Marvin’s Mighty Mayan Marathon – by R. Graeme Cameron

      Part One: 30 April 1981 to 03 May 1981

      In May of 1981 I spent a month touring the ancient cities of Mexico, Guatemala and Honduras under the guidance of Professor Marvin Cohodas of the University of British Columbia. I kept a journal. Here it is:

      THURSDAY — APRIL 30TH, 1981

      Just lifted off from Vancouver airport. Very smooth… Now we’re crossing the San Juan islands. There’s a low-lying fog on the North side of the islands, a wispy fog like cotton… The sea is crystal-clear, every cabin and boat a bright gleaming dot amid green, heavy fuzz textured islands. B.C. Ferry has a long pale wake, against steel blue water… Victoria seems small indeed.

      Cascades are so much ice cream snow floating above a blue haze… We’re flying just under flat wisps of grey clouds… Looking down on the American coast reminds me of military relief models… Liftoff very early in the morning, so parts of the mountains along the coast are not lit up yet… There’s an island like a gigantic sperm-four-sided quadrangle with a long sand spit tail… We’re flying at 16,000 feet, perfect for viewing buildings, roads, yacht basins, etc. Good to be flying.

      Think I have everything I need. Thanks to the sale at the ArmyNavy store I look like a character out of Graham Greene or Somerset Maugham: White cotton pants, white cotton shirt, light checked tan and white jacket, light straw hat. Everything made of cotton as far as possible. Must have cotton. Determined to survive the tropical heat…

      I’m now sitting in a Mexicana 727 waiting to leave Seattle. Splendid view of the city when we came in: extensive freeways, large park and reservoir, space needle close to the water, impressive downtown, Kingdome like a dirty, fluted mushroom….

      We’re moving along the runway… liftoff! I’m on my way to Mexico! Hot damn! Dream of a lifetime! Happy, yes… beautiful view of Mt. Ranier across the aisle… Oops! Be more specific! Let’s see… Ranier… Sharp ridges leading up to a rough pyramid (a good omen), subsidiary blocks like mounds… Arrgh! My pen is leaking! Must be the altitude… Just flew past Mt. Saint Helens volcano. The pattern of snow clearly indicates intense erosion of its unstable surface. The edge of the crater is jagged and sharp. The mud flows are like a dirty pudding spreading through a green carpet. Spirit Lake a sad remnant. Devastated areas quite distinct from 33,000 feet. Clouds of vented steam lazily drifting about the U-shaped crater. From above the mountain looks like a large, frosted boil. A privilege to see it in its present active state.

      Just found out the Prof. is carrying the same amount of cash as I, so we sink or swim together. Course, I’ll need $ to survive when I get back—not having a job to come home to—so I’d better not spend it all. Worry about that later. Glorious trip ahead!

      Our group of 13 is hopping about, exchanging seats, so they can all get a chance to talk to Marvin about their upcoming essays. He drops down beside me, eager to discuss my topic, then remembers I’m auditing the course. Since I won’t be receiving credit (don’t need any more credits. Got enough to graduate!), I don’t have to write tests or essays, just enjoy the lectures amid the ruins.

      His mind wanders back to the last essay I did on the previous course I took from him. He says I did well in my “On the use of Jaguar Imagery in Mayan Ceramics” essay. “Excellent in fact. Good approach,” he says. “Good start on a difficult subject.” Then he informs me I’ll be rooming with him and Mark till his wife B joins the group. Okay by me. Had hoped to be rooming with some of the girls though….

      Was sitting on the can while flying over Los Angeles. Something symbolic in that… Over arid Baja California now… High mesas, bare eroded bones of rock…. Now crossing the gulf to the mainland. Bright sun. Puffy clouds below. Dark green patches in the sea are reefs, I suspect… Wakes of fishing boats make me think of Steinbeck’s “The Log from the Sea of Cortez.” Ah yes, he spent a lazy summer sailing the waters below in a sardine boat. Now I fly above the ghost of his passage….

