Colette Obrien

I pulled out my camera bag from the back seat and gave him the six pesos entrance fee, and he unhooked a gate across the path that wound into the jungle. Cenote means pool. The Yucatan is made up primarily of limestone that acts as a sponge collecting the abundant rainfall of the region. There is almost no surface water but vast rivers run underground. Where the water has broken through the limestone, deep — usually round — pools are formed. The ancient Maya believed that they were gateways to the underworld. Some geologists today believe that sixty-five million years ago, a comet collided with the earth and that the semi-circle of cenotes in the peninsula marks the boundaries of the comet’s crater. Thousands of these pools dot the landscape and where one is found, often a village has been built beside it.

But this place was not the usual. As soon as I stepped past the small gate, I left the world of ‘normal’ even for the Yucatan. There was not one huge hole but a couple of acres of shallow pools that extended off into the thick brush and rocks. The colors were indescribably pure — gem like — emeralds, sapphires, ultramarines, peradoes. Song birds trilled. I followed the trail deeper in, entranced.

Visions of gods and goddesses danced in my mind. Visions of the first creators; of Adam and Eve, and of the Mayan god Itzamna and the goddess Ixchel. Of the world when mankind was very young and still full of wondrous possibilities. The Maya describe the beginning of life in a way that reminded me so much of this place that a chant I’d heard from a day-keeper (shaman) ran through my mind – - – -

“Now it still ripples; now it still murmurs; ripples, it still sighs, still hums, and it is empty under the sky. Only the sky alone is pooled under all the sky, there is nothing whatever gathered together. It is at rest. Whatever might be is simply not there; only murmurs, ripples in the dark, in the night. Only the Makers alone, the Bearers are in the water; a glittering light. They are there, they are enclosed in quetzal feathers, in blue-green.”

A brilliant orange oriole flew over my head drawing me back from my reverie. It sang wildly. Answering calls came from many directions. .

To my left, shallow pools extended for one hundred yards with small islands of rock and tree dotting the area, while to the right large areas of smooth rock extended for several feet before dropping into a deep pool that spanned twenty-five by seventy yards at least. The rocks were very light grey with brown markings like the spotted jaguar that inhabit the peninsula. Wooden walkways were built over the water from rock to rock. High in the tops of trees lived air ferns, and red, yellow and orange bromeliads. Large indigo butterflies wove through the trees like spell binders holding the magic in place. I felt as if I was inside a huge emerald with light brouncing in all directions confusing and amusing my senses. The smells were sweet and wet. The sounds, ethereal.

The temperature was at least ninety degrees, with equal humidity. I took off my sandals and sat on the portion of rock that descended slowly into the main pool, unseating a two foot long iguana who’d been sunning. He waddled non-plussed into a crack in the rock and disappeared. I dunked my feet in the water, the stone smooth and blessedly cool beneath me. When the water settled tiny transparent fish came over and nibbled at my feet and legs.

She pointed out three.

“How old?”

“Trez, cinqo, diez.” She bowed her head in a gesture that combined modesty and pride.

“And your husband?” I pointed to the two men.

She giggled and pointed to the taller of the two.

With a few words and much gesturing and laughing the other woman and the men joined us. The older children took the cue and barraged me with questions and with the many things that they wanted to tell me, most of which I didn’t understand. We laughed together at our efforts to understand one another’s speech. A child would splash me, or be bold enough to touch my arm as they swam past and the barriers came down further.

A calm began to descend over the area as individuals left the water. The sun was beginning to go down into the low jungle turning the sky soft pink. All around us the day creatures were looking toward night, yet the night was not yet upon us. But we all sensed that what we’d had was ending and it was time to move on. The peope talked constantly, the sound of their voices and ease of movements pleasant and gentle. There was no hurry, and I could detect no worry.

I must drive another hour to the village of Coba where I’d booked a room for the night. By the time I reached the hotel, it was getting dark, and as I got out of the car the night creatures were singing in full voice. The songs of the night were far more elaborate than the day. Rather than the sporadic cheeps and rasps of insects with an occasional bird call, there was a seamless blend of voices. It seemed as if every unseen creature — of which there were thousands — had a voice to contribute and didn’t hesitate to do so.

Without the intensity of the sun, the air had become liquid silk. My body relaxed, becoming porous like the limestone inviting the moist warm air in. My movements became smooth and loose. Iguana like, I thought, laughing to myself at the image as I walked up the path.

The hotel was built beside one of the few lakes in the region with a lovely manicured tropical garden that spread up from the shore to a large Spanish style structure. Years ago the Mexican government commissioned Club Med to build hotels for the public at three of the archeological sites; Coba, Chichen Itza and Uxmal. The hotels were elegant and tastefully designed in the style of the region with polished red tile floors, long aisles leading to huge rooms built around an open court with a pool and outdoor dining area as well as an indoor restaurant.

