Near Miss

I don't know exactly why mondays create "una prisa" (rush mentality) in people. Mondays are different. This early dark morn I left the house as usual about 6:00. The town is just coming into life at this hour. The huracas (who-rock-as) are urging each other into action from the tops of the large ash trees in the town square. There are gatherings of heavy lidded teens in clean school uniforms, and the incessant buzzing of Nissan taxis. School starts early in Mexico because there are two shifts. They need two turns to accomodate the flood of young boys and girls. Remember pregnancy is the national sport. I had walked about a mile to the intersection of Insurgentes and Madero. Without changing my stride I glanced up at the stoplight and saw I could pass. In mid street I met a speeding pickup. I froze and stared like a jack-lighted deer.  Staring into his illuminated cab,, his face flashed like a blade. I saw his determined look, and then I jumped out of the way. Here, as in France,man against machine is farce based upon the crude knowledge of basic physics which determine rights. I, señor, weigh a ton and you 90 kilos therefore I am in the right. My morning walk of 4 miles is to arrive at the hotel and elevate my heartbeat. It was now thumping like that of a sparrow.


I began to notice the noise and flow of traffic upon the puddled street. It had an urgent sound this monday morning as if there was penance to be achieved after the weekend. The air smelled of raw competition and exhaust fumes.


I passed in front of the army base, about a kilometer from Insurgentes. It is a section of the "sendero" without sidewalk that is not illuminated. There is also a lapse in the omnipresent, mexican style, of reliable "no two the same" speed bumps. After three speed bumps in front of the military base there is a one kilometer pause without impediments,,, like a very brief autobahn. People are unleashed from the chains of their brakes. Everyone accelerates wildly. It can be, when cloudy, as dark as a crow's armpit. The path or uneven shoulder is very muddy during the rainy season. It winds about the clumpy wet grass into and out of little quagmires and there are straggling rocks. In the dark all is hidden from view unless of course you have a photographic memory that can record a kilometer and a half of turf. This section has a few of those road crosses, those nouvea pantheons, that mark where the dead have fallen. I imagine in the far future highways will look like Arlington National Cemetary. A wet black snake-like four lane with white crosses bordering the sides.


I usually opt for the edge of the road,,,,and use these occaisional narrow "safe haven shoulderettes" when available, to allow the cars to pass. It rained heavily the night before and I was already nervous from the near miss at Insurgentes. So here I am, a weak bag of flesh and bone, an nearly empty entity of vibrating strings walking in the dark at the edge of the line in a scene out of Taladega Nights.


A bit into the walk backlighting indicated that cars were approaching. Usually I keep moving along the edge of the pavement praying to the Virgin of the Ineffable Stupors to protect me. For insurance, though, I stepped onto the steep shoulderette. The cars were passing as I slipped on a wet patch of mud, not falling, arms wailing the air in search of balance, kicking up mud and dirty water onto my pants. I stalled for a brief moment taking deep breaths,,,then continued.


Backlighting soon followed and the sound of a bus. It passed within a few inches of my side leaving me to breath in deeply the mechanical offal from its four inch tail pipe. Nobody wants to slow down? Keep moving,,, the pot of gold at the end of this winding black asphalt rainbow is that way or at least that is the general hypnosis?


Soon after a taxi coming in the other direction was passing a line of cars. He was immersed in his macho Nascar fantasy as I looked up at a set of unsure headlights. The bright wide white eyes of the taxi swerved a bit as if "El Nene" Jimmy Juan had forsaken just a bit of his control between acceleration and ratty road surface. He must have seen my startled movement. It happened so fast that I couldn't leap. He passed real close and I was left digesting the cold plate of uncooked "could have beans".


The beginning of sidewalk and lighting was so welcome a relief from this madness. Why can't the Mexican Army at the base do something about this? They own all this unlit frontage. They spend their days waiting for the invasion from Belize? We all know that armies are installed to protect the citizens from other more priveledged citizens,,,but at least they could pay lip service to the idea of being there for something. They have the trucks and machinery to lay down some gravel on the roadside to make a decent path for people. I think I am going to speak to the base General. If anything that should be an experience.

