Day One - Wednesday, Oct. 16 - Tahiti

After an eight-hour flight over nothing but ocean, the sun comes up slowly on Tahiti.  Our final approach is over the ferry terminal and a backdrop of craggy hills.
       An Air France ground employee sees me slowly descend the stairs with my two bags and comes up to help.  Her warm smile is my first greeting to French Polynesia.  The airport looks a lot like the one in Easter Island, both very Polynesian.
     Just inside stand two massive natives, one with a ukelele, the other with a guitar, playing what sounds to me like “native” songs while a sarong-clad woman dances hula-esquely.  There’s such a back-up at customs that the trio must have run through their entire repertoire in the almost-hour it takes to process a Boeing-ful of arrivals, most of whom are Americans, so extra paperwork.
       By the time my passport gets stamped, I’m among the last of the passengers.  And that turns out to be a good thing.  Because the taxi driver I get is a peach.  I share the cab - me riding shotgun - with two other Yanks in the rear seat, them headed for the ferry to Moorea, a nearby island... which is where the cabdriver lives with the last of her 14 children.  The route to the ferry goes right past my hotel - which turns out to be an AirB&B instead.  After sharing the cost, the cabbie hands me off to Heiwara, the apartment owner.  The taxi driver promises to pick me up tomorrow morning for the ride back to the airport (and on to Hiva Oa).  She’s absolutely charming, a warm welcome.

       Heiwara takes me up to my studio apartment, home for not even 24 hours.  It’s simple but clean; unfortunately it’s on the main drag along the bay, which makes for a lovely view but a fairly high decibel noise level.  It does have A/C though so I’ll be able to sleep with the door-window closed.  And maybe, because Papeete gets up early, the city will go to sleep early.  No, there are many young people here... That’s not going to happen.

Papeete Market

       Heiwara escorts me to the ATM - so he can be paid in local money - and points me in the direction of the market.  It’s past the McDonald’s and past the Cathedral, which I stop in to see (the Cathedral, not the McDo’s).  Very simple, but with stained glass windows in which the saints are clearly Tahitian, as is the Madonna & Child just inside the door, carved in reddish polished exotic (native) wood.  About a dozen of the faithful are in the pews.  It’s a quiet change from the bustle of the street outside.
     The market is vast, covering most of one city block.  High ceilings with something upstairs, but not stalls.  At least not today.  For sale are fruit and veg that I recognize mostly from the French West Indies - including the sweet small bananas the Martiniquais call ti nains  (small midgets) and which are called rima rima here.  That means “hand”, which is what a bunch of them looks like:  the fingers of a hand.  There’s also lots of vanilla from Hiva Oa (my next stop) just waiting for a baker’s touch, and a fishmonger - only one today (Wed).  And several snack counters.  Plus jewelry and handicrafts.  But so many types of monoi that, not knowing which one my daughter-in-law wants, I pass.
       A walk back along the busy harbor street, then a nap.
       Awake at lunchtime, there’s no room at the inn, aka the restaurant just downstairs.  But the owner calls a similar restaurant and reserves me a table.  He’s from Brittany and worked ten years in Dublin but says he was “climatically challenged” so now he’s here.

O à la Bouche

       Back down the street I walk, past the Cathedral, past McDonald’s and into a small side street, to L’O à la Bouche - a play on words for “mouth-watering” (O replacing “eau”, or water).  The O is etched in all the frosted windows, the two on the street and those to the kitchen.  I have a lovely mahi-mahi and scallops in coconut milk and Tahitian vanilla, plus a glass of sauvignon blanc and a bottle of water:  O de Tahiti.
       Afterwards back to home base for another nap (jet lag).
       Right around the corner is the Pearl Museum.  It’s free and Tahiti has a long pearl history, so why not?  It’s really a ploy to sell you pearls, but there’s a part that tells the technical side of pearls and another one that tells their historical side.  There I learn that Columbus amassed a fortune in Caribbean pearls, but they were all confiscated by the King of Spain upon his return and Columbus was thrown in prison.  Poor Christopher.  First that and now he’s losing Columbus Day to the natives.  He should have stayed in Italy!
       It’s so hot and humid when I come out - the hottest time of the day - that I decide to rest until it’s cooler before walking through the park across from home base.
       Three hours later, I wake to find the sun has already set.

