Race Among The Ruins

by

David Workman

Publishing History - Kingston Whig Standard 20 April 1991, The Triangle November 1992

I did not need much persuasion when Leif Erickson of Hay Bay, suggested we take a weeks holiday in Mexico's Yucatan peninsula to explore Mayan ruins. Many preparations were made. Scene missing. The following day we stepped off our plane to be greeted by the tropical heat of Merida. We had made no plans or reservations. From here on everything we did would be dictated by cost and convenience.

We found a vintage bus which jounced us to the depot in the center of town. I subtracted the modest fee from my budget. The best deal going was an all night bus trip to the ruins of Palenque, leaving at 11:30 p.m. We boarded the bus and managed to get seats together. Unfortunately, they slanted towards each other. The bus constantly vibrated us closer and closer until our heads began clacking against each other. This was fine, had we been punk rockers on our way to a concert but unfortunately our destination was a jungle village and it made for a very unpleasant night. I was still trying to fall asleep when we arrived at Palenque's "Dag Dug" bus terminal at 7:30 a.m.

Leif Waits For A Non-Existent Bus

Both of us had small backpacks containing seven lbs., of clothing, plus full camera bags weighing in at about fourteen lbs., each. Already it was over ninety degrees. Leif suggested walking 8 miles to the ruins as no one seemed to know when the next bus was coming . . . if ever. Two torturous miles later, it showed up and we flagged it down. The ageing bus dropped us at the ruins where we spent the day running up and down pyramids. The main attraction is the 75' high Temple of the Inscriptions.

Temple of the Inscriptions, Palenque

This imposing pyramid contains in its base, the ornately carved Tomb of Pacal who ruled from 615 - 623 A.D. By 11:30 I was dehydrated enough to pause for a soft drink at an outrageous price. Pacal would have turned over in his crypt had he known. We climbed to the top of a jungle mountain where Leif realized his life long ambition by swinging on a vine. We returned to the small village of Palenque and booked a room at the local hotel. The two of us ate at an open air restaurant. With my fluent Spanish, I managed to order two meals . . . each!!! We surprised both ourselves and the waiter by eating it all with no difficulty. There was a cat on the bench beside me with its eye on the numerous bats that were flying in and out. Probably they were trying to make off with my tortillas. Back at the hotel, I accidentally turned the shower on the resident cockroach. It was not amused and ran into the bedroom. The last thing we needed, was a vengeful bug. Leif threw the welcome mat over it and we both practiced our version of the Mexican Hat Dance. During Leif's turn in the shower, I took the liberty of placing his clothes on the blades of the ceiling fan. I was standing by the switch when he re-emerged. Leif took in the scenario and lunged for me. I flipped the switch and we were bombarded with clothes. He still blames me for the loss of one of his pesos (approximately .000397 Can. at that time). Leif was still in a sour mood towards the end of the evening when he discovered a rip in his new packsack. "Goodnight," said I, while simultaneously turning out the only light as Leif began his third stitch.

The next morning we bussed to Villahermosa to see the Olmec heads at La Venta park. Some of these stand over seven feet high. The origin and purpose of these giant carvings have been the subject of many books. Unfortunately, untold numbers were stolen for private collections. Those that were too large for transport were cut into sections and many more were purposely or accidentally destroyed. When hunger replaced our fascination, we did some bartering at a take-out stand and ended up with a whole chicken. Fortunately it had been cooked as neither of us had thought to bring a leash. Leif managed to carve it up with my swiss army knife using a stone bench as a butchers block. After our meal we took yet another all night bus trip. This one was cut short when we smashed into an oncoming truck. Our bus was beyond repair. The replacement which showed up several hours later, wasn't much better. The sides were missing in various places. Even in Yucatan, one can get quite cold riding in a seventy mile per hour wind tunnel.

