One of my favorite remembrances from my travels in Central America in 1990 (during my questing, itinerant years—I’m much more domesticated now), was my journey to Tikal. Notice that I said “journey to” rather than “visit to”, but actually my visit to Tikal was also memorable—I just wish I could remember more of it (no camera, no blog—the only vestiges, a rusty brain and a notebook of letters written in an indecipherable hand, which will likely never be decoded). The strongest single memory that I have is of sneaking back into the park after dusk (after paying off a guard, is how I recollect it) with a couple of fellow travelers, and scrambling up one of the tallest temples (which I now believe is Temple IV), climbing up two or three stories though tunnels and ladders within the temple edifice, and ending up on top of the “comb” of the temple. From there we watched the end of the sunset, and the jungle below darkening and falling away into an amorphous canopy—not an artificial light to be seen in any direction. The darkness, then, arousing new life within the jungle, as the grunts and howls and hoots of monkeys and other night animals emanated from the tangle of trees, and the faintest steely blue of the sky stopped in time on the horizon, eventually fading into the starry field above. The ageless spirit shadows of the jungle enveloped us, and we sat silent and still and transfixed for hours, stationed between the teaming trees and the heavens, one with the narrative of the earth and the echo of the Mayas, before finally climbing down and sneaking back out of the park and into the campground.

Or as Ernest Hemingway would have said, “We were in the jungle to see the place. It became dark. And there were monkeys.”

Okay, enough from the Way Back Machine (I’ll say something about the amenity and wonder and thrill of the journey to Tikal, and then the tragedy, in a later post), and now on to (not “onto”) the Very Recent Past Machine…let’s dial it back to yesterday. Had a great guatemalteco breakfast, with chilaquiles and black beans and rice and queso fresco and thick fluffy Guatemala-style corn tortillas, hot off the kamal. Awesome. Then on to Tikal.

I didn’t want to dwell too much on the past versus the present—I wanted to experience the site afresh, with a new understanding of the history and the architecture and the culture, thanks to our generally excellent local guides. Our guide for the “slow group” was Jeovanni: low-key, knowledgeable, and super-accommodating. We got a special exemption to have the shuttle bus take us to the other side of the park, so we only had to do a one-way walk. We stopped on our way to Temple IV, and this is what we saw:

Note that the base of this shot does not even reach the ground. This is the largest temple on the site, 70 meters high, and a stunning monument rising out of the jungle. The bottom two-thirds of the pyramid [sic—it’s technically not a pyramid; they have stairs on the corners, not the sides] has not even been excavated. It was the top of this temple seen by a chiclero, who then told the governor of the region, so the story goes. Needless to say, a picture can’t do the sight justice.

Neither can it capture the experience of the view from the top (look familiar, Star Wars fans?):

Or zooming in a little at Temples III, II, and I (respectively, nearest to farthest in the line of the Great Plaza):

Here’s Mom (who, again made it up the zillion steps to get to somewhere worth getting to, without much difficulty), with Jeovanni up at the temple edifice (remember that first shot above, to get an idea of what kind of doozy a misstep up there would be):

And there were others in our group, for whom (who?) the climb was a substantial physical challenge, who really gutted it out and were rewarded, and who (whom?) I profoundly applaud for their determination and unmitigated tenacity. I don’t want to get too teary-eyed here, but this trip, and this effort within the trip are incredible commitments for those who don’t get around so well anymore. Once back on the ground, after a careful descent of the stairs, we sat for a drink (de agua) with those few in the group who were not able to make the climb. Hearing of the magnificence at the top was tough on them—their sole bittersweet consolation, the pictures that Jeovanni snapped for them from the top with their cameras.

The walk back toward Temple III and the Grand Plaza behind it was a short trek through an up-and-down path cut through the jungle, which then met up with the road that we came in on. I was gratified to see those who had not climbed, take on their challenge of the jungle route, and test their own limits of perseverance. Here is the back of Temple III as we approached it:

Note that it is somewhat stupid of me to post essentially the same pictures that have been taken and published countless times by others—them with better equipment and artistic eye and shooting conditions, etc. But, obviously I’m not competing with them. These photos serve as testament not just of where we were and what we did, but rather of how we did it. By the sequence of the shots, they show us the order in which we did things, and in some cases, the pacing as well. By the composition of the shots, they show us what our eyes and minds and consciences were drawn to. And by the faces and the postures that are sometimes captured, they show us the spontaneous emotions produced by the experience.

A couple of obligatory wildlife shots.  Here’s a baby fer-de-lance that a park worker swept out of the underbrush as he was cleaning around a path (that’s him prodding it with the blade of a palm frond, trying to get it in a more photogenic position—either that, or trying to get it to leap at our throats):

And here’s a pizote (also known as a koatymundi) hanging out near the refreshment palapa, outside of the Great Plaza, basically just a more docile, but no less objectionable, cousin of the North American raccoon (I didn’t care much for his manners, freakin’ groveler, or his looks for that matter):

Here are some shots from the Great Plaza. I’ll present them with little commentary, since it’s after my bedtime and we have to get up early tomorrow for departure to Cusco (we’re already in Lima, I’ll talk a little about that tomorrow).

Temple I:

Mom in front of the Central Acropolis (off of the Great Plaza):

Different view of the same structure, look how awesomely architectural this is (“Architectural, duh, it’s a building, dude!”  “Yeah, but this could seriously be like 13-Jaguar Lloyd Wright”):

This extreme looker with the earrings is the rain god, Chaac, who was discovered in a well, completely intact, when Temple 33 on the North Acropolis collapsed during restoration (“Where’s that damned temple I asked you to restore? […]  What do you mean you have something better?  […]  Yeah right, sure you meant to do that!”):

Artistic view of Temple I from the Central Acropolis, framed by beautiful tree branch (okay, maybe I am trying to compete—me with my snazzy new camera and all):

And lastly, a shot from the Central Acropolis of Mom (in the white shirt)…oh yeah, and there’s a 1300 year-old Mayan temple (Temple II) in the background.

