Palenque, Mexico
by W. Ruth Kozak
Many civilizations believe in reincarnation, a return to life after death. The credibility and mystery behind this doctrine has always fascinated me, in particular on those rare occasions when I have encountered a feeling of déjà vu. I recall an unusual dream I had and the strange occurrences that followed.
I am in a small room with walls made of white stone. The room is bare of furnishings except for a narrow bed covered by the pelt of a black animal, possibly a jaguar, and heaped with brightly colored cushions. In one corner is a large urn with a brilliant turquoise glaze, the most distinctive object in the room.
I am accompanied by another woman. We are both dressed in long gauzy garments and wear flower head dresses. She indicates to me that I am a captive and she is a servant.
I look out the narrow T-shaped window of the room and see a hilly landscape. A vista of lawns and foliage border a wide avenue that connects distant pavilions with curved roofs decorated by elaborate combs. Among the gardens and terraces are scattered other white stone buildings with carved lintels over arched doorways that are shaped like open serpents’ mouths. A stairway descends from the entrance of the room and below a crowd of people is assembling. The iridescent feathers of their headdresses make them look like a flock of exotic birds; the brilliantly dyed cloth of their garments swirls in a riot of colour as dancing men whirl to the pulsating bet of drums. The crowd screams and I see four people who appear to be captives being dragged up the steep stairs of an adjoining building. The moaning wail of a conch trumpet echoes off the hills. The hubbub of excited voices and the sound of scuffling footsteps on the stairs frightens me.
Two men enter the room. Both appear to be noblemen. They are dressed in garments of fine cotton cloth resplendent with painted and woven patterns. One is a full head taller than his companion. He is a handsome man with a beautiful sculpted face, high cheek-bones and a high-bridged nose. The short kilt he wears displays his bronze-skinned muscular body. He is adorned with exquisite jewelry, bracelets and rings of silver set with precious stones: turquoise, jade, lapis lazuli and pearls. Over his shoulders is draped a cape of brightly embroidered cloth and he wears a fabulous headdress of emerald-coloured plumes.
The men are conversing hushed, troubled voices in a language I do not understand. The tall, younger man joins me by the window. He looks down at the scene below. The mood of the crowd has intensified and the plaza resounds with the throbbing of drums and the piercing shrill of flutes.
He gestures “trouble” and stands in front of me, placing his hands on my shoulders. His dark eyes penetrate me with their intenseness. A sharp pang of grief cuts through me. He stands quietly allowing me a moment of reflection. I realize then that, although I am his captive, I am also his lover.
His eyes are sad and speak of tragedy. “You must go. I will help you escape…” He speaks his own language but makes me understand. He smiles to reassure me and embraces me. I smell the delicate fragrance of the perfumed oils he uses to anoint his body. “You must leave here,” he says. I protest. I do not want to leave him.
The other man who is waiting near the rear doorway with the woman servant interrupts, addressing his friend by name: “Cho’oc…Cho’oc-B’alam!” He speaks urgently in that strange langue of clucking sounds which I can not understand. Cho’oc pushes me toward the door. “You must go quickly…”
It is then that I wake from my sleep, but the dream, so vivid and real haunted me. Who was the man, Cho-oc Buhlum? Where was that place? Why was he sending me away?
It wasn’t until nearly a year later in a place thousands of miles away in south-eastern Mexico that I would find some of the answers. I was traveling with two friends by van from the Mexican Caribbean coast of the Yucatan to the humid jungle area of the Chiapas, heading for the archaeological site of Palenque. We planned to spend the day exploring the ancient Mayan ruins. As I entered the site I was awed by what I saw. A mysterious jade-colored aura shimmers over the entire area where temples, palaces and pyramids with roof ornaments carved in stone preside magnificently over the gloomy, mysterious rain forest that surrounds it. It is easy to imagine every building in its perfection with the terraces and gardens that gave Palenque the reputation of having been one of the most beautiful of the ancient Mayan cities.