      Reached wide yellow beaches, discoloured tidal pools…. Turning South to fly down the coast…. Getting lower…. We’re going to make a brief stop in Mazatlan before going on to Mexico City… There are strange, eroded swirling lines of rock between the tidal pools, like a vast strip mine planned by someone on an acid trip. Odd phenomena of rivers coursing through deadly dry, arid land. No vegetation that I can see, from this height anyway….

      My objective approach, studying, writing it all down, should allow me to keep calm and cool in the oven hot weather I’m about to experience, at least that’s the theory….

      Now descending toward the cloud layer. I love flying above clouds!… Aha, my mistake. The “reefs” are probably cloud shadows… The texture of the water where it is lit by the sun is like a cheap kind of plastic skin, almost a snakeskin effect…. to gaze out over a sea of clouds all the way to the horizon. Paradise! And the things I’m going to see!… My God, yes! I am excited!

      Now we’re flying above a vast sea of cotton cauliflowers! I do love clouds… I see I’m wrong again. Some of the shadows on the water ARE reefs. Wasn’t sure of the surf line at first, seemed too wide and fixed, but descent reveals a long and beautiful surf… I can see Mazatlan, assorted islands, wide beaches… The land outside town looks incredibly dry: red earth scars, tan fields, the occasional arroyos keeping a thin meandering course of bushes alive… Making very steep turns close to the ground… Is that the crumpled remains of a jetliner I see beside the runway? Hmm….

      We’ve landed! “You may leave your valuables on board.” No thanks! I can see the mass of khaki-uniformed baggage handlers ready to assault the cargo bay, and a crowd of “officials” waiting to swarm into the aircraft. I don’t trust anyone! All my possessions are in two small carry-on pieces of luggage which I carry into the terminal. Our tourist card is stamped and we are herded back on board. I have set foot on Mexican soil! Onward…

      My pen went crazy on the plane, leaked all over the place. Is now replaced with a spare… We arrive over Mexico City amid threatening clouds. I am stunned by the size of the city below, mile upon mile of single-story buildings that look like hovels, clumps of factories belching infernos of smoke, hardly anything that looks like parkland. Did Motecuhzoma ever dream of this post-Aztec future? He would be horrified….

      It’s 10.00 pm, and I’m sitting on the edge of a bathtub (a luxury!) scribbling away, hiding in the bathroom so as not to disturb M or Marvin who are both fast asleep. Will join them in utter exhaustion soon as I finish with these notes…

      At the airport we experienced a frantic wait for the typical red VW camper taxis. Finally, one raced us through the height of the infamous Mexico City rush hour. Our driver constantly honked his horn by pulling on a lanyard suspended from the ceiling of the van, narrowly avoided collision numerous times. We drove down Reforma Avenue, gawking at the sights of this alien land, trying to take it all in. Amazed at the number of little kids selling newspapers, roses, anything, daring to run up to moving cars, taking their life in their hands for a few pesos. Looking at the buildings, it appears that paint peals rapidly in this climate, many shabby structures to be seen, paint flaking off right before my eyes I swear. Notice thousands of literal hole-in-the-wall shops. Just a few square feet, often serving fast food, carvings from a large haunch of pork, or boiled greens. Suspect these are places to avoid.

      We were delivered to the Hotel Mario Angelo on Lerma 11, a block from the city’s main drag, Paseo De La Reforma, and just North of the Zona Rosa district, so a classy location. The hotel is… adequate. At least the toilet is complete with toilet paper. (I brought two rolls in my luggage, you never know…) We get a suite with three beds and a bathroom for only $7 a night. The decor is a bit tired, even grungy, but has a certain charm. At least bottled water is given away free, which is great. Just brushed my teeth using some. Trouble is, maybe they refill the bottles from a tap in the basement. I am determined not to come down with Motecuhzoma’s revenge. Got my canteen and water purification tablets ready….

      After we settled in most of us went for an evening walk. Rolling thunder. Spasmodic bursts of rain pouring down. Hmmm, getting close to the end of the dry season. But I’m delighted by the scene, especially by all the different sorts of faces. Definitely another reality here. Am astonished by the sheer volume of traffic noise. I purchase my supper for 18 pesos: a cup of yogurt and a round loaf of brown bread. I think I will learn to fear the occasional ringing of the bells in a church near the hotel, great clanking bits of sheet iron they must be from the sound of it.