Yucatan: Hacienda San Jose Cholule

     After Celustun and the "ecotour" we left Merida for a hacienda turned lush hotel called San Jose Cholule. My wife works hard during the year. She is materialistic, immersed in the present magazine culture with its wheres and whos, and seems to need the touch of luxury from time to time. I am not sure how to interpret this luxury because to me a 2006 Mercedes 500 SL is not necessarily luxurious,, just another indistinct jellybean. Once you have seen a 1936 Mercedes, well there is just nothing made in this era that can come clos

      Every few years my grandmother would return to Italy,,,,always by boat. I had the opportunity, at the age of eight to see her off once. We boarded the ship. She was in second class but who would have known this. Her room was large and well appointed, the ship and crew spic and span, and to my eyes enormous. I could only imagine the seven day leisurely crossing. Time would have been stretched to accomodate the change of place. Now compare that with an airplane,,,faster but nothing else of note, Once you have read "The Magic Mountain" and experienced, even vicariously, its elegant style of resort experience, with the after dinner cigars, fine wines, conversation,,,,, well the now a-go go type of "secluded" self-indulgent resort appeal is not the same. This was my first reaction to San Jose Cholule.....I had suspicions that I could go crazy there after a few days.
     Mario picked us up in the van and took us the 45 minutes to San Jose, a little south of Merida. It really was what I had anticipated, a mini reserve for the Euorpeans in the know but without that devastating kernal of experience from another epoch. This is a place to leave the world behind. I have no problem leaving the world behind as long as you fill the void with learning. My rejection dander was up and I was prepared to resist,,,but I am getting better,,,or more tired with age.      

     From a hoteliers point of view, that's me, San Jose Cholule is well done. There are details over details. It is an island of preserved architecture amidst a jungle like an island in a sea of deforestation. The trees are large and colorful, the richly plumed tropical birds sing and dart about, and "crazy lizards" with head wings scurry about on hind legs. All the rooms are like separated buildings and very private. Sometimes the stone path entrances are partially hidden by plants. Circe contracted # 1 for us the suite of suites. It was like a whole house. Bill Clinton stayed there. I was captured by the idea of sitting on the same toilet seat as him,,,,,,,I think I even saw his image in the water in the bowl once when I was making pee pee. We had our own private pool, large corridor, manicured back yard. Horses at your disposal. It was lush,,,yet to be trapped there in this hotel island, as if it were the destination, would have driven me crazy,,,if we had not also used it as a point of departure.
      Upon arrival I grabbed two bikes to ride the eight miles to Motul. Circe gave up after a half mile complaining that the seat was like a stone. She was right but I was determined to raise my heartbeat. She left to return and absorb the details of the hacienda grounds and room. I was pedaling on a dirt road that soon left the hacienda grounds and coursed through the lonely countryside of old henequen plantations. It was cloudy but hotter than black leather seats in a Florida mall. The bicycle was flawed,,,  something not exactly San Jose. It was poorly maintained. It had no brakes and I couldn't shift gears and quickly gave up trying lest I break something and be caught out here en media de nada. 