Known as a garden city of the Maya, Palenque was probably built some time after the fourth century AD when the Mayans developed a technique of constructing buildings of stone. Lost in the dense tropical forest, when it was rediscovered over 150 years ago, the jungle was set on fire in order to get at the collapsing buildings. Many of the priceless stucco reliefs crumbled and fell away. What remains is enclosed by a great green wall of jungle.
The Spanish named it “Palenque” which means “Palisade City”. Chol, a Mayan dialect still spoken by the natives translate the name as “Otot’(house) and “tun” (a stone) Otot-tun: Houses of Stone.
I walked from temple to temple. In each of those cool, damp sanctuaries, the spirits of former inhabitants whispered, waiting for recognition. The air was humid, carrying the fragrance of decaying and luxuriant growth and the scent of tropical flowers. Birds twittered gaily and fluttered about the roof-combs where they nested, the only inhabitants now.
The Temple of Inscriptions dominates the scene, named this because of the three existing panels in the interior which bear the Inscriptions of Mayan laws. It is perched atop a massive pyramid. Deep inside the bowel of this pyramid is concealed the burial chamber of a Mayan priest-king, Pacal the Great.
I ascended the high steps to the top and sat to rest, contemplating the magnificence of the vista below, the lush landscape and surrounding monuments that lay scattered about the area of the temple-city. I imagined how it had been long ago when young men, chosen by the priests to be offered as sacrifices, climbed those steep steps, stopping on each platform to pipe a tune on his clay flute, then breaking the flute on the step as a symbolic gesture to the gods. I visualize people gathered in the plaza below, strange, beautiful people decked out in fantastic clothing covered with plumes of tropical birds.
At that moment the dream came back clearly to me. It was as though the missing pieces of a puzzle had been found and the picture became whole. I knew instinctively this was the place in my dream. I had been there before. And I knew that somewhere, among the surrounding temples, I would find the little room and perhaps the answer to the questions that had haunted me for so long.
Temple XII is a small stone house next to the huge pyramid of the Temple of Inscriptions. I had overlooked it when I first began to explore the site, because it is dominated by the massive structure of the pyramid and is set back among the trees. I made my way cautiously through the weeds and over the piles of stones, all that is left of a ruined terrace and crumbling stairway. As I entered the little room, a chill ran through me. I felt light-headed and my heart throbbed with excitement. In the dream, I entered the room through a small garden terrace. The rear wall of the structure was now partially crumbled and the terrace overgrown with vegetation and shattered mortar. The chamber ws much smaller than I remembered, yet I knew it was the same one. I remembered everything that had been in that room: a narrow bed covered by a jaguar pelt, a large urn with a brilliant turquoise glaze, the handsome dark-skinned man.
As I stood by the narrow T-shaped window and gazed out over the scene below, a sharp pang of remembered grief cut through my reverie. I was looking back into the past, imagining every building in its perfection with its terraces and painted ornaments carved in stone, a magnificent, awesome city with gardens of fragrant flowers and paved avenues. I summoned the strange foreign people of my dream who I imagined were gathered in the plaza below the steps. What had happened that long-ago day in Palenque? Who was Cho’oc B’alam, whose name means “The Young Jaguar”? Why had he wanted me to escape from there?
Dense underbrush had overgrown the path. I attempted to climb over the tangle of vines and foliage but it was impossible to locate the trail. I remembered that Palenque has also been called “Na-Chan”, City of Snakes, so I decided to turn back. But just then something caught my eye: a brilliant iridescent green feather. I remembered then, Cho-oc had worn a fabulous head-dress of emerald-coloured plumes.. Was this an omen? An answer to my questions? I turned back, unable to go any farther. The jungle would keep its secrets.
Later, I studied the photographs taken in Palenque, hoping to discover additional clues. A photo of Temple XII shows a close-up of the stucco relief carved at the base of the pillar at the front entrance. It is a carving of one of the Mayan death gods – a skull, outlined with decorative scrolls, after all these years unmarred by time. Strangely, there appears beside the pillar a mysterious vertical aura of purple light. The skull grins cryptically, keeping its secret and the secrets of the dead who still haunt the little stone house of Otut-tun.