Leif Reaches Into The Past

The following day found us back in Merida. Looking neither left nor right, we immediately bought tickets to the ruins of Tulum. It was pitch black out when the bus dropped three of us by the side of the road at a thatched hut. Apparently this was the hotel. The rates were an exorbitant fifteen dollars Canadian each. Leif and I moved to a corner to discuss the price. Reluctantly, I told the proprietor we would stay one night. He informed us that while we'd been arguing over the price, our bus mate had taken the last room. He then pointed into the darkness and mentioned that there was another hotel several miles down the road but it was probably full. Outside, we adjusted our packs. Leif got out his guide book on Tulum and read to me by flashlight, "Under no circumstances should a person venture out at night in this area." With this cheery thought we set off down the jungle road. Several times, someone or something passed us going in the opposite direction but it was impossible to distinguish in the darkness. About forty-five minutes later we arrived at a candle lit thatched palm hut. The owner informed us that the next hotel was five miles away and booked solid. However, he happily told us we were welcome to sling our hammocks up between his two poles for fifty cents each. I explained that we had no hammocks or blankets and asked what he suggested. In spanish, he told us that many other penniless bums sleep on the beach nearby. "I'm not sleeping on the beach," said Leif. Our spanish friend shrugged his shoulders, stepped back into his hut and closed the door. "I'm not sleeping on the beach," repeated Leif as we made our way to the seaside.

While I scouted for a suitable place to set up camp, Leif blended into the jungle to search for some kindling. I found an ideal spot on a bluff of sand and palm trees overlooking the Caribbean Sea. My companion returned several minutes later with a sleepy frenchman in tow. Apparently Leif had mistaken him for firewood. The three of us gathered up some empty coconut husks and soon had them burning in our firepit. Our common language was sign. Introductions were made by writing our names in the sand. Leif deciphered the frenchman's hieroglyphics to read "Jern" despite my efforts to convince him it was more likely to be "Jean." Jern had many luxuries such as a hammock, sleeping bag and raincoat. Less fortunate members of the party had glad garbage bags for a ground sheet and a towel for a blanket. Fortunately, I had remembered the advice of an older family friend ("No matter how well prepared the man, he can always use a rubber band"). I distributed my elastics between the three of us. Remembering the tarantulas I had seen skittering across the road in front of our bus, I placed my elastics over the bottom of my pantlegs. Jern made a slingshot out of his and was able to wound several of the smaller mosquitos. As I lay on the ground, wrapping palm fronds around me for extra warmth, I thought about how nice it would be back home sipping tea while watching M*A*S*H reruns. "Goodnight Jern, goodnight Leif," I said. "I'm not sleeping on the beach," replied Leif.

Leif & Jern Around The Fire	El Castillo, Tulum

The gentle lapping of the waves soon put me to sleep. At 3:15 a.m. I came awake to a tropical downpour. Leif and I were both soaked and the embers from our coconut fire were steaming. One of us needed to get more wood. Leif came up with the idea of picking a number between one and ten. I chose four. He chose six and said the number he'd thought of was seven so I lost. I was still thinking that logic through as I set off in the jungle to search for coconuts. Something followed me through the trees so I wasn't long in getting back. I deposited my four coconuts in the pit and we stoked up the fire. Jern opened one eye long enough to see us huddling around the fire with my towel over our heads to protect us from the rain. He must have thought it was some strange ritual that Canadians practiced. Eventually the rain stopped and we were able to get a couple of hours sleep.

I awoke to a spectacular sun rising over the light blue of the Caribbean Sea. Jern suggested we go swimming after assuring us the area was shark free due to a barrier reef half a mile out. Leif remained unconvinced but reluctantly joined us after a bit of coaxing.

The sea was bathtub warm and crystal clear. Yes, this was paradise on earth. Suddenly, a school of small fish appeared out of nowhere and swarmed around Leif. One of the fish jumped clear of the water followed by a three foot long monster displaying a mouth full of razor sharp teeth. The water boiled around Leif who wasted no time skimming along the surface to shore. Our swimming over for the day, Jern and I elected chef Erickson to whip us up some coconut milk and pulp for breakfast. After that invigorating meal we wished Jern luck and the two of us set off through the jungle to Tulum less than a mile away.