The view

Day 1 - Departure

It’s been a long time since I’ve set off on a trip like this.
     No, I take that back.  I’ve never taken a trip like this before and I’ve taken a lot of trips in my long lifetime.
     I’m off around the world.
     I’ve had to get three visas.  Vietnam and India I could do on-line, but for the Chinese one I had to send my passport to D.C.  That was a white-knuckle moment.  What if it gets lost in the mail, coming or going?  But it’s delivered a long week later.  As my friend Melinda would say, “Thank you, Jesus!”
     There have been omens, both good and bad.  The last night in my own bed, I dream of my beloved Jean (John), who died 36 years ago, changing my entire future.  I haven’t dreamt of him in ages.  I hope it’s not a sign that I’ll be meeting him soon in the Great Beyond.  After all, there are fifteen flights on this circumnavigation of the globe.
     On the good omen side, at the airport the bottle of water I buy costs exactly the amount of change in my pocket.  I’m on a roll!

Now I sit at the gate, waiting for the first of those fifteen flights.  Behind me a young couple with a two-month old baby.  The dad takes my photo, with my gear, to immortalize this moment.  I have a carry-on and a small backpack... and that’s it for 1½ months of this two-month trip.  (When I reach Paris, I have clothes at my apartment there.)  Meanwhile there will be much hand laundry in hotel bathroom sinks.  But better that than me going to one destination and my bag to another, because I won’t be anywhere long enough for it to catch up with me before I set off to my next stop.
     I’m excited and scared at the same time.  And it’s time to board at Detroit Metro, an airport I know well.  I won’t see another I’m used to until Paris the last day of November.
     Bon voyage.  And fingers crossed.

*****

One flight down; fourteen more to go.
     I watched the flight tracker as we crossed the continent in the last part of the flight from Detroit, the names of the towns the airborne version of the lyrics from “Route 66".  “Gallup New Mexico, Flagstaff Arizona, don’t forget Winona, Kingman, Barstow, San Bernadino.”  Now I’ll have that earworm for hours as I wait for Flight Two:  to Tahiti.
     Because so far I’m only in L.A.  The sky was a vivid red at sunset, seen from the plane window.  Probably all the forest fires.  We landed at 7:30 and it was already pitch black, which is strange because at 7:30 back home it’s still a bit light, as we’re at the very western edge of the time zone there.
     I enjoy being vertical again, so I walk to the international terminal... a short walk, and outdoors.  I’m not shy about asking my way.  I have four hours between flights but still... getting lost would be counterproductive.
     When I find the right counter, it’s not open yet.  In line I talk with two Tahitians - complete with ukuleles (in their cases) - who have flown all the way here to spend ten days in Vegas!  Not on my bucket list.
     Finally, as I sit in the boarding area and wait, the names of destinations coming over the P.A. system sound strange to my ear.  I’m used to hearing Rome, Paris, London, even Tel Aviv.  Now it’s Auckland, Manila, Sydney, Bangkok and... Tahiti.  That’s me!  I’m off to the opposite side of the world from my usual stomping grounds.

