“City of the Gods” Neil McKinnon takes us in a more serious direction as he describes his visit to Palenque where the Maya Gods created Mankind.

By Neil McKinnon

The gods tried three times

to create humankind. First, they made men of mud who melted and fell apart when it rained. Their second attempt was with wood but these humans were stiff and heartless and had no soul. Finally, they breathed life into sacred maize and people with flesh and blood appeared.

These first true humans had perfect vision. They could see everything the gods were doing. Alarmed, the deities took away this powerful ability. However, they left human beings with the means to overcome their short sightedness—the Popol Vuh or Maya Bible.

This story of the dawn of life seems completely plausible as Judy and I step off the bus into the droning late afternoon heat of the small town of Palenque (pah-LEHN-keh) in the foothills of southern Mexico’s Chiapas Mountains. We are here to see the art and architecture of one of the most highly developed ceremonial centers of the Classic Maya.

From humble beginnings, Palenque enjoyed its fluorescence 1300 years ago when it became the unchallenged centre of Maya religious expression. Priests, astronomers, mathematicians and nobles presided over an elaborate ceremonial life, forecast the moods of the gods and developed a calendar more accurate than our own. Plumed and jeweled warriors protected artists as they created magnificent sculptures and portraits. It was a city of contrast, of life and death, of light and darkness—where T’uup, keeper of the sun lived next door to his brother Kisin, the god of death.

It has been a lifelong dream, to climb the pyramids and stand in the homes of the gods where once theocrats had conducted mysterious rites, and where now even tourists speak in whispers. But first, we must decipher the bars and dots of the still-used Maya numbering system to find our motel room. Next morning, just after daybreak, the door creaks open and we are invaded by a young squealing wild pig who takes over our shower and defies every attempt to lure her out. Later I find out the pig’s name is Petunia. She hangs out at a local bar and patrons feed her beer.

Heading to the site, we pass a white statue of an ancient Maya. His head is thrown back and his eyes are wide open as he gazes at the sun. The aquiline profile, rooted in the present, seems to stare at both past and future. The image stays with us as we climb the limestone hills rising from the green floodplain of the Usumacinta River.

Suddenly Judy gives a whistle of excitement. We have arrived. Palenque is located in a forest of mahogany and cedar. Shining white temples are set against a background of dark green rain forest, a forest that vibrates with the calls of parrots, macaws and toucans, each dressed in a shimmering red and blue feathered coat. This is not only a place for gods and man; we catch glimpses of monkeys and reptiles, and sense jaguars hiding in the shadows.

Yet, today is a pale image of the past. I close my eyes and imagine the city filled with people, every building covered by brilliantly painted mythical and historical figures. Reality blends with imagination when we encounter small people with long black hair dressed in ankle-length white smocks. They are Lacandon Indians—the last Lords of Palenque and the spiritual heirs of Maya priests whose roots probably lie in the prior Olmec civilization which flowered on the Gulf Coast 3000 years ago. Still practicing ancient rites, the Lacandones are the guardians of one of the oldest unbroken religious and cultural traditions in the world.

The Temple of the Inscriptions dominates the city. We start to run up the 23-meter central staircase. Halfway, we are forced to stop, soaking wet and gasping water-saturated air. Subdued, we finish our climb to the temple and find it covered in glyphs and bas-reliefs.

My eyes are immediately drawn to the floor. I have read the story of how Mexican archaeologist Alberto Ruz moved a huge carved stone slab and discovered a rubble-filled stairwell. It took him four field seasons to clear two long flights of stairs which descended to below ground level inside the pyramid.

We inch down the narrow dark stairwell trying not to fall on the wet slippery stones. The poor light obscures the next step. We beat back claustrophobia, reach the bottom and step into the corridor where Ruz was stopped by a solid stone wall. The musty twilight hides the ghosts of six youths sacrificed here and left as guards for all eternity. Behind their skeletons Ruz encountered another huge triangular slab. Turning it exposed a crypt. Nine larger-than-life stucco priests still guard a sarcophagus that was covered by a massive lid. Under it was another lid and beneath that the jeweled and ornamented body of Lord Pacal, Ruler of Palenque, who died in AD 693.

We retrace our steps, away from the tomb’s shadowy oppressive heat. Directly to the north is the Temple of the Count. For two years it was the home of Count Frederick de Waldek. He was 70 when he lived here with a lady friend. At age 100 he published his fanciful theories on Palenque. Nine years later he died in a street mishap when he turned to admire a pretty girl.