     I came upon another hacienda after a couple of miles. It had been converted into a private home. I could hear lizards scurrying into the brush as I passed. The dry bike chain kissed the shifting bar and zizzzzzed with each turn of the pedals. I passed some decaying old houses,,,casa mayas in stone. They were probobly for the hacienda workers. There were some wells. Being a guy I had to explore the hole. All the stone of the houses was damp, darkened, mossy,,all the colors richly subdued by the cloud cover, and the older larger trees that accompany houses. You can always tell where a house has been in Maine by the large maples, if they are still standing.
      I heard thunder. Soon it followed the rain, first lightly but then more torrential. It was a good rain, warm and tolerable. I encountered a tarred road after seven miles and found a Tulipan tree under which to stand to avoid the heaviest part of the tempest,,,but it eventually penetrated the leafy umbrella. I wondered wetly about the structure of leaves. Has each leaf figure evolved to direct water currents in a certain way down to the ground?.....some direct the water away like an umbrella and others are like canals that direct the water into the plant center. Why I thought. Is this tied to plant need,,root size what??? Many cactus, for example direct the water directly to their center?
     Finally I came to a paved road with no sign. I decided that Motul was in "that" direction for there was no one to ask, so I mounted the tired machine and pedaled off. The macadam stretched out a wet black ribbon before me disappearing into the distant point. Jagged swords of lightning cut the charcoal sky. I passed a few simple houses, their front yards a mucky sea. The aroma of pigs found my nostrils. A rooster ushered his ladies and children into the bushes. There were fresh warm puddles everywhere their surfaces dippled by light rain rings. The fenderless bike tires spun an aura of droplets. At the entrance to the city I passed the Bar de Diablo. It was open and filled with drinking men and "working ladies". Bars in Mexico are usually something else. I have never yet entered one but one day I may and it will follow another story. I zizzzzed past and encountered more evidence of a citylife,,,,intersections. I forgot that I had no brakes and had to stop with my feet to avoid entering the intersection blindly. I did a tour about the large oval zocalo took a photo of the creamy colored church and began to return.
Pedaling back to San Jose the sandy soil in my sandals irritated a bit and the camino was a little muddy but I was happy and content.
The next day we signed up to visit Chichen Itza. That description will follow. 

Yucatan Flamingoes and Mangroves

     The following day was the "ecotour",,,Celestun. There are no rivers in the Yucatan but there are "rias" a mixture of fresh and salt water inlets. There is a wide ria is in Celestun. like a wide inland waterway separated from the sea by a strip of land. The water level is very consistent. It is about three feet deep. all along the shoreline is a mangrove swamp, its lower bare branches looking like a herd of anteaters drinking water. Leggy treelets extend a few meters from the shoreline creating what to me seems a million different little cages. It is a haven for all types of waterfowl and of course crocodiles. Celestun is especially favorable to flamingos.We went out in a launch to explore the ria. The first stop was a flamingo haunt. There they were a group of 50 or so, a cliche of a bird,,,Gloria Swanson in a feathered boa. The skipper stopped the launch and we sat and watched these birds interact. They were various colors of pink depending on their age. Older is pinker. They squawked and defended their few meters of water, extending their elegant necks towards another that they wished to drive away. Occaisionally one would take off or land exposing the broad black bands of feathers beneath their wings. They ran across the water to become airborne and similarly when they landed,,,always gracefully.

     Flamingos have become a joke in the U.S. especially with the introduction of those iconic plastic lawn ornaments.Their odd figure, however, is a result of years of adaption to a very specific ambience. Like a platapus their precise adaption to an environment cuts a strange shape. It also makes for a beast susceptible to any drastic change. Compare a seagull with a flamingo. If the ocean temperature or level changed quickly the seagull (dogs that fly) would still be here with us. If this happened in Celestun the flamingos would be devastated. After watching them feed I realized they, like the cenotes, were examples of fragility of the Yucatan. Flamingoes eat the larva of shrimp that they rasp off the bottom with their legs. Their downward curved beak when placed on the bottom between their legs is angled just right to sit flatly and receive the larva. They have adapted a filter in the back of their throat to filter out the unwanted material

 

 

     Mangrove forests thrive in the intertidal areas and are vital for healthy coastal ecosystems -- their salt-tolerant trees and other plant species provide shelter for the little guy and nutrients for the marine environment. They support immense varieties of sea life in intricate food webs. Yet for too long, these vital wetlands have been undervalued, called mosquito-infested, muddy swamps, worthless and remote. They're being lost to the charcoal and timber industries, shrimp farms, tourism, golf courses, and ill-planned urban expansion.

     Mangrove forests are one of the most productive and biodiverse wetlands on earth. Yet, these unique coastal tropical forests are among the most threatened habitats in the world. They may be disappearing more quickly than inland tropical rainforests, and so far, with little public notice. However, in many areas of the world, mangrove deforestation is contributing to fisheries declines, degradation of clean water supplies, salinization of coastal soils, erosion, and land subsidence, as well as the release of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. In fact, mangrove forests fix more carbon dioxide per unit area than phytoplankton in tropical oceans.

