we turn on the light... it is like a lighthouse shining above everyone."
I laugh, "Tonight, on stage, live, in the bathroom of room number...."
The couple laughs. Shake their heads. "But what can we do? The room is part of the package deal we bought. We cannot change it now. So we must only use the bathroom in darkness."
Welcome to Mexico, I think.
"What?" she asks.
"Welcome to Mexico," I answer, lifting my glass. They nod, lift theirs.
The conversation shifts into international capitalism, and the exploitation of poor workers in developing countries. "They say that communism and socialism are dead," I say, "but I believe that in the next few generations we will see a new birth of social struggle, coming from the workers in those same countries that now are making our Nike shoes."
"Do all the people in the United States understand this?"
"No. The common belief is that the cold war is over, and our empire is now safe to rule the world."
"You laugh when you say that."
"Yes. As a Christian I know that nothing in the world will last forever. All empires will fall, and only God will continue."
They look at each other. Back at me, "You don't seem like one of those fundamentals we hear about being so strong in the Estados Unidos."
"No. I am a liberal."
"Ah... like the ones who opposed the war in Vietnam, a generation ago?"
"Yes."
"What do you think of your President Clinton?"
I shake my head, laughing, "He was stupid, and the trial going on now in the Senate is stupid."
"We don't understand what all the trouble is. Because he had a relationship with a member of his staff?"
"Well, actually, because he lied about it."
"But...."
"Yes, I know it is a natural lie, but his enemies believe they can punish him with it."
"But they won't succeed?"
"No. It requires a... ah... how to say it... a two-thirds vote in the Senate to convict him."
"Yes. That is what we have read. But how many Senators do you think will vote against him?"
"Maybe half."
"That many?"
"Yes." I pause. "The United States is, at heart, a very puritan country. Always has been."
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.
