(This is the third installment of a series of posts describing my experiences of this past week. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)
Beep … Beep … Beep.
As my little cell phone alarm wakes me from a deep sleep, I look at my watch and discover that the time is already 6:15 a.m.. Thursday morning seems to have arrived very quickly. Feeling rested and eager to take on a new day, I hop out of bed and quickly throw a few items into my daypack. I don’t want to be late for the start of our five kilometer caminata (walk) to the ruins of Ek’Balam.
Fifteen minutes later, Antonia and I are dressed in white with red sashes, strolling down the dirt lane on our way to the Cocina Maya for a quick breakfast. Last night, the main organizer of the event (Jesus Fabian) made it very clear that he wants to begin the long silent march at precisely 7:00 a.m..
As we sit down at the large table in the tiny food kitchen, it is already 6:45 a.m., and we are the only ones here. Antonia and I look at each other as she jokingly comments, “Does 7:00 a.m. really mean 8:00 a.m.?”
Both of us just smile, feeling completely at peace, knowing it really doesn’t matter. I laugh inside as I realize that the Universe is simply providing me with ample opportunities to practice non-attachment to schedules.
A small stray dog wanders into our dining area and Antonia speaks to it ever so kindly. Seeing the deep love in her behavior I ask, “You really love animals, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she quickly replies. “At home I have fifteen cats and four dogs. I rescue them and try to help them find permanent homes.
As we finish our breakfast of delicious “polcanes” (not much variety here), Antonia disappears momentarily as she walks next door to a tiny store—one of three such stores that I have found in the village. Just minutes later she returns with a small bag of snacks. I soon realize that the snacks are not for her as she walks across the street, opens the bag, and proceeds to share it with three skinny dogs who have been quietly observing the events in our humble restaurant.
By around 7:15 a.m., members of our group begin to gradually filter into the restaurant. As Antonia and I wait on a small bench in front of the Cocina Maya, I realize that I should probably use the restroom again before leaving on our march. Not wanting to do a full ten minute race back to the cabin, I ask Trini if she might have a restroom I can use.
“Not here in the Cocina,” she begins, “but you can go next door … there in that little building behind the store.”
As I step into the yard behind the store, I am unprepared for what I see. For a few brief moments, I am blessed with a glimpse of day-to-day life of these humble people.
Attached to the back of the tiny store is a large open-air awning, underneath which appears to be a makeshift outdoor kitchen. An older Mayan woman is leaning over a boiling pot that is cooking on the grill above a small smoking fire. A couple of old home-made tables are covered with pots, large water bottles, condiments, and kitchen utensils. The ground is simply dirt, with several plastic buckets scattered here and there. A few plastic bags hang on hooks. A metal pipe with a water faucet sticks out of the ground on the left. A small puddle of water in the mud indicates slightly leaking pipes.
Not wanting to draw any attention to my presence, I do not pause to stare, even though I am eager to absorb every detail. On my way back from the dirty but adequate outdoor bathroom, I notice that the older woman has left, and I quickly snap a photograph, hoping no one sees; I really do not want to offend these beautiful people by my curious interest in their living conditions.
As I return to the street, I notice that Bartolomé has arrived, and several people have gathered around engaging him with questions and discussion. I quickly gravitate to that same circle, listening intently to his every word—still not having the language confidence to say much myself.
Finally, by 8:00 a.m., it looks like our group is all present and finishing their breakfasts. We seem to have grown in numbers, yet again, as sixty or seventy people line up in the street. Jesus Fabian asks us to walk single file, while remaining in complete silence as we proceed down the road on our five kilometer trek—first three kilometers to the south, and then two kilometers to the east. Antonia and I line up early, as close to the front as possible, being fifth and sixth in line behind Bartolomé. Something inside of me pulls me to be as close to him as possible.
Bartolomé walks quickly, making good time. I find it moderately difficult, even for me, to keep up with his pace. As I glance around, I take note that a good portion of the group behind has fallen back, unable to keep up with the hurried pace. The gap gradually grows wider and wider.
After walking for about an hour in the hot sweltering sun, I am eager for a rest as the lead part of our group arrives at our first destination—the ticket table for the Cenote X’Canche (pronounced esh-con-shay). After paying the thirty peso entrance fee, we again begin to line up in silence just inside the entrance gate.
Twenty minutes pass as we wait for the final stragglers of our group catch up and join us. The “old me” would have felt annoyed by the delays, causing me to judge the slower people as lazy or inconsiderate. The “present-day me” simply enjoys the extra time to rest as we stand in the shade of these beautiful jungle surroundings. Oh, the joy and peace that comes from not being attached to any outcomes.