Prologue - Trip Around the World

I’m about to take off on a trip around the world.
  Why in the world would I do that?!
  At my age?!
  Well, I’m very interested in archaeology, in architecture, in other places.  And most of those that have fascinated me since I learned of them - sometimes way back in my childhood (for instance, the Pyramids, Machu Picchu or Rapa Nui/Easter Island) - and which I haven’t visited yet - are on the far side of the planet from my bases on either side of the Atlantic.  These are the places still on my Bucket List to see.  At least on the A-Bucket List, because there are other things to be put on a lesser B-Bucket List (Portugal, Morocco, the fjords, the Greek isles...), but all of those are easily reachable from either Ann Arbor or Paris.
  Why now?  Because I still can.  It’s that simple.  Many friends my age - or even younger - have problems with their knees, hips, heart, lungs, fill-in-the-blank that prevent them from traveling any more.  And I don’t want to wait until that happens to me.  A month before departure, I stumbled into a footstool and thought I’d broken my little toe, which left me hobbling for quite a while.  Turns out it must have been only sprained and has healed enough to stand up to this sixty-day odyssey.
  I will leave behind me the cardinals, blue jays and sparrows that come to eat at my feeder in the early morning.  The blue morning glories that bloomed belatedly but stunningly on my front porch.  The majestic seventy-year-old trees - maple, spruce and mulberry - that tower over my little house, shade it from the summer sun and stand etched against the grey winter sky.  And of course Spot, my favorite squirrel, plus all the others who come to eat the hardened heels of bread, old cherries and Craisins that I leave for them.
  There will be too many jets on this trip.  Lots of trains I can compare with France’s TGV.  Cabs and maybe buses.  A boat down the Yangtze.  Of course lots of walking.  And maybe even a zipline off the Great Wall.
     I’ll be visiting - in this order - the Marquesas, Kyoto, China (with National Geographic, the only part not done on my own), Hanoi and Halong Bay, Angkor Wat, Agra and Kathmandu... then on to Paris for two weeks and finally back to my point of departure in Ann Arbor.
  Light a candle in the window.

Mexico - Day Eleven: Homeward Bound

Cancun

Tulum

Up in plenty of time, as I hadn’t really unpacked.  Only my bathing suit still needs to be put in a plastic bag, as it’s still damp.  I have one last breakfast of fresh tropical fruit, accompanied by a final hot chocolate, and I’m off via shuttle to the airport.  My suitcase excites the curiosity of the customs inspector and I’m pulled aside for a summary go-through.

Chichén Itzá 

       Then it’s just the usual hurry-up-and-wait.  I get to read quite a bit of the book I brought with me to read at night, not realizing I’d be far too tired for that.  Standing in line to board, I talk with a man who, when asked what he does, waves an arm around the room at all the other men in line and says “I’m in the auto business, like all these people”.  I guess the industry has truly counted on cheap labor from south of the border after all.  We joke about being pulled aside for a pat-down, which he dreads, and I cheerfully say “I’ve already given”.  And yet... as I hand over my ticket to board, I’m selected randomly for yet another search... this one far more long and invasive, including an inspection up my pant legs.  When I do manage to board, my new friend’s already seated in business and I mutter to him, “You owe me a drink!” as I pass.  Once we’re up in the air, the flight attendant comes down the aisle, leans over and asks me what I would like to drink, courtesy of the man in Business Class.  I don’t know his name and I’ll never see him again, but he was a man of honor.
       We land in Detroit among gusty winds announced by the pilot while still over Mexico.  Good thing the flight wasn’t delayed because one hour after landing, as I brush my teeth at home in Ann Arbor, I hear the tornado sirens go off.  The TV weather shows the winds passing northwest of town, but I’m too tired to care and, having flushed the toilet paper down the toilet and brushed my teeth with tap water (two things I longed to do these past ten days), I slip between the sheets of my own bed and fall asleep almost immediately, dreaming of all the new old wonders I’ve seen.

Uxmal

TAKE-AWAYS

Popocatepetl

Palenque

Well, I needn’t have worried about traveling through
Mexico solo.  Everyone was adorable, with the exceptions of the Aeromexico agent in Villahermosa and of Señora at the hotel in Teotihuacan.
       My system of traveling and resting on even days and of poking around the ruins and other sights on odd days worked well.
       And my instinct about competent guides proved spot on.  From the younger Ana, Jaime and Alec to the venerable Jorge and Victor, they were all full of facts as well as stories to tell your grandchildren.
       The food was great, the hotels comfortable, some even luxurious.  I saw different kinds of landscapes and was amazed how much the climate changed over the short distance between Yucatán and Chiapas.
       But it was truly the people who made this trip so rewarding yet simple at the same time.  With a special thank you to Luis, who shall remain a friend.
       Tulum was a great introduction:  limited in scope but a hint of things to come.  Chichén Itzá was the most imposing, thanks to all the restoration work already done.  Between the compactness of the ruins, the tour of the old hacienda and the friendship of Luis and Jorge, Uxmal gave me the best idea of what a Maya community would have been, and made me feel as if I were staying with friends.  Palenque was a tropical version of the Yucatán ruins, with slightly different decorative touches and more flora and fauna.  Teotihuacan was vast, powerful, and provided the most frescoes, complete with their original colors... a veritable city.  Each site was a different part of the puzzle of ancient Mesoamerica.
       As I traveled over long distances by road, I saw no immigrant caravans moving north.  In fact, I met many people who had lived all or a good part of their childhood in the States and had chosen to “come home” (their words, not mine) to Mexico to create a job and found a family.  No wall is needed on America’s southern border.
       Mexico is truly an excellent neighbor.