                                 

     Mangrove forests once covered 3/4 of the coastlines of tropical and sub-tropical countries. Today, less than 50% remain, and of this remaining forest, over 50% is degraded and not in good form.  Many factors contribute to mangrove forest loss, including the charcoal and timber industries, urban growth pressures, and mounting pollution problems. However, one of the most recent and significant causes of mangrove forest loss in the past couple of decades has been consumer demand for luxury shrimp , which grow to be the size of small lobsters in coastal ponds which have been created at the expense of the manglars. Put another on the barbie. 

     The level of the Rias don't vary much at all. Their constant nature became a point of adaption in the flamingo's evolution.  Any variation in the constancy of the ria would spell disaster for much of the wildlife there. The flamingoes are particularly sensitive. For example, when a hurricane attacks the Yucatan the ria level rises a bit and the flamingos cannot feed for days until the ecosystem returns to its former state. Watching the flamingos in their true habitat I became aware of the fragility of these strangely beautiful animals.

     The skipper then left the flamingos and we scooted towards the shore. He slowed the launch. We could see the creeping mangroves and cached inside their tight roots, as if in cages, were aquatic birds of every description. They were well protected from crocodiles in their natural "rooty" voluntary cages. Needle fish darted about like flexible neon tubes.He sped up again and after a short time he headed directly for the shore at a good clip. I couldn't imagine his intention when suddenly we entered a tunnel in the mangrove swamp. The launch slowed, the light changed from bright to jewelesque dappling the water and roots with silver dollar spots of light. We were inside the trees. It reminded me of Twenty-Five MIle Stream on the backside of Unity Pond in Maine. I often took my kayak down this path of water through a swamp. It was alive with life. One couldn't build there nor exploit it for its swampy nature so it persisted as a refuge.

     We exited the tunnel and a little further on we docked at the "Ojo de Agua" (spring). This is one of the places where the water beneath the limestone cap of the Yucatan meets the sea. When all the fresh water beneath the limestone cap in the Yucatan touches the sea springs emerge that bubble up along the shoreline and even out in the sea itself. They arrive at the sea from the vast system of underground tunnels and cenotes in the limestone There was a wooden path suspende on posts above the water that penetrated deeper into the swamp. The water here had a visible current and unlike the ria proper was crystal clear. A few steps in and there was a natural pool and a few people swimming. The wooden path continued a little further to the actual spring. It bubbled up from the sandy bottom with great force, forming a small umbrella of water on the surface. After a moment here I returned to the Ojo de Agua to swim. The water was a pleasing temperature and tasted slightly salty.

     After the swim I went swimming again, this time in Celustun proper. There was a restaurant on the beach like a high ceilinged hangar, open at both ends. The view of the cream sand, gentle waves and emerald green sea called like a siren. I put my things on a chair, left the rest of the group and headed for the beach with my wife. Another lady a little younger than me accompanied us. She was a government social worker now living in the Yucatan. She was traveling with her mother who lived in Mexico City. Mama stayed inside the restaurant to down several cool beers. Meanwhile we bounced about in the warm water for a bit. I dipped for shells. I held my wife upon my knees in an embrace and swirled in gentle circles. After a bit my wife sat on the shore where the sea met the sand resting on her hands. Of course she pulled up an old mexican coin out of the shallow spume.                            When we returned mama was feeling better and quite talkative. Her daughter though seemed to be aggravated by the prescence of her mother. "Oh mom this" and "well you know Mother that just isn't true". A discussion began about bullfights in Mexico City. Mom was a aficionado. She, mom was a little gassed up, que bueno, and began to talk passionately of the fights. Daughter, in her embarrassment was seen kicking her under the table. Mom was a far more interesting person however. She put her heart upon the table while daughter hid hers in confusion. When we were ready to leave I shook daughter's hand and kissed Mom's, and thanked her.