Palenque Archaelogical Site Tour and Misol-Ha Waterfall from Villahermosa
If You Go:
About the author:
Ruth is a historical fiction and travel writer. She had never forgotten the strange dream or her fascinating visit to Palenque. You can read more of Ruth’s published stories on her website at www.ruthkozak.com.
Photo credits:
Palenque by Jan Harenburg / CC BY
All other photos by W. Ruth Kozak
The light rail system’s Harbor Park Station leads right up to the Norfolk Tides’ baseball park, where minor leaguers strive to make it to the big leagues each season. But just behind the left field parking lot, a more important game was played out. These were areas where slaves strived to make it to freedom via some Virginia Underground Railroad sites of 150-plus years ago. Conspicuous yet unmarked pathways lead to these unkempt areas where once Higgins Wharf and Wright’s Wharf stood, overlooking the Elizabeth River. Now only fisherman can be found.
Just a few blocks from “The Tide’s” Monticello Station, the Norfolk History Museum at the Willoughby-Baylor House can be found. Built in 1794, it has free entrance. The city’s history is extensively covered through pictures, maps, and aged artifacts including the occupation history of Union forces from 1862-1865. I learned about how whites evaded being drafted by getting African Americans to substitute for them in “Negro substitute” centers, some located in Norfolk. I discovered the violent aftermath when race riots were common after the war’s end, as blacks were striving to assert their new freedoms due to the 1866 Civil Rights Act. While ascending the second floor, I noticed some gripping black and white photos of Norfolk’s people and places during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
For those who are into self-guided tours, I found the Cannonball Trail suitable for helping get more intimate with Norfolk. The walk takes explorers to potentially 43 different stately homes and other structures (dating from the 1790s until the early 1900s) around Norfolk’s waterfront, downtown, and Ghent neighborhood, offering views of such Civil War sites like the U.S. Customhouse, used as a dungeon by the Union Army.
I learned through those particular exhibits that African Americans actually made up 16 percent of the Union’s North Atlantic Blockading Squadron. I also didn’t know that Union General George McClellan attempted to cut off the rail hubs and water routes like an anaconda snake (i.e., “Anaconda Plan”) would use on its prey. This ultimately led to the eventually abandonment of the city by the Confederates.
Over sixty years ago, two members of America’s Beat Generation did just that. First William Burroughs, then Jack Kerouac, came to Mexico City, searching for freedom, beauty and surreal inspiration in its storied, hallowed streets. They were drawn to a neighbourhood called “La Roma”, an enclave with a spirit that remains decidedly bohemian to this day, despite rising prices and gentrification spilling over from the neighbouring Colonia Condesa (“colonia” is the word that denizens of Mexico City, Chilangos, use for “neighbourhood”.)
La Roma is still the kind of place where a drag queen can live off the proceeds of her costume designs. Believe me, I met her. She lives in a small apartment off of Avenida Insurgentes and a red light shines from her window day and night, like a beacon, signalling to those who are wild and crazy and wonderfully artistic that they still can, unlike their Gringo counterparts, afford to live in a beautiful, central and historic neighbourhood.