https://www.sfgate.com/mexico/mexicomix/article/Olmecs-to-Toltecs-Great-ancient-civilizations-of-2387656.php

Article for Chichén Itzá:
https://mayanpeninsula.com/chichen-itza

Teotihuacan

Mexico - Day Ten: Teotihuacan

Teotihuacan - Pyramid of the Sun

Fits and starts of sleep, but after dawn I’m rewarded with colorful birds in the tree above the wasteland outside my window... and more than a dozen hot-air balloons gliding over Teotihuacan.  I wish I’d known that was an option!
       Marcella (Abuelita’s real name) has arranged for a guide.  When she offered, I was worried he might be in line with the hotel’s other disappointments, but he turns out to be good.  Alec (his name) arrives at 8:30 and we walk around the site’s fencing to the entrance.  He’s an official guide, as was his father for 35 years.
       On the way, Alec gives me some background.  From long before 250 B.C. a people whose name is not certain lived here in Teotihuacan.  Then a volcano wiped everything out.   After that came the Quiquilcas, who grew to number 250,000, making this the largest city in the pre-Columbian Americas and at least the sixth largest city in the world in its time.  So many people eventually affected the environment to the point that problems arose.  Their solution?  A huge sacrifice to the gods:  3,000 poor souls, all volunteers.  After all, Teotihuacan is a Nahuatl (Aztec) name that means “the place where the gods were created”.
       It obviously didn’t work.  By the time the Aztecs rose, Teotihuacan was already in ruins.

Avenue of the Dead, with Pyramid of the Sun on the left and various temples on both sides

Quinquensen

The first building we see is the Temple of the Sun.  Unlike Chichén Itzá, it has only one entrance and one set of steps, on the west side.  Originally it was painted in blue (made from lapis lazuli), red from cinnabar and yellow from a local flower.  With those three primary colors, all the other colors could be made:  green, orange...

Tlaloc, the rain god

       The temple, a pyramid, is square, measuring 225 meters (738') per side, as big as the Giza Pyramid in Egypt but much lower.  It rises 65 meters high, plus 5 additional meters for the altar, for a total height of 70 m, a multiple of this people’s sacred number:  7.  Alec asks if I want to climb the 245 steps, or just the 48 steps of the Pyramid of the Moon.  I choose the moon.  Inside the Sun Pyramid, six meters down (20'), the archaeologists found a tunnel which winds its way, like a snake, to four tombs around a central space, forming the sacred flower, the quinqunsen.  Based on a workday of ten hours, it probably took 140 yrs to build this pyramid.
       Then we head down the Avenue of the Dead, so named because it was here that those 3,000 people were sacrificed, a few at each of the many temples on either side, each dedicated to a different god.  Some temples have old wall frescos with colors still visible, such as one on the east side that depicts a yellow puma with red decorations all around it and huge claws.
       At the far end of the Avenue stands the Pyramid of the Moon, which I have vowed to climb.  Each of the 48 steps is about 20 cm high (8"), higher than the ones of the Pyramid of the Sun.  Luckily for me, the last two flights of steps are off-limits and the ones above that are now non-existent.  The total height of this pyramid is 50 m (164') and it, too, is square:  150 m to a side (almost 500‘).  The surprise is that there are six other pyramids inside it, plus this outer one making seven, again the sacred number here.  The view from the platform is stunning, although a group of about twenty people are impervious to it, sitting crosslegged in a circle meditating near the upper steps.  A different kind of religion.  I’d rather look out over everything, including a mound to the east, covered with vegetation, which is probably yet another ruin in hiding.