Yucatan Return to San Jose Cholul

     We stayed in San Jose Cholul the day after Chichen Itza. Lazy breakfast with the now familiar waiter, Antonio, however my rectum is on fire with the habaneros that I stuff into my eager mouth. It is difficult to sit comfortably. They burn on the way in and burn while running for the exit too,,,not like our State of Mexico chili manzanos which are bien piquante but disappear within your system before they head hastily for the door. The habaneros don't really burn, they cut like a crude welder lodged in your ass trying desperately to hack a jagged hole to freedom.....yet chilis do call attention to themselves. I cannot help but spread a little of the habanero sauce on my eggs. despite the rent that is due in a few hours,,it becomes an addiction these chilis. I have found that the food is missing something without them,,,,,,,,,,like when a dish cries for salt.

     They told us Bill and Hilary Clinton stayed in our suite,,,, probably on corporate dimes. I thought about that when I was on the toilet. I feel your pain.

      We swam a bit in our private pool, swirling about making "dolphins" gently then floating about like the idle rich,,,,but I was not drowning in the need for this lifestyle,,,,I still maintain my social concience in the wings ready even if at times that conscience is obscured by the fog of delight. There is, however,  something narcotic about floating idly while parrots flit and sing in the palms and waiters fawn over your desires.

     Later we entered the larger hacienda pool,,,empty of people. They rest were probobly off somewhere in search of some other private decadence. It is here, in the larger pool, that I think that I contracted an infection in my ear that I took back to Tenancingo with me. The water was refreshing in the heat. The invisible birds carried on their conversations in unfamiliar languages. A waiter came to poolside with towels. We asked if we could have two of the coconuts on one of the coco trees by the edge of the pool. He obliged, twisted off two good ones and went off to the kitchen to cut off their heads so to speak. I asked for a spritz of gin in mine. In a bit he returned with the goods. Mexican cocos are deliciously fresh. The juice is delicately flavored. Because they are picked fresh, and when "just" ripe, the layer of edible meat is very thin and tender, and juicy,,, like a type of jello. Droplets of water hung on my skin like tiny transparent jellyfish and then disappeared into the hot air. My bathing suit was more than halfway dry while I was sucking on my coco and gin. I felt like a decadent pig at poolside. Here we were aside this long pool surrounded by trees alone, two cocos with straws, large soft towels, and I encountered my yankee sense of sin and discomfort with anything too comfortable. Comfort must be regarded with suspicion. If it hurts it's good. Yankees are in ecstasy after they have whacked their finger with a hammer. They prefer a brick for a pillow,,,,, boilerplate for a mattress.

     I jumped in the pool and swam laps liesurely. I can always make the world disappear in water. Swimming is my thing. Tenancingo doesn't have lakes or rivers to swim in so this was an opportunity for which to take advantage. The body glides weightless through the water, the sound stage mutes towards slosh and medium silence as I break the surface and submerge like a latter day dolphin. We can be fish-like for a moment, "back to the sea", and content. My wife entered and we swirled a bit more in embrace. Although we are embracing she is forever distant from me,,,like someone unto herself.....or another illusion from her past. I never really feel loved by her.....could it be that latin american fear of just getting too close to obligation. I have noticed people when I collect money at the church. You can say buenas dias all you want but they are walking straight ahead expressionless. I have found that many here cannot afford contact. It can lead to committment and no one has the time or money for that. One must be very selective.
     I tried to teach my wife to swim better. Most people waste a mountain of energy in formless flailing of the water. They castigate the medium and use their arms to actually retard their movement, their asses and legs dangling downward like bait, their heads upright twisting to and fro with each spasidc stroke. Of course they tire after a few tormented motions. This is the look of my albondiga in the water. She says it is because she belongs to the tribe, "Nada Cuellas" (no necks). I say bullshit,,,it's because no one ever taught her form. In swimming function follows form. If the body rides upon the surface like a surfboard, the kick is supple, the arms lifted out of the water, the head down and breathing at the side, then one advances slickly forward.  I will admit however that she has improved a bit after this trip.
     My wife treated me and herself to a massage with Doña Macaria. She is a thin mayan woman with the "golden mexican smile". The "smile" is prominent because backs of the teeth are filled with gold and the gold spills over a bit to form a new edge that defines the tooth. A pile of Mexicans have "the smile". It's like they are wearing a Rolex in their mouth.
Doña has a casa maya on the hacienda grounds. It is shaded, and clean.  Doña is really good at what she does. I asked her to marry me afterwards. She flashed the "smile". She was poor as a church mouse before she became a masseuse. Her husband is a cargador,,,this means he lifts things,,,,a human burro. He was a macho. He wished her to be pregnant in the summer and barefoot in the winter. She, however had the opportunity through the hacienda to learn massage. Hubby was up-ended. She would be gone all day rubbing the thighs of rich foreign men. He put the pressure on but Macaria persisted and overcame his fears by her hard work. Now that she is bringing in some bread ($) and they are building a modest house.  Hubby has softened. The way to a man's heart is by having the capacity to buy bricks, re-bar, and mortar. He is downright proud of her now. He has killed the clouds that threatened his manhood. Everyone has benefited.