      First impressions. Too tired to take in anymore. Hope to conserve strength and funds day by day, not overdo it….

      One thing about the door to our room, it’s impossible to lock it from the inside. I suggested we take a wooden chair and lean it against the bolt. I could have slept in the hall of our suite in a cubbyhole beneath a skylight, but moved my bed into the room with M and Marvin for safety’s sake. And so to bed.

      FRIDAY — MAY 1ST, 1981 MEXICO CITY

      Woke up this morning to a familiar bird song. Stuck my head out the window into the u-shaped lightwell and spotted a purple finch perched on the edge of the roof singing its little heart out, just as his buddies do back home in Vancouver. A good omen.

      Bed last night was narrow and lumpy, but good enough. First thing, a quick cloth sponge bath. The water seems to be warmed by the sun in large white tanks on the roof. When the tank empties, the hot water ceases flowing. For breakfast I had bread, water, and vitamin pills.

      M and I started out early on our own to look for the recent excavations of the twin temple of Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec Blue Hummingbird War God, and the Rain God Tlaloc. Am feeling very, very eager. The morning air has a wonderful freshness, despite a low-lying haze, though astonishing how quickly the day is heating up. Powerful sun at these latitudes.

       We’re walking up the Paseo De La Reforma. Suddenly, near Ave. Juarez, the movie TROTSKY springs to life! Around a corner spills a horde of Mexican workers marching in step and waving enormous red banners that blaze in the sunlight. Nearby, a cluster of city policemen standing on a traffic island rend the air with shrill blasts of their whistles.

       “Oh my God,” I shout, “There’s going to be a riot. Let’s get back to the hotel!”

      “Don’t be silly,” says M. “It’s only the May Day celebration.” Visions of Red Square in Moscow spring to mind.

      “The authorities won’t like this,” I say. “Riot troops coming. Hear the police signalling, their whistles? Let’s get out of here.”

      M, tall and lanky chap that he is, stares down at me with mild amusement. “It’s a government-sponsored parade, you fool. And the police are only practicing their signals. They often do that in the mornings.”

      I look carefully at the police. They’re not paying attention to the marchers, but are talking and laughing among themselves, seemingly rating each other’s whistling. Quite a few different calls they’re making, some of them almost playful. I begin to relax. Okay, so it’s not a revolution. Good.

      Am now squatting on concrete steps before a metal gate protecting a store front at Ave Juarez opposite Alemada Park. May Day parade still getting up. Assorted clumps of people marching by, some of them in uniforms. An indian and his two small sons have stopped in front of us. All three in light cotton clothes and barefoot. They lay out a large plastic groundsheet, bright yellow, and are smothering it with the straw hats they’d been carrying on their heads and backs in yarn bundles. Amazingly, people are flocking to buy the hats, laughing as they try them on, the two boys scrambling to get change from their father. I guess everyone wants to be protected from the hot sun today.

      Bands are testing their drums. More and more banners are being carried by. We seem to be in the middle of the staging area for the parade. Sun breaking through the morning haze. Holiday atmosphere.

      We walk on through Alemada Park, past the Palace of Fine Arts. Begin to notice more and more Indian women in shawls squatting on blankets at curbside selling mostly straw hats, but also chewing-gum and other oddities. There’s a market for even the worst junk. I spot two black-suited businessmen, giggling as they pass a two-foot plaster statue of “The Discus Thrower” back and forth as they walk. The seller sits beside six more replicas of that famous bronze by Myron. Very curious.

      We go up Veracruz, cutting through parade groups staging in the cross streets. I feel somewhat conspicuous, especially with camera and canteen dangling. We seem to be the only gringos about. One fellow caught sight of M in his blue jeans and cowboy hat and called out “Yankees! Yankees!” but all in fun. The general mood is very jolly.

      Past the Chamber of Deputies. The older buildings are made of hand-hewn blocks of volcanic stone. Many of these old structures are bulging in strange ways, settling due to the semi-liquid state of the soil covering the old lake that had surrounded the ancient Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan. Incredibly, some particularly precarious leaning facades are held up by rough timbers propped against the sidewalk. Would hate to live in those buildings!