Today Calle Orizaba is one of the most beautiful in the neighbourhood, and the walk from 210 Orizaba north to the Insurgentes metro station is fantastic, taking you past historic homes, galleries, and the previously mentioned Plaza Luis Cabrera. It also passes the even lovelier Plaza Rio de Janeiro, where a replica of Michelangelo’s David towers above the square. Several intersecting streets are also worth exploring along the way, especially Colima and Durango, for their brightly coloured buildings, independent boutiques and art-filled watering holes. Casa Lamm, at the intersection of Orizaba and Alvaro Obregon is a cultural highlight, as is MUCA Roma on nearby Tonala street, a satellite gallery of the National Autonomous University of Mexico. Located in an old historic home, it contains several floors of modern art, as well as one of the few free public washrooms in the area. These institutions are a testament to the dichotomy between historic preservation and gentrification that is now occurring in La Roma. On one hand they have kept art thriving and alive in the neighbourhood, and on the other, they have made it easier for businesses like American Apparel (Mexico City’s only outlet) to move in. It’s a double-edged sword, and you can pick your side amongst the al fresco dining options that surround nearby Plaza Rio de Janeiro. Orígenes Orgánicos, a corner café, represents the new, serving healthy vegetarian organic options on a private patio, bucking the trends in a country known for its love of meat. The dishes are not cheap by Mexican standards, about 90-120 pesos each (8-10 dollars), though they can provide welcome relief to travellers weighed down by a lack of plant-based options. For a new take on an old favourite, try their Nopales Huichapan: grilled cactus served with organic cheese, tomato and avocado. If you’re feeling more traditionalist, however, you can load up on birria tacos, made from stewed goat meat, around the corner for 6 pesos each, and eat them in the more democratic shade of the Plaza. Both are delicious.
For a less trendy, more downhome perspective of La Roma, head to Roma Sur, which, for those of you who are Spanish-deficient, is the southern section of the neighbourhood. Centred around the Chilpancingo Metro station, Roma Sur is less pretty than its northern neighbour, but offers many cheaper, more authentically Latin American experiences. Right outside the Chilpancingo Metro station, on Avenida Baja California, La Espiga, a Mexican bakery, serves up delicious pastries for around five pesos, and fresh out of the oven Bolillos (buns) for even less. Walk a few blocks east and you hit Calle Medellin, home to Colombian restaurants and bakeries, and the Mercado de Medellin, a huge indoor market where you can do your produce shopping, buy fresh juice, or, if you feel like it, sit down to a delicious meal of chilaquiles con longaniza or enchiladas verdes for less than four dollars.
I smiled at the typical mono-syllabic answer, but Amanda and I kept up our lines of questions. When pressed, he finally told us of the time he had been sent out in the middle of the night to find a group of Park Ranchers who’d gotten lost here in Canyon de Chelly (pronounced de Shay). He’d talked them down one cliff and walked them up another. He knows this place by heart, even in the dark.
This is a rule that I can get behind, especially after Calvin pulled our 4×4 from the mud and told us about pulling hikers from of flash flood waters. But the guided-only rule isn’t just for safety. It’s a respect thing. The Navajo’s don’t want anyone else messing with their land. They’ve had enough of that. Bitter stories of conquistadors or explorers had made their way through my tours of the Zuni and Acoma pueblos, but Calvin’s story of The Long Walk hit me the hardest.
Kit Carson knew how to solve this canyon problem though. Fire. In 1863 his “Scorched Earth Campaign,” burned all Navajo property in and around the canyon was burned. Traditional hogan homes, peach trees, and grazing animals were all destroyed. With no crops, little food, and only the charred remains of their homes, Navajo’s fled up the walls of Canyon de Chelly. But without canyon protection, they were easy targets for Carleton and Carson’s men and the many Ute Indians who were working with the colonels. Navajos spotted were giving a choice to make at gunpoint: surrender or be shot on site. Although a few people escaped, the majority of the tribe surrendered. Kit Carson’s plan worked.
But Calvin knows all his grandma’s stories – even the sad ones. According to Navajo tradition, the grandmother chooses one grandchild (out of dozens, in Calvin’s case) to keep in the ancestral home and instruct in traditional Navajo ways. So as Calvin’s parents and siblings eventually left the enclosed walls of Canyon de Chelly for jobs in Gallup and Phoenix, Calvin stayed behind. He played in the prehistoric cliff dwellings high in the canyon walls and he tended to goats on the valley floor. He hunted skinwalkers and slept in hogans and learned from his grandmother. When he was twelve, the US government discovered that there was an un-schooled child living down in the canyon and officials came to take him to school at Fort Wingate. Upon overhearing that his long hair would be chopped off the next day, Calvin embarked on a mini-long walk of his own, finding his way back to his grandmother and those orange canyon walls. She had breakfast waiting for him.