Quote About Participation vs. Apathy

“Most people prefer to believe that their leaders are just and fair, even in the face of evidence to the contrary, because once a citizen acknowledges that the government under which he lives is lying and corrupt, the citizen has to choose what he or she will do about it. To take action in the face of corrupt government entails risks of harm to life and loved ones. To choose to do nothing is to surrender one’s self-image of standing for principles. Most people do not have the courage to face that choice. Hence, most propaganda is not designed to fool the critical thinker but only to give moral cowards an excuse not to think at all.”

memories

      We are all in motion,,,often within the same old routes, but because I haven't been in touch with the motions of people I have known for quite some time due to the drastic changes in my living venues I tend to think of them as they were years ago. I am not sure anymore how the movements of those in my former circle relate to my own present fantastical twirl through the space-time continuum. Therefore I harbor a little reticence to communicate,,, not yet prepared for great changes which I resist and the fact that I suspect they are usually changes for the worse. 
     I ask in what direction and upon what path are ya'll from my past walking? Perhaps even now I have wandered too far from my roots to remember who I was. Large lapses in memory or time spent apart from someone or somewhere shouldn't count for much,, because people don't basically change after third grade yet in this new world order where the lowest common denominator rules and prowlers litter the road any surprise is possible,, and a good defense is required. We seem to be emptying our past at an alarming rate at the same time we are refilling the void with new  social kapok. We used to look to the past to illuminate the present. It seems the world rarely uses the past tense,,unless it is used as a tool to ensnare someone,,,now is the collective mood, as is gimme two yesterday, while I deserve this is the group motto. It is in this world that I fear not  enter. Chicken Shit you say,, well maybe,,, selfish,, well that too may apply. 
     I began thinking about this subject when an old friend contacted me. We had so much in common from an ethnicity to a love of the outdoors. We exchanged cautious niceties communicating in an past arena of good memories. I was shocked to discover through a social media that he was immersed up to his eyeballs.in the nonsense propaganda of Fox News while worshipping Donald Trump. Did I ever know him or was it that during the long distant silence that separated us we had fallen into other spheres of influence? Perhaps one just findswhat they are looking for all along. 