      Almost every block has one of those hole-in-the-wall shops with a vertical spit rotating slabs of meat against a gas flame. Fascinating to watch the flies riding the meat till the flame approaches, then lift off and fly around to the other side. Oddly, I don’t feel the least pangs of hunger for this “fast food.”

      Interesting to note that one shop is devoted entirely to Buddhist gear….

      Eventually we notice that streets leading off to the right appear to empty into a large square. The Zocalo! We turn right up Argentina Street (which seems more like an alley than a street), passing between several large buildings on our right and construction hoarding on the left. Surprise! We’ve stumbled into the very lair of the Aztec Gods! Mesh openings in the fence reveal the excavated twin-temple of the sacred precinct. Eagerly I press my face against the mesh.

       At first the view is confusing. Mesoamerican temples are typically many layers of temple. In other words, every time a ruler wanted to replace a temple with a “better’ one,” instead of knocking down the old one and building the new from scratch, they simply used the existing temple pyramid as a core and built the new one over it. In this case, the Spaniards dismantled most of the structure, leaving a kind of maze of concentric stairs and platforms, each representing a different construction phase. Once I figured out what I was looking at, I immediately sought the “outer ring” structures, for these would represent the last temple, the very same that Motecuhzoma and Cortez saw.

       I can see a wide stairway (forty feet wide? Fifty feet?) four steps high flanked by undulating stone serpents. At the top stair, offset to the left from the centre, is a large stone serpent head under a plywood covering. The head rests on a platform extending thirty or forty feet back to a set of steep stairs climbing the remains of the actual pyramid facade. Are these remnants of the last stage? No, to the right, built over the platform, is the corner of a later, larger pyramid temple, with just five risers preserved, the bulk of the facade gone, so that the surviving steps are only six feet or so wide.

      Nevertheless, Motecuhzoma and Cortez once climbed these very same steps (albeit somewhere in the “air” in front of me, up the centre which no longer exists) arm in arm, Motecuhzoma desiring to show his “guest” the beauty of Tenochtitlan as seen from its highest vantage point. I am in near ecstasy viewing these remains, in a state of awe akin to the time I stood in the doorway peering into the Senate House of ancient Rome (but my trip to Europe is another story). Point is the history of this place is palpable, overwhelming. The trip is worth it just for this moment.

      (Alas, later research proved my assumptions wrong. Nothing remains from the version of the temple constructed by Motecuhzoma except for a part of the stone floor laid down in the temple precinct before the pyramid temple. All the stairs and sculpture I could see belonged to versions of the twin temple constructed before Motecuhzoma’s era. He (and Cortez) never saw any of this. Sigh. On the other hand, the very spot where I was standing was probably quite close to the no-longer-existing facade of the temple built in his day. I like to think so, anyway.)

      Somewhere in the mess of ruin in front of me is a huge stone disc (11 feet across) carved in relief depicting the dismembered body of Coyolxauhqui, the sister of Huitzilopochtli (oh what a jolly religion the Azteca had!), but I am unable to make it out. But there are other serpent heads and froggy statues visible, so I am quite happy. The stonework (which in ancient times was covered with brightly painted plaster) conveys an odd pepperoni effect, some stones being red, others white. I am dying to explore the site, but the excavations are open to the public only on rare occasions, so I have to be satisfied with this brief glimpse through the fence.

      M and I press on past the Metropolitan Cathedral (circa 1573) into the Zocalo. The large masonry building at the end of the Zocalo to our left is the National Palace. Men on its roof are shovelling squares of coloured paper on to the crowd below, shiny paper that glitters in the sun as it drifts down. Very pretty effect.

      We stop directly in front of the palace. The huge square (second only to Red Square in Moscow for size) is empty apart from the rows of police and soldiers ringing it. There are no spectators. Except for some television camera crews, we are the only civilians in the Zocalo. Several policeman glance at us. I feel a trifle nervous. Fortunately, it appears that a couple of gringos who have wandered in where Mexican citizens fear to tread are not worth worrying about. Or perhaps the casual way we sauntered into the Zocalo indicated we were “supposed” to be there and no one dared check our credentials? We decide to stay put and see what happens.