Parrot

Owl

       We visit the Palace of Quetzalpapálotl, built around 450-500 A.D., again over an earlier building.  The name is made up of the Nahuatl words quetzalli (precious feather) and pāpālōtl (butterfly).   Its patio is surrounded by pillars carved with different birds:  parrots, of which there are many in the region, and owls, the symbol of protection at night.  Each figure stands for something.  Circles are water, triangles are the Earth, spirals the wind and flames the firs.  All four elements.  Even way back then.
       In the Palace of Jaguars, wall decorations include a jaguar with a conch shell to call the faithful.  And the colors are still very visible.  In addition, there are more symbols.  For instance, the five-pointed star is Venus, with a double snake tongue sticking out to show the duality of all:  sun/moon, life/death, light/darkness...
       There is even a Temple of the Plumed Conches (caracoles emplumados).  I think the "feather" part just looks like the folds on the open side of the shell, but what do I know?

       I buy a locally-made obsidian pendant (obsidian is native here) so I can have one souvenir of my trip and also look at the sun without burning my eyes (Alec taught me that little secret).  I’ll hang it in one of my windows back home.  And it only costs about a dollar.

Palace of Jaguars

Our tour done, Alec points me in the right direction and we part ways.  I’m so glad I added these ruins to the others in the Yucatán Peninsula.  Teotihuacan was the largest urban center of Mesoamerica before the Aztecs, almost 1000 years prior to their era.  And now I can add it to the other ancient places I’ve visited.
       It’s a long walk back to the hotel, and breakfast.  Abuelita calls Edmundo while I eat, and he comes to drive me to the airport hotel, us conversing in Spanish all the long way, although there are parts I don’t get.  Another abrazo (hug) and I’m back in the 21st century.
       And that’s when the big problem starts.  When I ask the hotel’s concierge to confirm tomorrow morning’s return flight for me, he looks at my itinerary and announces I’m not leaving until the day after tomorrow.  A mistake has been made.  A trip to Terminal 2 doesn’t help; only a call to the 800 number will.  Too much noise on the airport phone, so back to the hotel on the shuttle.  From my room, I can’t get through.  After almost an hour on hold, I go down to ask the concierge for help.  And there, by the elevators, are some pay phones I hadn’t noticed.  And that works.  For a tidy sum, which I intend to have reimbursed, I have moved my ticket up to tomorrow morning.  Phew!
       All that’s left to do is a swim in the pool, a shower, a seafood dinner, and bed.  Tomorrow I’ll sleep in my own bed.

Temple of the Moon

Mexico - Day Nine: On to the Big City

Ike the Iguana

Early to bed, early to rise.  But it must be past 6 a.m. because the sun is up.  I get some breakfast - my only meal until tonight - and bring some fruit back to my room, which I end up sharing with Ike the Iguana on my patio.
       Then it’s off.  This time my driver is Nicolas, or just Nico.  It takes two hours (all in Spanish) to get to Villahermosa, the capital of the state of Tabasco.

Popocatépetl

       At the airport, it all starts to fall apart.  The Aeromexico Airlines agent tells me with a shrug and in a very matter-of-fact voice that “no hay vuelta” - there’s no flight.  She says “mañana” - tomorrow, which is not an option because that would mean I don’t get to see Teotihuacan, which is my whole reason for flying to Mexico City in the first place.  Plus I’d lose my money for tonight’s hotel so I tell her that’s not good enough.  When pushed, she suggests “try Interjet”... and points absent-mindedly to her right.
       Luckily I’d asked Nico to come in with me, just in case.  He pleads my case, but to no end because no hay vuelta, period.  Then he waits in the Interjet line with me to buy a ticket (that’s two now, Aeromexico’s and this one).  Luckily the man in front of me doesn’t get the last seat, and I even get a choice of aisle or window.
       I say good bye to Nico, with much gratitude.  The flight leaves on time and even gets into Mexico City early... and a good hour earlier than if I’d had my original flight, so I miss rush hour traffic in the capital.  During the flight, I enjoy the company of my row-mate Marilu, a young Mexican business administration graduate on her way back to Toronto and her Canadian boyfriend.
       I also get a balcony view of two of Mexico’s active volcanoes.  The upright Popocatépetl is the most active in the country... and it erupts again on March 19, only a week after I fly over it.  Nearby is Ixtaccíhuatl, the Sleeping Lady shaped by four individual snow-capped peaks depicting the head, chest, knees and feet of a sleeping female when seen from east or west.  In Aztec mythology, Ixtaccíhuatl was a princess who fell in love with one of her father's warriors, Popocatépetl.  This Ixtaccihuatl, however, is not sleeping but rather sending out smoke from at least a dozen vents.  She hasn’t erupted in more than a century, yet all is brown around her.