Soon we are walking again. I joyfully observe that this phase of the caminata feels more reverent, more special. Strolling under the shade of thick, overhanging trees, we walk single file in complete silence down a wide earthen trail that winds an additional one and a half kilometers through the jungle. Twenty minutes later we arrive at the end of the trail. Our destination, the Cenote X’Canche, is very near.
Celebrating Water
I rest on an uneven rock on the hillside that slopes down to the edge of the large sink hole. The beautiful waters of the Cenote X’Canche sit about one hundred feet below me, just barely visible through the trees. Recognizing that there is not adequate space around the depths below, our leaders have opted to perform the sacred water ceremony while seated on and near the platform directly above this incredible creation of nature. A four foot wide stair case leads from the main path above down to a wooden platform just below and to my right. From this platform a steep staircase leads down to the refreshing sacred pool.
Jesus Fabian, acting with the park’s permission, requests that we carefully spread out on the sloping hillside directly above this platform, trying to inflict as little damage as possible to the surrounding trees and plants.
For more than an hour, Bartolomé performs the beautiful rituals. As with last night, he speaks almost completely in the choppy, staccato rhythms of the Mayan language. Several times he also sings in this beautiful language. His voice is not concert quality, but the humility with which he sings is deeply enchanting and endearing.
As I reverently observe the rituals, I understand very little of the symbolic meaning behind what is taking place. Even so, a feeling of fascination keeps my attention focused on every movement, every word, every prayer. A large portion of the ceremony involves wooden bowls filled with some type of yellowish tea, repeatedly held to the sky above while chanting in Mayan. Midway through the ceremony, Bartolomé pours some of the tea over the edge of the platform. Moments later, I hear a splashing sound in the waters far below.
During the final twenty minutes of the ceremony, a wooden bowl of the yellow tea is passed throughout the crowd. As each person receives the wooden bowl, they meditate briefly, some holding the bowl above their heads, some moving it in circles in front of them, others simply pausing for a few moments of silence. Then, before passing it along, this person first places his or her mouth on the edge of the bowl and takes a small sip of the tea.
The bowl makes its way through our large crowd in an organized snake-like fashion, up and down through the reverent participants on this slanted hillside. Each time the bowl passes near the platform, it is refilled before being passed back up to the next section of people.
While waiting for my turn, I have ample time to think about whether or not I want to place my lips on the bowl when it comes to me. My old logical left brain would have insisted that I should not risk the spreading of germs. My heart, on the other hand, very lovingly encourages me to drink, reassuring me that all is well, that there is absolutely nothing at all to fear, reminding me of the incredible power of our minds and our beliefs.
When the small wooden bowl finally reaches my hands, I eagerly raise it in the air, pause in meditation, and then place it to my lips, confidently taking a large sip of the sweet tasting yellow mystery tea.
When all have finished drinking from the wooden bowl, Bartolomé picks up a bundle of leaves and dips it into the yellow tea. For several minutes he makes his rounds, remoistening the leaves when needed, using the leaves to splash droplets of the yellow tea onto all who are gathered around him.
Before terminating the ritual, Bartolomé gives us a few minutes to enjoy some music making. I am becoming quite attached to the energizing melodies of flutes, the beating of drums, and the powerful resonating calls of conch shells.
As the ceremony concludes, Antonia and I peacefully stroll back up the long trail to the parking lot. We laugh together as we talk about our next adventure. We have been asked to be back in the main parking lot, ready to pass through the entrance to Ek’Balam at precisely 12 noon. I smile at her and make the comment “I bet that means 1:00 p.m.” We both giggle.
Ek’Balam At Last
Ek’Balam is a beautiful Mayan community that was at its peek during the period of 600-900 AD. After being abandoned by the Mayans, it was completely overgrown and obscured by jungle. It was not until 1997 that restoration of the ruins was begun. Amazingly, Bartolomé is the Mayan Priest/Shaman that dedicated these ruins before they were opened up to public tours.
Shortly after 1:00 p.m., our next adventure begins. What a pleasure it is to have Bartolomé personally guide us through these beautiful ruins. As before, we line up single file, following Bartolomé in silence as begin our walk.
Bartolomé does not treat this like a normal tour. He is not here to tell us historical facts about the various structures. Instead, he uses the opportunity to teach us about the spiritual beliefs of the Mayan people.
We only stop in two places. The first is on top of a small structure at the southeast corner of the grounds. For forty-five minutes Bartolomé tells us about the holy nature of this mostly overlooked structure. The view here is incredible. We are above the tree level of the surrounding forests, looking for miles and miles at the top of the thick green canopy of trees before us.