Yucatan Chichen Itza

  
      If I haven't yet boored you with all this information,,,,well I am about to boor you with more. This entry is about Chichen Itza,,some of it technical but this place left an impression.
     Mario, our guide drove us to Chichen early. He left us at the entrance already filling up with a variety of people from all over the world forming lines to enter the restrooms. First vacate then afterwards archaeology. The Maya name "Chich'en Itza" means "At the mouth of the well of the Itza (people)". It is a harsh sound for me "Chichen Itza",,,,sounds like the noise made by Loni Anderson when she is removing her bra. Although this was the usual name for the site in pre-columbian times, it is also referred to in the ancient chronicles as Uucyabnal, meaning "Seven Great Rulers" (perhaps Chichen Itza is easier to pronounce).
     Chichen" contains many fine stone buildings in various states of preservation; the buildings were formerly used as temples, palaces, stages, markets, baths, and ballcourts. It's a big city,15 square kilometers, and all the major structures are separated,,,like Washington D.C. which always has reminded me of an oversized cemetary.                                The Yucatán has no above-ground rivers, so the fact that there were three natural sink holes or cenotes providing plentiful water year round at Chichen made it a natural spot for a center of population. Two of these cenotes are still in existence, the most famous being the legendary "Cenote of Sacrifice", which was sacred to the Maya rain god Chaac. Offerings of jade, pottery, and incense were thrown into the great well as offerings to Chaac, and occasionally during times of desperate drought a human sacrifice -- however there is no confirmation in either ancient chronicles nor the archeological dredging of the cenote to confirm the lurid tales of some tour guides claiming that great numbers of beautiful, young, virgin women were regularly cast into the well. Better to save your ass and sleep around than be a precolumbian saint with cement feet . 

                                                            The sacred Cenote

     Chichen was a major center by about 600 in the middle of the Maya Classic period, but the city saw its greatest growth and power after the Maya sites of the central lowlands to the south had already collapsed. Dominating the center of Chichén is the Temple of Kukulcan (the Maya name for Quetzalcoatl), often referred to as "El Castillo" (the castle). This step pyramid with a ground plan of square terraces with stairways up each of the 4 sides to the temple on top. Kukukcan is the most perfect pyramid I have ever seen. Uxmal may be the most sensual and El Tajin may be the most beautiful, but Kukulcan, like a mathematician's dream rises up in perfect geometric harmony from the limestone floor.

                                      

                                                                    El Castillo

     El Castillo is basically a three dimensional calendar. Each of the four faces incorporates a broad, steep staircase consisting of 91 steps that ascends to the top platform. Counting the top platform as an additional step gives a total of 365 steps, one step for each day of the year. The nine main platforms of the pyramid are thought to represent the 18 months of the haab. The Haab is a 365-day solar calendar which is divided into 18 months of 20 days each and one month which is only 5 days long (Uayeb). 52 panels on the pyramid represent the number of years it takes for a date to recur. Below is an illustration using gears to demonstrate the mayan calendric system. It was not invented by the Maya for this system was in use in most of precolumbian Central America before the mayan civilization.

     


                     
These gears represent the Haab  calendar.This calendar counts days not years. Days and months are represented by glyphs that are like characters with personalities. 


Arrows and Boomerangs:
     One notices immediately that it is represented by circles and is cyclical. Our calendar reveiws a solar cycle but it also seems lineal in character,,, year following year. Western culture tends to see time as a line with blips that represent collective or personal events. For indigenous culture time is measured not so much by a string of historical events but by a repetition of characters. Whether they be symbols for ceremonies or planting cycles the nature of the time beast was circular. Meanwhile the western calendar seems to eulogize "The Road". Not that each culture did not consider certain dates important, whether or not they were in the past or to be. Perhaps I am splitting hairs but circular time characterizes concepts in eastern thought. Death may be viewed as just one part of a giant slow spinning wheel. To many a westerner death is something almost apart from life and no matter how much the after life is sold to the people and in whatever form, death is frightful and fraught with uncertainty. The moon-sun imagery that oft pops up in mexican crafts is just another reflection of the inescapable cycle of which you are a part. Linear time,, like a highway, offers escape and if only we step on the gas we can leave the past behind in order to find a better town with a better hotel,,, and of course a better wife and family. This is not to say that western culture is not still influenced by cycles,,, it may mean that these cycles have been overshadowed by a greater trust in movement straight ahead until you run out of asphalt. The two cultures have been deeply aftected by their didstinctly different perceptions of time. Westerners place emphasis on the future and easterners are immersed in the ceaseless eddy of time

     The pyramid, El Castillo,  is oriented in such a way that at the equinox one of the staircases is blocked in shadow except for the light that illuminates the edges of the stair rails. It creates a delicate diamond pattern like that of a rattlesnake that ends in a large carved snake's head. During the equinox the plaza in front of the pyramid fills with people to witness the snake's appearance and with hopes to glean some mesoamercan energy. Additionally, when one looks at the western face during the winter solstice, the sun appears to climb up the edge of the staircase until it rests momentarily directly above the temple before beginning its descent down the other side.