Ixtaccihuatl

Thanks to a tip from Marilu, rather than venturing out into the streets, I pay for an “authorized” taxi inside the airport (and I strongly recommend this tip to other travelers).  “It’s safer,” she tells me.  Which is how I meet Edmundo, my second knight in shining armor of the day.  Because after we wend our way half an hour around the city limits of Mexico City, the hotel turns out to be a disappointment.  Hotel Boutique El Jaguar stands across from the Teotihuacan ruins, yes, which is why I chose it.  But it’s really only an afterthought, some rooms over a restaurant.
       The woman who runs the hotel is gone, only Abuelita (grandma, as I think of her) is there, and there’s been a mix-up with my room.  No one speaks English, not even Madame after she’s summoned.  My Spanish isn’t up to the fight so Edmundo steps in.  After a half hour of his time, it’s cleared up.  He leaves, Madame disappears and Abuelita is left to a) replace a dead bulb in my bathroom, b) bring me a fan for the stifling room (no A/C), and c) scrape up a heaping plate of cold chicken and veggies when there’s a misunderstanding about the dinner arrangements (food she hides from Madame, who would have charged me for it, she says).  I eat some, watch some TV and turn in early... if only to end this day of bad surprises.  I, as tourist, am no longer queen... except for my two knights.

Teotihuacan

Mexico - Day Eight: Palenque

The Palace

 The night was calm except for some animal making a hard breathing sound in half-light... then nothing.  I must have dozed back off because all of a sudden it’s light.  There’s just time for an omelet on the terrace restaurant and I’m off to the ruins.

Victor, and an ancestor

Once again I’m lucky.  When the taxi pulls up to the entrance, the guide waiting is another Jorge, this one named Victor.  (He knows Jorge in Uxmal, just as Jorge knew Jaime in Chichén Itzá.)  Victor is 69, has been here since 1965, learned English from movies and learned all about the ruins from working since childhood with the archaeologists who preceded the tourists.  Sound familiar?  I’ve already paid 38 pesos ($2) entrance to the site area and will pay 75 pesos ($4) for the entrance ticket, good all day.  Victor will cost me 950 pesos ($50) for 1½ hours... even though he only let’s me go four hours later, so I definitely get my money’s worth!
       During those four hours, I’ll learn much about the Maya here in Palenque.  Chiefly that everything written in the books is wrong, according to Victor.  He points out all the symbols and images from other continents:  a menorah from Israel, a Buddha from India, clothing from Egypt, dragons from China... and as all this was built well before Columbus, the Vikings or the Conquistadors arrived, to him it’s proof of... well, that somehow those cultures came here... including perhaps King Tut.
       But first the explanation of the origin of the word Maya, which I got already in Yucatán... I believe from Luis.  Or Jorge.  Or Jaime.  Or Ana.  When the Conquistadors did arrive, they asked the natives in Spanish, “What is this place?”  To which the natives replied “Majuk” (pronounced my-yook), which means “I don’t understand”.  So the Spaniards dubbed both them and the place Maya.