      On turning around I observe that there are some spectators after all, but not exactly ordinary people. High ranking officials and their families occupy a set of temporary bleachers against the base of the palace. Other people crowd the balconies above. In the centre of the building’s facade, about three floors up, is a particularly long balcony festooned with purple banners. President Portillo is there, wearing a brown suit, surrounded by his family and top ministers. I see him glance down at Mark and myself. He looks puzzled. I control the urge to wave. Who knows how the police would react?

      With a crash of drums the parade begins. The whole point seems to be to assemble in the side streets, then march once around the square waving red banners and chanting up a storm, to pass in front of the President, and finally exit, presumably to search for the nearest bar. The Mexican people can only see the parade on television. Is this classic state propaganda or what? Portillo stands beaming, saluting every passing contingent with upraised arms. Are they honouring him, or he them? Or a little of both perhaps? Among the different groups trotting by that M and I are able to identify are airline pilots, stewardesses (two from our flight!), maharachi players and famous Mexican actors. The whole show becomes rather hypnotic in its repetition and noise. We decide to leave. The police look vaguely offended.

      We head back to the hotel. Am beginning to feel the effects of the thin air (Mexico City is more than 9,000 feet above sea level) and the air pollution (worst in the world). We arrive just in time to learn that everybody is going out to look at the twin temple. But first they’re trooping out to the train station to get tickets to Palenque. Well, nine of us. Marvin and three others plan to detour to Villhermosa by bus. The thought of a nice, relaxing train ride is more appealing. So went along to the train station. There our attempts to speak Spanish to the ticket seller provoke anger on his part (no patience with idiot gringos). We think we’ve booked the express train, but events were later to prove otherwise. The ticket agent’s revenge I think.

      One thing I notice in the train station, an aspect of Mexican lifestyle perhaps, is that children are tolerated more, allowed to run riot and play without any attempt at supervision. In my tired state I find their noise and fuss excruciating. Need sleep.

      M and D and I head back to the hotel. I wait on a street corner for twenty minutes while they do some shopping. Feel very conspicuous standing there all alone, unable to speak the language… Unhook my canteen from my belt and the condensation runs down my shirt. Once more the buffoon gringo… I note that a billboard across the street displays Anthony Quinn promoting a brand of brandy. Seems he’s a really big star down here… Buildings all around seem to be crowded tenements, washing hanging from every window. Millions of kids playing soccer on the sidewalk… A staggering drunk comes running along. Accidently slams his head into a telephone booth and falls over backwards. Those around him gasp in alarm. People reach to help, but he bounces back up and continues on… Very lively, this city.

      Finally, finally, back in the Hotel Mario Angelo. Want to take a hot shower, but the hose from the water tank on the roof has broken, steaming water pouring into the courtyard… D finds a two-inch cockroach in her suite, captures it in a jar. I am less than thrilled and collapse in bed. Dead asleep.

      SATURDAY — MAY 2ND, 1981 MEXICO CITY

      An exhausting day, bringing me close to total collapse. Part of this may be in reaction to the anti-malaria pills I took last night. Or the fact this city is over 9,000 feet above sea level. Then again, an eight-hour lecture tour through the Nacional de Antropologia Museum walking on marble floors with seats few and far between may have taken its toll. Toward the end of the tour I had difficulty breathing, could scarcely move my feet, felt some nausea and dizziness.

      After the tour everybody set off to shop for food, but S suggested—I guess because of my alarmingly fatigued appearance—that I go directly to the hotel. Which I did and promptly flaked out. As I write I think I can say I feel somewhat better, but still very tired. Hope I can survive tomorrow’s tour of Teotihuacan….

      At least I have food for the next few days. On a strict budget, so I can’t afford very much. I told the others what to pick up for me when I retreated to the hotel: Bread, fruit juice, limes, cheese, and a turnip-like vegetable (whose name I forget) which, in its raw state, tastes like potato. Good with lime juice on it. But no meat. Or milk. Or peanut butter! Milk and meat too risky. Peanut butter unknown. So far, no sign of the dreaded E. Colli revenge. Am hopeful of avoiding it entirely.