Our second stop is on the grounds right at the base of the tallest ruin, which is called “The Acropolis.” This beautiful structure dominates the area, and is home to some incredibly well preserved rock carvings. At its tallest point, this ruin stands 96 feet tall. The base measures 480 feet across, and 180 feet deep. A cluster of beautiful trees provides a canopy of shade at the base where we gather to feast on Bartolomé’s words.
Bartolomé sits on a large round stump, facing straight up at the ruins. I choose a seat on a small bench just two feet behind him. Many in the group gather around in front of Bartolomé, sitting on the ground at his feet.
As he begins to talk to the crowd I hear someone call out, “There is a spider on Bartolomé.” By the time Bartolomé stands up, the big ugly spider had already crawled onto the back side of the stump, just a foot or two in front of me. This little guy’s body is big and long, perhaps three fourths of an inch in length, but it’s leg span is between two and three inches. The coloring is quite fascinating; part of its body glows with a very earthy red, the other half is the color of a pale yellow banana.
Upon seeing the spider, Bartolomé indicates that he does not normally kill spiders but we need to kill this one. “It is venomous,” he says very mater of factly, showing no fear whatsoever. He calmly tilts the stump toward the ruins, opening a gap at the bottom near the ground. When the menacing-looking spider crawls under the stump, Bartolomé simply pushes the stump back flat to the ground, squashing the poisonous creature beneath.
As Bartolomé talks to our large gathering, he says very little about the ruins themselves. Instead, he talks for more than an hour about Mayan traditions, spirituality, love, forgiveness, and a variety of other fascinating topics. Throughout the discussion, I am glued to his every word. Much of the discussion turns into question and answer. A man sitting on the ground right in front asks several very poignant questions. I notice that he addresses Bartolomé by the title “Maestro” (Master), showing great respect to our teacher.
Have I said yet that I love this man? Well I do. He simply exudes love and peace in everything he says and does.
Shortly after 3:00 p.m., Bartolomé declares that our afternoon session is over, but no one leaves. I take a fifteen minute break to scale to the top of “The Acropolis.” The view is incredible. Were it not for the blazing sun, I could sit here on top all day long, inhaling all of the amazing vistas. From this vantage point, I can see the entire ruin complex, and the panorama of surrounding jungles is breathtaking. Surges of energy permeate my entire body as I pause to meditate while facing each of the four directions.
Feeling pressed for time, I realize I need to join my friends below. As I descend, the crowds are just beginning to gather at the base of “The Acropolis” to take large group photos. I hurry down the steps, zigzagging back and forth, just as I had done on the way up. Eduardo had previously taught me that zigzagging is the proper way to show respect when climbing up and down these sacred structures.
Even after the photos, everyone continues to linger. A line forms in front of Bartolomé as we all take turns thanking him and giving him small monetary love offerings. When my turn arrives, I give him a huge hug and tell him what a pleasure it is to meet him. I express my gratitude and love, and thank him for spending so much quality time with us.
Finally, Antonia and I set off on foot, hoping to get to the nearby restaurant before darkness sets in. However, Antonia notices a local Mayan man giving a personal tour to Irene, Irene’s granddaughter, and Gloria.
Antonia asks, “Do you mind if we join them?”
How could I say no to that? Soon we are being whisked around, up, and down various parts of the ruins, seeing things we might never have seen otherwise, listening to stories we definitely would have never heard. By the time we finish it is already after 4:45 p.m., and we know we need to hurry. The sun will be setting very soon, and we are starved, having had no lunch whatsoever.
Soon, Gloria, Antonia, and I are finishing up a delicious meal of “Papazules” (don’t ask, I could never describe what they are) at a restaurant just 200 yards down the road. As we begin to contemplate just how we will navigate the five kilometer walk back to town in the dark, Jesus Fabian pulls up in his car to offer us a ride.
An Evening Of Fun
The remainder of the evening is delightful. We have free time, but various festival attendees have planned a sort of impromptu mini-conference. My favorite activity is presented by a group of creative young adults from Tulum. They brought a puppet show with them, and have decided to perform a small show in the tiny town park, inviting all of the village residents to bring their families and enjoy the fun.
Yes, I thoroughly enjoy the puppets of Mayan warriors, jaguars, and even Bob Marley, but my biggest joy of the evening is watching the local residents, especially the children, as their eyes light up with delight, laughter, and giggles.
After the show, Antonia and I attempt to enjoy a very dry late-night speech about the Mayan calendar. Ten minutes into the speech we are both yawning with exhaustion, struggling with the task of staying awake. A quick glance around the room confirms that we are not the only ones facing the exhaustion dilemma.
When my head finally hits my pillow, sleep is not far behind. As I drift off into dreamland, my heart is full of love, my memories are dancing with incredible images of a beautiful day well spent, and my thoughts are eagerly anticipating the wonder of tomorrow.
To be continued …
Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved