This is Tikal

The steady drip, drip, drip, of water droplets off large tropical leaves reminded me that today was a cloudy day in Tikal. I examined the delicate leaves, noting the slight tip at the end to slough water off them. I had hardly noticed the rain under the heavy canopy until a break in the foliage allowed the rain to penetrate and fall onto these leaves. The rain reminded me of what Freddy had told me about the leaf cutter ants. When they begin to move in earnest, all carrying their precious cut-leaf cargo, it is sure to rain in the coming days. Those ants are good meteorologists.

Apart from the steady dripping rain, virtually no sounds penetrated the thick jungle. The usual mysterious hoots of the oropéndula birds, cackle of the toucans, and car-grinding whoops of the howler monkeys were absent that day. Only the sounds of the trees moving gracefully with the wind broke the otherwise monotonous silence of rainy-day Tikal.

For me, the grey, uniform sky with its occasional release of raindrops made Tikal all the more beautiful, mysterious, and intriguing. The profound green of the forest was projected more powerfully than on sunny days. All surfaces, from the jungle to the temples, glistened from slick water droplets that fell from the sky. The moldering, blackened limestone walls of the buildings seemed illuminated in the refreshing air.

As I approached Grupo G, I could feel the air whisper in the trees, echoing the voices of the spirits of ancient Mayan kings, queens, priests, and peasants. Freddy and I entered the Mayan arch, which marked a narrow, serpentine passage that led seemingly into the bowels of this ancient monastery. We had been swallowed by the Mayan snake only to be spat out in the verdant patio at the center of the complex. Ancient limestone walls loomed over us; the shining white of their former splendor covered now by layers of dirt, mold, and moss. The presence of the past inhabitants filled the monastery buildings. We ventured into the rooms, and I wondered at their antiquated triangular archways. Bats and swallows swooped in the dark shadows, as if to demonstrate that life still thrives in these ruins.

As though commanded by the spirits, Don Salamon, a foreman on the maintenance crew and Mayan spiritual leader, immerged from behind the building. His quiet, throaty Spanish mirrored the magic in the monastery. He shared with us the spirituality he finds in Grupo G and smiled when I revealed that for me, this place had a meaning and soul as well. Don Salamon led us to the far back of the complex, where the white limestone still shown, to point out two meditation rooms. Here, he explained, a person could sit, meditate and feel the soul of Tikal fill their own spirits. This was where the serpent spirit of the buildings could attach itself to you and move you to its rhythm.

I felt heavy, wet raindrops fall on my face, streaking down my pale face. Again, the wind whispered the conversations of ancient inhabitants in this sacred place. More than any place in Tikal, Grupo G beckoned me, calmed me, and united me with its powerful, ancient presence. So this is Tikal, I realized. This is why people perpetually talk about its mystique, mystery, and mysticism. “Yes,” answered the trees. “Yes,” ached the walls. “Yes,” called the spirits, “this is Tikal.”