As I walked up the steps to the veranda a Toucan greeted me from his perch in a grass roofed hut-cage. His huge yellow beak was backlit in the last of the sun’s rays, reminding me of the classic Maya profile with hooked nose, and of the rain god Chac whose main feature is that famous shaped nose.

The Maya are known for their interest in the meaning of things beyond the material. It made me wonder what meaning they were referring to beyond nose? Was its shape representative of other things? Crescent moon, the arc planets make around a sun, the passage of time itself?

Fascinated with time and its relationship to events in their own lives, they became one of the first cultures to chart the passage of the stars in the heavens — with an accuracy that rivals modern technology — and the first to use the concept zero in mathematics. In fact, they were so intrigued with time that they built whole systems of thought around it.

As I sought to understand these underlying meanings, I felt that my own mind was being bent by this place where Mayan minds thought such thoughts, where they pondered the secrets of the universe. Was my present ‘bent of mind” being stimulated by the sounds in the air; enchanting me, not songs of love — but songs of truth, songs of thought. And what’s more, that such celestial thought as I felt at that moment wasn’t different than love, but that love and thought were inextricably bound?

After my night of mysterious dreams, at the ruins the next day I found a guide to accompany me to the villages as go between and interpreter. His name was Victor — what seemed a highly unlikely name for a Mayan. But he was clearly Mayan with the broad high forehead, prominent cheek bones, stocky body, and the classic nose! His family lived in one of the nearby villages and he’d gone to the university in Merida where he learned English and studied math and politics — both favorite subjects among the Maya, he told me. My green bug quickly became ‘our green bug’ as we bumped along the solitary road together exchanging stories.Each of the places that I visited was unique and wonderful in its own way, and each was exquisitely satisfying to my soul and body. A patch of land is a piece of time, and nowhere in the world is that more perceptible than in the romantic gardens of Southern France.

Large drops of rain plopped on the windshield. I turned on the wipers spreading mud across the glass from the accumulated dust. Low rock walls enclosing grass roofed wood houses with small gardens began to appear to right and left. Soon the road led in a circle around a large square with a Christian church at one end, a store, and three unmarked buildings.

I stopped the car in front of the church. From the top of what was once the bell tower, a tree was growing. The walls were half broken and heavily scored from the weather. A number of dogs and chickens roamed free about the area while in front of the store a huge sow lay in the shade with numerous piglets nestled close to her pink body.

I got out of the car slinging my camera over my shoulder. From the doorway of a small white building, three young girls watched me. I walked toward them and slowly lifted my camera. They covered their mouths and giggled, stepped out from their cover, and led me inside.

A dozen women and children were busy making tortillas. Tall stacks of the golden discs filled two tables. There were four women dressed in the traditional Mayan white gown with bright red embroidery at the neck, arms and hem. I marveled at how starched and clean they were. The smell of corn and hot oil perfumed the air. Mixed with the heat of the day, the room was stifling hot. Perspiration dotted their faces. We smiled shyly at one another. I held up my camera and asked if it was all right. They smiled and nodded. After photos they insistd I take a warm tortilla with me, which I happily accepted.

After buying candy at a tiny store on the corner to give to the children, we continued our journey. Every few killometers an almost identical scene awaited us. Each village had a square with a church and large grassy central area. Each had a cenote, though they were all quite different from one another.

“Yes, I do . . . What about the Mayan religion? Do the people still practice the count of days and honor the gods?” I knew that the weaving of the secular and sacred in Mayan life was maintained by an active relationship to their calendar. A complex vehicle that counts each day in an interlocking system of rounds that repeats over and over — the perpetual return that they observed in the passage of the stars. Mayan cultures further south stilll keep the calendar.

“The old religion merged with Christianity when the Spanish came in the sixteenth century. The Spanish wouldn’t allow the people to write in their own language any longer, and they destroyed all previous written records. The people no longer keep the Mayan calendar, though they believe in the gods and goddesses. But they also believe in evil and bad spirits and they’re afraid. There are no more day keepers or priests to explain things to them. They have become superstitious.”

I remembered the warning from the receptionist at Coba about the coral snake biting one’s shadow. Had he been referring to ancient knowledge that could no longer be interpreted? The Maya continue to be an enigma to all who are drawn to her mysteries. Archaeologists and anthropologists argue continually over the character of the people during the high period of the culture, and about the reason for their disappearance.

Symbolically, to have one’s shadow bitten would mean to lose the ability to protect oneself. I thought that the Maya had certainly had their shadow bitten.

But whatever the Maya were like in the past, the people today seemed to be of a warm, happy, intelligent nature. And mystery was in the very land itself.