      Now, today’s happenings… Outside the Nacional de Antropologia Museum (NAM) stands a massive, blocky, rather dumpy-looking “modern” sculpture carved from light brown rock. It is in fact quite ancient. Date: unknown. Alleged to be Tlaloc, the Rain God, or maybe Chalchihuitlicue, his wife, the Water Goddess. Rather ugly no matter whom it represents. But then, bits and pieces have been chopped off, so it’s hard to say what the original visual effect was intended to be.

      I’m not kidding when I say this thing is massive. 200 tons! How did the ancients ever move such weight? Answer: they didn’t. It was still attached to bedrock when discovered near the village of Coatlinchan. In 1964 it was separated from the bedrock and brought to its present location. I don’t like it. It does nothing for me. My own theory is that it was a “make-work” project thought up by a sculptor desperate for employment, and the “funding” dried up when the local King who commissioned it found out it couldn’t be moved to his palace patio. Just a theory.

      On display in a glass case in the entrance foyer are several rather thin, crumpled gold bars recently excavated from the muck beneath Tenochtitlan (Mexico City), capital of the Azteca Empire. They are part of the treasure found in Motecuhzoma’s palace by Cortes, or to be more precise, part of the horde of ingots fashioned from the treasure by the Spaniards after they melted it down.

      And then Motecuhzoma had to go and get himself accidently killed by his own people (though Aztec sources claim Cortes had him executed), which of course considerably diminished his value as a hostage. The Aztecs besieged with renewed vigour the Spaniards cooped up in the palace, so Cortes decided to bugger off. In his own words “I begged all those present to help me carry out and save it (the gold); and for this purpose, I gave them one of my mares onto which they loaded as much as possible. I chose certain Spaniards, servants of mine, to go with the mare and the gold… and myself distributed the remainder among the Spaniards.”

      The Conquistador Bernal Diaz described the same scene somewhat differently: “Cortes… gave seven wounded and lame horses and one mare and more than eighty of our Tlascalan allies… they loaded men and animals alike with as much as they could carry… then Cortes said, ‘I now give (the remainder) over to any soldiers who care to take it. Otherwise, we shall lose it to these dogs.’ On hearing this, many loaded themselves with the gold. I had no desire, I assure you, but to save my life. Nevertheless, I picked up four jewels from the little boxes in which they lay, and quickly stowed them in my bosom, under my armour. The price of them afterwards served to cure my wounds and buy me food.”

      Diaz was smart not to weigh himself down with gold. You see, Tenochtitlan was an Aztec Venice, built way out on lake Texcoco. The only way back to the mainland was via causeways. At intervals along each were gaps which normally were bridged with wooden planks, but these the Aztecs had thoughtfully removed to prevent the Spaniards from escaping. So, Cortes had a portable bridge constructed, intending to cart it along at the head of their column when they made their break in the middle of the night.

      Quoting from Diaz: “Four hundred Tlascalans and one hundred and fifty soldiers were chosen to carry this bridge and place it in position…” (Great zot! That must have been some bridge!) “…The bridge was quickly put in and Cortes crossed over with the leading detachment… then all of a sudden we saw many bands of warriors descending on us… hard though we fought, no further use could be made of the bridge.”

      So how did the Spaniards cross the remaining gaps? Being ever resourceful, not to mention being such warm, humane, nice guys, they… well, let the Conquistador Francisco De Agulilar tell you in his own words: “There was no way to cross the remaining five or six canals—which were a good twelve feet wide, and deep full of water—except that our Lord provided us with the Indian men and women who carried our baggage. As these entered the first canal they drowned, and the heap made a bridge for those on horseback to pass over. In this way we kept pushing the loaded bearers ahead of us, reaching the other side over the bodies of the drowned, until we had crossed the rest of the canals. And in the confusion of drowning Indians some Spaniards were also lost.” Like I say, nice guys.

