Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [33]
I feel now as I did when I first saw it, when whispered rumors among my colleagues hinted at its presence and drove me to find it first. It felt like holy land. It demanded reverence. It was—it is—beautiful.
It looks much like the Ruins of Palenque, but in miniature; and Palenque was not built when this structure was crumbling. There is no roof comb, no corbelled arch, and only three sets of steps, and yet many other elements are so clearly Mayan that it seems absurd to me that anyone could believe anything else. I dated the ruins to 800 b.c., a full two hundred years before the construction of anything like it on the Yucatan Peninsula. That tells me it is an extraordinary fledgling attempt at pre-Classic Mayan architecture. The builders didn’t get it quite right, but they took much of what they learned here and applied it to the later, larger work.
Esperanza sits next to me in the truck’s front passenger seat, and I glance over to see how she’s taking this. She hasn’t done a lot of fieldwork. Books, rather than shovels and scrapers, are her tools. I’m rewarded to see her eyes wide, her mouth open just a bit. I think she’s barely breathing.
I cut the engine and step out onto grass, into the humid and bug-filled air. Another door opens behind me and the two men who rode with us emerge from the air-conditioning. I look at them and see much of what I saw in Esperanza’s expression, and something else: fear. These are city boys, as modernized as any American, and they’re not prepared for such a tangible connection to their ancient history.
“¡Dios yudanos!” one of them, I think his name is Antonio, says.
“God help us, indeed,” I answer.
The other SUV pulls up next to ours and, after a few moments, the rest of the team joins us. Even Esperanza gets out and walks to the front of the vehicle, standing near the ticking engine.
Quetzl-Quezo sits in the middle of a man-made clearing. When we, the experts, swarmed the ruins, we cut and pulled down hundreds of trees with the heavy equipment we brought with us down the trail we’d beaten through the jungle—the same path we followed today, inching along, driving through overgrowth, clearing a path by hand when necessary. There are several mounds of earth piled in haphazard fashion around the site, like giant prairie-dog holes. They’re the places that showed the greatest potential for harboring old tools, cooking implements, and bones.
At the base of each temple wall is a pile of crumbled limestone further eroded into smaller rocks and dust. I’ve long harbored an irritation that limestone is abundant in the region, making it the most logical building material. It’s a comparatively soft rock that does not bear up beneath the ravages of time.
I take a step and stop at Esperanza’s side. She is quiet for several beats until, without taking her eyes off the temple, she says, “Thanks.”
I know what she means and nod.
I turn to the crew, who are milling about behind us. One of them is kicking at loose pebbles. Another seems fascinated by a small lizard clinging to one of the saplings that’s fighting to reclaim the site. Clearly the magic of the moment has run its course.
“Let’s start unloading. Set the tents up over there,” I say, pointing to an arbitrary spot while making it look as if I have a compelling reason why that piece of earth is better than any other. Using the same method I pick another spot and add, “I want the tools stacked there.”
With them occupied, I take hold of Esperanza’s elbow. “Want to take a look inside?”
“More than anything.”
“Don’t get too excited. Most buildings like this are more impressive on the outside, where you can appreciate the scale.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“And you have to remember the steps,” I say, gesturing to the three ascending levels leading up to the temple entrance. “There are fifty-two of them. And if we’re going to do this right, we’ll have to go up and down several times a day.” Even as I’m saying it, happy