Day 16 June 7
Part 3






A breezy boat ride across the lake was just what we needed to cool down. Several buildings were raised by concrete supports from the water's blue surface-- a curious and pretty sight.

"Sometimes the water level rises suddenly," our guide said ironically, "and then these nice houses are in trouble." I looked into the distance. One of the taller structures had its front and back doors open, exposing a staircase over a maroon tiled floor, and more of the placid blue beyond. It had a strange meditative tranquility, as in Edward Hopper's painting "Rooms by the Sea". I imagined long melancholy tropical nights in this house-- with moonlight and Spanish guitar music-- followed by bright leisurely mornings redolent of coffee, books, and conversation.

Very soon, the launch brushed against the shore, and our ride was over.




We still had a few hours to kill before the flight. The Actun Kan cave (Actun Kan = Serpent Cave, in Maya) was in the vicinity, but only 500 meters of cavern trail were open to the public. When we arrived, there were no tourists except ourselves.

Caves were seen by the ancient Maya as gateways to the subterranean earth monster. During our brief visit, I could well understand the primitive terror that gripped the indigenous explorers who first dared these recesses.

Many caves in the Classic Maya lowlands and the Yucatan contain religious carvings and artwork, as well as remains of votive offerings to the gods. The photo above shows what appears to be a stone serpent's head at the base of the steps.

[Postscript, 1999. I have read many books that mention the "subterranean earth monster", but only recently did I appreciate what the creature must have meant for the ancient Maya. My wife, who grew up near Palenque in Chiapas, Mexico, told me of a curious custom still practiced by both indígenas and ladinos in her home town. When a house is to be blessed because it is new, or cleansed of evil spirits because of a gravely ill person who had stayed there, a curandero (local shaman) is called to perform a strange sacrifice. Reciting prayers in Tzeltal Maya, the curandero ties up a chicken and, holding it by the feet, bashes it against each corner of the house. After this exercise, the chicken is either quite dead or in a permanent coma. The curandero then buries the unfortunate bird in a hole near the center of the floor that he had previously dug for this purpose. The gruesome ceremony ensures that the perpetually hungry earth is appeased, and therefore, is not inclined to claim any more human lives-- at least, until it requires another chicken offering.]




On the flight back to La Capital, I made sure that I got a window seat. (Thanks, Madjid.) The mountains of the Sierra de Chamá soon rose majestically from the seemingly endless sea of verdure. My camera was ready, and I snapped a quick shot.

When Hernan Cortés was asked to describe the terrain of Mesoamerica, he crumpled a piece of parchment and threw it on the table. With modern technology providing us a bird's eye view, we could check out for ourselves how amazingly accurate he was.

I was both relieved and sad at leaving the difficult, but awe-inspiring, Petén. The late afternoon sun suffused the rugged landscape with a tragic glow. I thought of the Tikal ruins, crowned by the rays of that last eternal twilight that will always remain in my memory.

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Into Guatemala 1989. © 1999 J. L. Pe