Adios.

So, we’re on the plane, and it’s unbelievably comfortable and fun. Here’s a picture:

The attendant calls the plane “Expedition” I think, but that’s so banal and dull. The pilot (or “lead captain” as he likes to be known as), Jon, calls it “Gulf Delta Zulu Zulu <something> <something> <something else>”, which seems far more endearing to me. I’ll have to pick up the true correct name from the lead captain (or one of the lesser captains, if need be), in its full poesy, when we board next in a couple of days, and post it here properly.

Regardless, all of the things that make air travel a hassle (at least for us wretched refuse who sit in coach), have magically dissolved. Very spacious seating, with a swing up leg and foot rest (which Mom loves), noise-canceling headphones, hand-and-foot wait service (crazy polite and attentive, with a British accent and typical charm), warm towels every half hour, and wine with every meal.

Speaking of meals, there are four on the agenda for today, apparently brunch isn’t just for Sundays anymore, it also seems to be standard for private jet travel (though I have very few data points on this). At first glance, it would seem rather excessive to serve brunch on a 3 hour flight that takes off shortly after breakfast, just so we can land and take a bus out to a Maya ruin “eco-lodge” to have lunch. But on further inspection, there appears to be method behind the madness, more than a mere blatant display of extravagance. It turns out that we’re shifting two timezones west today, so clearly that opens up not just the opportunity—but the need—for the extra meal. I mean, we can’t have the group starving by the time lunch rolls around in the new locale, what with breakfast having been a whole continent in the past. Here’s me at lunch looking askance at Cameron, our physician for the trip (perhaps questioning the performance-enhancing effects of the Guatemalan Gatorade he’s drinking).

Anyway, after lunch, we went to ruins of the classic period city of Yaxhá, which is within artillery range of Tikal, and on the other side of the Mayan mason-dixon line. Interestingly, having been to Tikal and other Mayan sites during a seminal exploration of my place in the world (a little over <cough> twenty years ago), and having taken the experience very personally, and having known of other major Tikal foe kingdoms in the lowland region—such as Caracol (edit: removed the accent, after having gotten back on line and consult the trusty old internet)—, I somehow had never heard of Yaxhá before. Great site, great history, and great park. It was very tranquil (at least mostly, as I’ll tell about in a minute) and beautiful, with totally few visitors, but really expertly excavated (though only partially) and wonderfully presented, with many many of the buildings swallowed by the jungle left undisturbed, though clearly fulfilling the mandatory cardinal direction plaza layout. You can look up the story of the site on Wikipedia (or go to your local library and leaf through the card catalog), but one of the most interesting factoids was some sort of alliance with the Teotihuacanos, from way up north. Apparently, they were brutal fighters who lent their swords to the Yaxhá-ites, and a surprising legacy of the arrangement are the surviving stelae (edit: spelling confirmed; note that I prefer “stela” as the singular, instead of the more commonly suggested “stele”, since there is better accordance with the spelling of the plural) depicting Teotihuacano figures, head-on (rather than from the side, or flattened like corn, if you know where that reference comes from), with lance, shield, and up-north warrior sandals (which totally don’t go with normal Mayan garb and headgear).

Here are pictures from the site, starting with an astrological pyramid near the entrance of the park:

Followed by the amazing temple, at the highest point within the site:

Everything about this monument was pretty stunning, from the design and aesthetics to the engineering to the level of preservation (supplemented by some fairly aggressive reconstruction, I’m sure)…and, oh by the way, the view from the top wasn’t too bad either (pardon the spherical aberation):

You could actually see the entire site, including some of the other major pyramids (if you looked down on them!!!). Mom had no difficulty in making the climb to the top—all of the stair climbing and treadmilling (or milltreading?) at Mirabella is clearly paying off.

One last note of interest on this pyramid/temple has to do with its color. Sure, it might look like just a pile of weather- and time-worn limestone to you, but in its day, it was a rich red ochre, so the artist renditions at the park—as well as our super-awesome guide Billy—tell us. But just as we were headed down, I took one final look at the dark side of the temple, and I could swear I saw traces of red fused into the stone. Here’s what the camera was able to capture, I don’t know, what do you think?

Then again, it could be just the blood from a howler monkey knife fight last week. Speaking of howler monkeys (nice segue, huh?), they were going absolutely apeshit in the trees during our visit to the park, if you don’t mind the pun (which is even punnier than you think, since a member of our group [who shall remain nameless, since it is better for all to forget the incident—don’t worry, it wasn’t one of us] was actually nailed on the top of the head by some falling…well, you know). Getting back to the zero-th meaning of “apeshit” (for those C programmers among you), it was like the Jets and the Sharks (to avoid making reference to gangs that could actually shoot me now over a mere joke—and no, this is not about hockey!) up in the canopy, absolutely aggressive and antagonistic and raucous and territorial (ostensibly, but maybe they just like to shoot up the neighborhood).

One other modern-day-urban-inner-city-plight/Mayan-plight parallel (you know, one of those), then it’s off to bed before Tikal tomorrow. When Billy was talking about the significance of the stelae and temples that each new ruler or conqueror in the Mayan world chose to destroy/deface or preserve, the thing that came to mind immediately was inner city tagging wars (that’s graffiti wars, for you suburban or country folk). As he talked about more and more examples of both destruction and preservation, the association only deepened. Wonder how those Yaxhá bangers, along with their Teotihuacano gangsta assassins, would fare on the streets of LA today. Buenas noches.