On our right is the Palace, the most complex mid-Classic building in the entire Maya world. It is dominated by a central four-story tower. According to the Lacandones, the tower is the house of T’uup, keeper of the sun. Archaeologists believe it was an astronomical observatory and lookout. The Palace is a labyrinth of rooms and open patios. In one we find portraits on slabs. One nude figure has his hands tied behind his back.

The Lacandones assign each building to a deity. The Temple of the Cross used to be home of K’ayum, god of music. Only two of the buildings are still occupied by gods. Two brothers of T’uup tried to murder him. They are sentenced to remain here, watching the turistas, until the end of the world—a punishment to fit the seriousness of the crime.

These magnificent structures reflect the knowledge acquired when humans could see everything, that all things are related! T’uup’s tower points to heaven while next door the Temple of the Inscriptions is a conduit to the dreaded underworld. Standing between them, I feel the ageless link between the two powerful domains.

Passed down to the Lacandones is the belief that the roots of all living things are tied together. A star dims in the firmament when a tree is cut down. When we destroy our earth, we destroy our heaven. Many stars no longer shine. Much of the Lacandon forest is gone. As each mahogany tree falls, as each jaguar dies so too will the Lacandones disappear. When they die the world will end and only Palenque, the home of their immortal gods, will remain.

The End

Neil McKinnon

By Patricia Hemingway

It’s funny how New Year’s Eve sneaks up on you when you’re

seventy-five. The Christmas decorations are still up and each night the soft glow of the strings of lights lulls you to sleep. Always one week after Christmas Eve, the last night of the year signals that another year will begin in just one day.

Ten or twelve years ago, when I was still only in my mid-sixties, we stayed out dancing until midnight on New Year’s Eve. The “we” were a group of good friends visiting this small town for the first time. The evening’s restaurant had an upstairs that looked out over the hills. It also had a large dance floor and a band with vocalists. What could be better? We ate our fill, the wine was flowing, and we were dolled up. And we all loved each other.

I was sitting out one dance, catching my breath, having a little more wine. An old New Year’s Eve memory came into focus and I wondered, where do memories come from? How do they choose a certain time to come back with such clarity?

It is a long-ago New Year’s Eve, and I am sleeping over at my best friend’s house. Her mother is out on a date and we have the place to ourselves. We have the television on, turned up loud. And we are ecstatically happy at the opportunity to explore our favorite activity: dressing up.

In her mother’s closet are a dozen cocktail dresses with full skirts and horsehair underskirts that make them swirl outward like a night full of stars. We slip out of our pajamas and begin with undergarments. The most dramatic are longline bras: they have a long row of hooks and eyes that run up the back. We have to do up each other, taking turns. The effect is instantaneous. We now have, instead of girlish bodies, small waistlines and smooth hips and—most important—padded breasts that make our shapes fascinating and entirely different .

One of my favorite of her mother’s dresses is the black taffeta with tiny silvery dots all over it. When I dance around the room, the entire atmosphere changes. I am on a terrace overlooking the New York City skyline. In a man’s arms I dance gracefully and he holds me with his hand at the base of my spine so that our every move is perfectly coordinated. The music plays and we whirl and sway and laugh and everything is perfect.

My friends returned to our table and so did all the other happy revelers. The band announced they were taking a short break. The tables were pushed so close together that we had become one large group, all smiling at each other. Everyone was a little winded from the continuous song after song the vocalists sang. Our dinner plates had been cleared away and the tiramisu was being served with more champagne. What a happy night.

“Hey, look out the window,” someone shouted. We got up and crowded onto the small balcony. Close enough to be touched, or so it seemed, was a multi-tiered structure. On each level fireworks had been carefully attached, so that as the swirling began, one layer caught fire, and then another. Once it got going there was no stopping it. Like happiness itself it was contagious. Whoever thought I would be standing here with life ablaze all around me?

In the street below were bonfires. All the kids ran around acting crazy, playing tag, blowing small horns that bleeped as they stretched out and then curled up again. They shook small metal tins that rattled, and the fire leaped up and more wood was added by their families and the kids laughed so that we could hear them from up above. I thought of my best friend and me, creating our own fun in a small house, and I knew what these kids were feeling. I had felt it too. That expansive freedom that comes from moving your body over and over until it doesn’t know where it ends and the rest of the world begins. It creates its own fantastic swirling and whirling and normal reality no longer exists. Yes, I knew about that.

There are some moments in life that are like pivots around which your existence turns. I read that somewhere and it has been true all these many years. For now, I yawn and enjoy the soft glow all around me. I may make it until midnight or not. I’m happy tonight.