                     

                                         The Snake that appears at the equinox

    Tourists, as of early 2006, can no longer climb El Castillo, the giant pyramid, after a 52 year old tourist from the United States fell to her death. I missed my chance to climb because of this lady. I can see her,,,Agnes from Akron in her straw hat, white turned down socks, oversized shorts, lime blouse, and baby fat legs encouraged by her usually level headed husband Arnie, wanting a good shot with his new digital camera. Arnie who must have been energized by this mesoamerican moment ,,,he who was moved to action by the ancients,,,,urged Agnes,, "come on Agnes you won't come this way again". That was for sure the truth. She took the fatal dare and Chaac was pleased for it rained heavily that year.  

 

The Market or at least that is what the Spanish thought it resembled

                                  Columns in the Temple of a Thousand Warriors

 

                                                   Ossuary with another snake. 

  

The Church

 

The Observatory

 

The French say the nose is the organ of intelligence

 
     If one stands in the plaza in front of Kukulcan one can make the pyramid chirp like a bird. There seems to be a design element that transcribes a hand clap into a "chir-roop" sound that first ascends then falls, like the cry of the native quetzal.The dimensions of the steps indicate this was a purposeful design element.The lower steps have a short tread length and high riser—tough to climb but perfect for producing a high-pitched "chir" sound. The steps higher up make a lower-pitched "roop."
     "It seems that the steps of the temple form a Bragg diffraction grating. Diffraction is what happens when a wave hits an object and spreads out. Bragg scattering refers to a particular pattern of wave scattering, which shows up acoustically in the sound coming from the pyramid. The two major features of the scattered sound from the pyramid are the extension of the sound, and the fact that the sound is tonal. The echo lasts longer than the sound, bounced off many steps, each at different distances from the original clapping sound. The scattering also lets lower frequencies lag behind higher frequencies, meaning that each of the "bird calls" starts out high and ends slightly lower."

      Seven courts for playing the Mesoamerican ballgame have been found in Chichén, but the one about 150 meters to the north-west of the Castillo is by far the most impressive. It is the largest ballcourt in ancient Mesoamerica. It measures 166 by 68 meters (545 by 232 feet). The sides of the interior of the ballcourt are lined with sculpted panels depicting teams of ball players, with the captain of the winning team decapitating the captain of the losers.This is an incentive to win. Someday perhaps sports will return to this method given the direction of "reality T.V". Joe Montana is decapitated on live television at the superbowl by the Pittsburgh Steelers who parade about the field hepped up on testosterone, lofting their bloody prize instead of a silver football.

     While the site was never completely abandoned, the population declined and no major new constructions were built. The Sacred Cenote, however, remained a place of pilgrimage.In 1531 Spanish Conquistador Francisco de Montejo ,,,,him again,,,,claimed Chichén Itzá and intended to make it the capital of Spanish Yucatán, but after a few months a native Maya revolt drove Montejo and his forces from the land.

     Various people have "explored" and sacked the site. In 1895 the United States Vice Consul to Yucatán, Edward H. Thompson, one of my personal favorites, " bought the Hacienda Chichen, which included the ruins of Chichen Itza, and spent some 30 years doing amateur archeology there, including dredging the first artifacts out of the Sacred Cenote. Many consider Thompson a rapist of sorts. He mined the Sacred Cenote of its artifacts and sent them out of the country. Now they rest at Harvard University and The Smithsonian. 

     Chichen Itza is today a World Heritage Site and is a very popular tourist destination; it is the most visited of the major Maya archaelogical sites. Many visitors like myself make a day trip to Chichen Itza, usually with time to view only a portion of the site.