Temple V

Looking out from Temple V, I felt a sense of peace and tranquility overwhelm my being. I, along with a group of Spaniards, Freddy, and an English woman sat in silent awe at the sight that filled our eyes.

Miles of green forest stretched before us, broken only by the tops of Tikal’s Temples I and II. I imagined the jungle extending far into Chiapas, Mexico, over to Belize, and down into Guatemala. Underneath layers of debris and hidden beneath the trees’ canopies lay countless ruins of the Mayan civilization. I pictured each bump and irregularity in the otherwise flat landscape as a disguised Mayan pyramid.

The others’ hushed voices echoed the amazement I felt, as they looked out over the countryside. They had begun discussing how to get back down the pyramid. I remembered my own journey up the practically vertical steps to see the splendid view from the pyramid. Gratefully, I thanked the two years of rock climbing experience that helped me focus on the stairs and the gritty limestone face of the pyramid, which helped me ignore the height and precarious position I was in. But all the same, going down would be a trip.

One by one, they began the arduous journey back down the pyramid to the forest floor. I glanced over to watch the last person begin the steep 58 meter climb down the precarious wooden steps. Finally, only Freddy and I remained on the pyramid. We sat in silence, admiring the incredible view of Temples I and II. The temples peaked resolutely from the green canopy, breaking the monotony of the forest. As the sun’s rays hit the exposed limestone, the pyramids began to glow with a mysterious force. They seemed to emanate the peace I could feel sitting on Temple V.

Wind breezed by us as we sat on the temple. My hot face soon began to cool, as my body recognized the refreshing break from the humid jungle. Minutes ticked by; late afternoon was coming. Suddenly, the silence of the forest was broken as a sound like a car engine revving reverberated out of the trees. Loud, grinding whoops and hollers came from the canopy. The howler monkeys had woken from their afternoon nap. A wide grin spread across my face as I listened to their unusual, soul-shattering sound. My eyes scanned the temples and forest. Would I catch a glimpse of this illusive animal? Again and again their motor-like sound penetrated Tikal’s silence. The sound seemed to come from an enormous animal, though I knew the howler monkey is small, but with an incredible voice box. I closed my eyes, imagining that this is how a sasquatch, the mysterious North American ape, must sound.

Eventually their noises faded into the distance and again only the wind spoke in the trees. Freddy and I sat in silence for several more minutes before standing and making our way towards the wooden stairs. I wondered at how priests managed to climb the limestone steps up the pyramid before realizing that they, at least, had 12 inches of stone to put their feet on. “It’s similar to rock climbing,” I reminded myself, as I backed onto the 4 inch wide boards that would carry me 58 meters down to the forest floor. I glanced at the spectacular view one last time, and slowly, step by step, began the process down the stairs. “If only I could repel,” I thought, shocking even myself, “I would be down in no time.” Hundreds of near-vertical wooden steps later, I reached the bottom, and stood, gazing up at the powerful grace of the pyramid, realizing it had blessed me with its presence, view, and might during those 20 minutes on its top. “Thanks,” I murmured as, with a backward glance, I disappeared with Freddy into the dark jungle paths that would lead us away from Temple V.

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.”

If You Drink the Water….

They say in Petén that if you drink the water from Lake Petén Itza, you will never leave. The turquoise green water of the immense lake beckoned me as the little airplane dropped towards the Santa Elena landing strip. An oasis in a sea of green tropical plants, the complexity and immensity of the lake called my attention. I immediately felt at home.

Stepping out onto the hot tarmac, I felt I had returned to summer in Iowa. In the humid, tropical air, my red hair began to curl, and I felt sweat start to drip down my back. I looked at the vast flat land covered in Ceiba trees and hundreds of other plant species, and relief filled my soul as I realized I had left Guatemala City hundreds of miles away. How could it be that I felt at home immediately? A sense of place in a location I had only read about? Petén Itza had called me home.

Erick, smiling widely as he saw me trundle out of the airport gave me a warm hug and said, “Nancy, bienvenida a Petén!” I had told him and Carlos, my other Tikal connection, that since I was 12 years old and in sixth grade I had wanted to come to Tikal. I remembered learning to count using the strange Mayan glyphs. Vividly I recalled videos about the tropical forest, where Mayan ruins and temples lay buried under layers of soil and plant debris. Finally, I would know Tikal. At 24, twelve years after I had vowed to come, I would realize one of the largest, most important dreams of my life.

The relaxed, almost Caribbean environment filled the small communities of Santa Elena and Flores. Everyone walked around in flip flops, shorts, and t-shirts. Sweat glistened on everyone’s foreheads. Tut tuts, or taxi-motorcycles, zoomed down the street, announcing their presence with their “tut-tut” sounding horns. Erick and I stopped to purchase ceviche from a small ceviche cart. The men frantically squeezed lime juice onto containers of shrimp, tomatoes, and onions, as they prepared the exotic treat. Containers of ceviche in our hands, we hopped back into the car and cruised across the causeway to the island community, Flores.

Flores, with its tin-roofed houses, was a quaint, tranquil community. Everyone sat in the shade, waiting for the midday heat to diminish with the night air. They greeted Erick as we pulled up to his home, a little brightly colored house. Inside, each wall was painted a cheery teal, orange, green, or bright blue. Estelita, Erick’s wife, immediately made me feel welcome into their home. Their casual, friendly joking helped me recognize that for the first time in Guatemala, I had a community and a home I could go to. Eagerly, we ate the cool ceviche before venturing out to the surrounding communities.

Marimba music pulsed through the air in San Jose, a quiet, sleepy community on the other side of the inlet from Flores. We wandered up to meet Doña Nelly, one of Estelita’s friends. She handed us refreshing glasses of soda, ice clinking against the edges of the cups. As we sat, enjoying her company, they began to joke that the ice in the cup was actually made from water from the lake. They explained, “You see, Nancy, once you drink the water from the lake, you’ll stay in Petén. You won’t want to leave. Look at us! We’re from Guatemala City. We drank the water and we will always stay in Petén. You’ve drunk the water now, too.” As I looked out at the lake, felt the heat in the air, and realized a sense of community stronger than I had experienced in two months of life in Guatemala, I immediately understand what they meant. Petén Itza had called my name and I would forever count the days until I returned to Petén.