      All the Tlascalans carrying gold were lost, as well as the entire baggage train of horses and their escorts, more than forty Spaniards in all. As Diaz wrote: “the majority fell at the bridge, weighed down with gold.” Survivors retreated into the city and held out for three days, only to be captured and sacrificed. As for the gold, Aguilar explained: “As we were fleeing it was heartbreaking to see our companions dying… The number of Indians pursuing us could have been about five or six thousand, because the rest of the horde of warriors were occupied in looting the baggage that had sunk in the canals… And so it happened that God miraculously provided that the baggage, and those that carried it, and the forty men who were left behind, saved us all from being killed and torn to pieces.” Hmm, methinks the ones left behind took a rather dim view of this “miracle.” Aguilar seems a self-centred sort of chap, not much empathy for others….

      Anyway, being aware of the historical circumstances described above, chills run up and down my spine as I stare at the fragile-looking gold bars gleaming under the display lights. Curious how artifacts from an event involving massive shedding of blood bring history “to life” hmmm? Every gold bar figuratively drenched in blood. An appropriate symbol for the history of this country.

      The main floor of the NAM is arranged around a six-hundred-foot-long patio with a pool filled with reeds symbolic of the founding of Tenochtitlan. Part of the patio is roofed by a 70,000 square foot 2,000-ton aluminum thingie suspended from a single pillar. It strikes me as an act of hubris on a par with the giant “Tlaloc” outside. Impressive, but ugly, and you wouldn’t want to be underneath if it were to fall…

      The main floor of the NAM is divided into 12 halls, each one devoted to a particular culture or grouping of cultures. Marvin begins his lecture marathon in the Olmec room, but I dash immediately to the hall of the Aztecs to gaze upon my favourite “pagan” statue, perhaps the single most frightening sculpture ever conceived, a monumental depiction of the ever-nurturing Mother Earth Goddess, Coatlique “Serpent Skirt.” She is a nightmare, terrifying.

      Disappointingly she turns out to be only 8 feet tall. From photographs I’d seen I figured 15 feet easy. But as I stand before her, drinking in all the details, her power begins to emerge. To the uninitiated she appears to have a wide frog-like head with nasty teeth. In fact she is headless, for she has been decapitated in the process of giving birth to the Sun God. Her “head” consists of two snake heads in profile, nose to nose, representing the two fountains of blood spouting from her neck as a result of her head being cut off. Her arms are in a “pounce” posture, but as her hands have been sliced off—you guessed it—her arms end in snake heads (more fountains of blood). And of course, having just given birth, a snake descends between her legs. A skull is attached to her waist, four hands and two hearts form a necklace on her breasts and, just to complete the picture, she is wearing a skirt of writhing rattle snakes (clothed in her own blood).

      Hard to believe, but this awesome device representing the death of the Earth Goddess is a symbol of continuity and rebirth, for through her death on the Autumnal Equinox the Sun God is reborn, ie: the annual reincarnation of the Sun takes place, which in turn ensures the Maize (=reborn Sun) ripens. Isn’t religious symbolism fun? An Aztec would look at this thing and think it jolly optimistic. But it scares the hell out of me. I like it. It would make a great B-movie monster!

      Then I rush back to The Olmec room. The Olmecs, who lived on the Gulf Coast, are the originators of Mesoamerican civilization. Their culture arose circa 1,200 B.C. and petered out around 400 B.C. They invented almost everything, monumental sculpture, monumental architecture, hieroglyphic writing, and the basic iconography of the Fertility Cult which was the essence of religion (until the introduction of the warrior cult circa 700 A.D.). The Maya, for instance, are basically a continuation and an elaboration of the Olmec culture.