Tulum, now in ruin, stands on the edge of a fifty foot cliff overlooking the ocean, it is the only walled Mayan city. Originally it was painted a deep blue, red, and white which would have presented a striking contrast against the backdrop of the turquoise Caribbean sea. After a gruelling two hours of photographing and exploring we broke for lunch at a small restaurant. The waiter refused to take our order and motioned for us to leave. Perhaps it had something to do with the aroma of burnt coconuts that clung to us. We decided to share our new found fragrance with the passengers of a bus heading for Coba. Coba was a ruin we were both looking forward to seeing. Unfortunately, both of us fell asleep and missed the stop. I was surprised to find myself back in Merida when I awoke. We disembarked and quickly began scouring the city for a cheap hotel. After nearly two hours of pounding the cobblestones we located an inferior inn. By now it was too dark to take part in any of the local festivities so we killed the token cockroach and retired for the evening.

The following morning found us on yet another bus. Today we'd chosen to honour the ruins of Uxmal with our presence. This bus was more than full which meant standing room only. The ride was rough enough that my packsack straps broke. Much to the amusement of the passengers, I was able to persuade seamstress Erickson to practice his needlecraft.

We pulled into Uxmal at high noon. As I walked up the trail to the ruins, a viper hurled himself from a tree landing at my feet. He slithered into the bush no doubt admonishing himself at having missed such easy prey. "Welcome to Uxmal," I thought.

The most arresting structure at this site is the Pyramid of the Magician. This unique erection has rounded sides and even comes complete with its own legend. If the myth is to be believed, this immense edifice was built overnight by a dwarf magician who hatched from a serpents egg. During the five hours we spent wandering up and down pyramids, we averaged two bottles of Coca Cola per hour. To this day I still associate Uxmal with intense heat. On arrival, our jeans were covered in black soot from the coconut fire at Tulum. By the end of the day all the black had disappeared. As Leif said, "we wore them clean."

Pyramid of the Magician, Uxmal

There were several old peons waiting by the side of the road for the bus. We waited several hours until everyone but us and a young mayan, gave up and left. Noticing our protruding tongues, Gilberto invited us back to his village for a soft drink. He led us to a classical mayan hut. These are round, windowless, and made of straw and mud much the same as they were in ancient times. At Gilberto's knock, the wooden door opened a crack and an ageless woman peered out. I smiled and she slammed the door shut. Embarrassed, Gilberto opened the door and declared, "Son Canadienses, Abuelita." In Mexico, Canadians are generally well received while others may not be welcome. A Canadian flag sown on your jacket or packsack will often open many doors. Once his grandmother realized we were from the far north, we were welcomed into the family. We traded tales until dusk then walked back to the highway with a jar full of Orange Crush, a gift from our new friends. Having been assured by Gilberto that the bus would not be making its scheduled run, we had no choice but to hitch-hike. Several Mexicans stopped and offered us rides at outlandish prices. Finally, A half ton truck full of corn pulled over. We hopped in the back with the produce and had a windy but free ride all the way back to Merida where the spanish police stopped our driver and ordered him to pay a fine. Apparently it is illegal to pick up hitch-hikers. The driver refused our offer to re-imburse him the agreed upon bribe.

We returned to our hotel to find that the room reservation we had booked last night was no longer valid? In our quest for lodgings, we combined forces with two Americans in the same predicament. Several hours later the four of us were sharing a double room at the Flaming "O" Hotel. Rick and Clay elected to join us for some contemptible cuisine at a local diner. During the second bite of his burrito, a fly flew out of Clay's mouth. Apparently they shared a symbiotic relationship of sorts with the patrons. Leif impressed them with tales of a tick he'd picked up on our camping experience at Tulum. Feeling left out, I mentioned the nervous tick that had developed in my left eye. However, it did not garner the same attention. The next morning Leif and I caught a bus to the airport and were whisked back to the real world. Our "holiday" was over.

Dave & Leif, Merida Airport