Temple of the Inscriptions, with tomb of Pakal inside

       Also according to Victor, the dates of 2 BCE are wrong because a skeleton has been dated to 1,000 BCE and another in a pyramid to 3,300 BCE.  Another “mistake” - this one confirmed by DNA tests on a skeleton sent to Canada - is that the Red Queen, whose Temple we see, is, in fact, a man.  Yet another anomaly is that inside the Pakal Pyramid, aka the Temple of Inscriptions, archaeologists dug down and discovered the only sarcophagus ever found in Mesoamerica, that of King Pakal himself, whose reign lasted 70 years*. As a city-state, Palenque endured from 200 BCE to the 10th c AD, with its peak under Pakal in the 7th c AD.
       Throughout the visit, Victor points out things in multiples of seven, the sacred number for Palenque, just as nine was for Chichén Itzá and three for Uxmal.  And to back up his pan-world views, he points out an Egyptian ankh on one facade, the rounded arches à la Taj Mahal on another building, sandals like those worn by the pharaoh Ramses...  I can’t help but wonder if it’s not just the human artistic desire to create something different from the surrounding norm.

One of the Cautivos (Captives)

       Victor brings to life one courtyard used for orgies, where the important men sat around and chose which naked dancing girl they wanted to have sex with that night.  Another kind of sport from the pelota court nearby.  This courtyard also is decorated with frescoes of the “Captives”, although there’s some discussion whether they really were captive or not.
       The pelota court here has a refinement the others didn’t have because the others were for the priests and rulers only, but this one was for the people.  Victor has me sit down on the various levels of seating, each one with different dimensions.  On the top one, my back rests against the riser behind me; that’s the one for grandparents, so they can rest their weary bones.  The next one down has deeper seating; no backrest here for the parents.  The bottom level isn’t as high and not as deep; it’s for the short, small children.  This is the Maya equivalent of those comfy seats in today’s movie theaters.

     “Are you interested in more?” asks Victor.  Very much so.  And we head up a hill, past a young man painting small Maya designs to be sold to the tourists.  Up on the rise there are four buildings facing a central plaza.  Only one of them has been restored, and only partially.  It’s the Temple of the Sun, its steep steps and some of the foundations cleaned off but grass covering the corners.  Across from it, mostly covered by vegetation, is the Temple of the Moon which awaits the loving care of the archaeologists.
       Somewhere near the start of the tour, we picked up Rita, an archaeology buff from Hungary equipped with a backpack of water delivered through an ingenious sucking tube.  Her friends back home had told her about Victor, and as he’s the only grey-haired guide... She asks a few questions and he adopts her, which is fine with me.  She promises to e-mail me some of her photos (which she does).  As I depart after four hours, my feet tired and me hot, I leave the two of them together.  She’s planning to spend four more hours there; I suspect they’ll spend them together, in the rest of the three dozen buildings excavated (out of about 1,500).
       One disappointment:  the site’s museum is closed today.

Ceiba tree

Back at the hotel, it’s a salad of shrimp and mango for lunch, followed by a cantaloupe filled with vanilla ice cream, followed by a shower and a rest.  I take a walk around the property, past a lofty cieba tree, the sacred tree of the Maya.  Its tall trunk represents life, its widespread boughs the heavens and underground - at least partially - its roots are the underworld.  It’s very different from all the other trees growing in this part of Mexico.  I follow the resort’s small stream as it winds past the bungalows; everyone’s either at the ruins or the pool.  Among the trees roam two mangey cats as well as a black cerreque (agouti, a Mesoamerican guinea pig-like rodent) like the one I saw this morning, but no howler monkeys.  (I never do get a glimpse of them; they seem to have moved elsewhere.)
       A swim in the pool and it’s time for dinner.  One of their specialties here is camarones - shrimp from the Gulf that Rodrigo and I passed on our trip down.  That’s all I eat here, in one form or another, because I love them.  Tonight’s are camarones con coco - shrimp literally breaded in fresh grated coconut.  A full dozen of them, which I valiantly finish, accompanied by rice (which I leave) and two of those little bacon-wrapped veggie spear packets.  Good thing I walked and sweat off some calories today!
       Now it’s back to my bed, on sore legs, to read and sleep.

* For more on Pakal and his sarcophagus:  http://www.highonadventure.com/hoa16jan/vicki/palenque.htm