        (An aside here. Mesoamerican religion and religious symbolism is mindbogglingly complex. A single deity can be represented in dozens of forms or aspects, each with a different meaning. Studying this stuff can drive you nuts. But it all boils down to one basic concept, a ritual of sympathetic magic designed to ensure the renewal of Maize (and the universe!). In brief, the Sun (=Maize) must die on the Vernal Equinox (THE major Aztec ceremony, for instance) in order to be reborn on the Autumnal Equinox. This expresses the duality of the Sun (male principle) and Earth Goddess (female principle), your basic fertility cult archetypes. The fertility cult was for everybody, and on the peasant level, still exists. The warrior cult, restricted to the elite, de-emphasized the Earth Goddess in favour of a male companion (symbolized by the planet Venus) who guides the Sun God through the underworld (Mother Earth). The warrior cult is dead… I hope…)

      I snap a picture of Marvin standing beside one of the famous Olmec “Head” sculptures carved from volcanic basalt brought down from the Tuxtla mountains. About 18 have been found so far, each about 6 feet high and weighing as much as 18 tons.

      MYTH NUMBER ONE: These heavy stone sculptures depict “ball game players.” Nope. They predate the ball game ritual, which was unknown to the Olmecs. Besides, these guys are wearing helmets or caps, and ball game players NEVER wore helmets. So, who are these guys? The Kings who ruled the Olmec city states.

      MYTH NUMBER TWO: These guys have thick lips, so they must be African Americans, “proving” that Mesoamerican civilization was created by African colonists. Nope. Sorry. The upper lips are thick as an artistic device representing the snarl of the were-jaguar baby… (A slight pause while everyone says “HUH?”… I told you their iconography is complex. I wasn’t kidding.) Let’s see if I can explain this…

      The MOST common image in Olmec art is a human baby (symbolic of rebirth ) with Jaguar features (slanting eyes, snout-like nose, snarling mouth with exaggerated upper lip)—the Jaguar representing the Earth/underworld (the pelt of the jaguar is the mirror image of the night sky, itself a mirror image reflecting the underworld), and a cleft head symbolic of the earth opening for the emergence of the Maize… whew! And that’s putting it simply! Olmec rulers often depicted themselves either holding a were-jaguar baby or sharing the facial characteristics of same, thus reminding their subjects that the king alone possessed the shamanistic power of maintaining the cyclical nature of the seasons, food production, etc. A political statement, in other words.

      The most delightful exhibit in the Olmec Hall is a display case featuring 16 were-jaguar king statuettes (1 made from granite, 2 carved from jade, and the rest from serpentine) about six inches high. They are exhibited as they were found, standing in a cluster facing the centre. Damned if I know what’s going on, but I suspect it’s a bunch of Olmec kings getting together for a conference on how to make Olmec religious symbolism even more complicated and convoluted….

      (Sad to note: in 1986 thieves broke into the NAM and stole vast numbers of goodies… “Everything small and precious,” said Marvin when I ran into him at Expo 86…. turned out to be an inside job, the security guards themselves were the thieves… about half the items were recovered a couple of years later. I hope that included the above-mentioned little guys; I’d hate to think they are now residing in some rich sod’s private collection….)

      And then there is the famous Olmec “Wrestler” sculpture, a bearded chap sitting cross-legged, swaying to his right, arms akimbo. Personally, I think it depicts a proto-filker, drunk out of his mind and having a very good time. Unfortunately, Marvin says it’s a modern fake (or just possibly, genuine, but non-Olmec). I don’t care. I like it anyway.

      Eight hours of lectures. Non-stop. I listen for awhile, then run ahead and photograph whatever looks nifty, then sit and relax while waiting for Marvin and the others to catch up (I was only auditing the course, wasn’t going to be marked, so I could stop paying attention whenever I felt like it). So many wonderful things to see. Some of my favourites: the jade were-bat mask (don’t ask) from Monte Alban, the four foot-high ceramic piece of an old man with an incense burner on his head (in fact the Fire God, God of the hearth) from Veracruz, a 26 foot tall Toltec warrior, a beautiful scale model of the temple precinct in Tenochtitlan… and speaking of Aztecs….

      Funny thing, Marvin saves the statue of Coatlique for last. As he begins to explain its iconography an angry local who claims to be an official tour guide steps forward and complains that Marvin is violating the law by taking employment away from a Mexican. If Marvin doesn’t stop lecturing immediately the guide will have the museum police throw him out. Marvin’s protestations are to no avail. Disappointed, he instructs me to lecture the others on Coatlique (as one amateur to fellow amateurs) and wanders away. Two American women, who had been tagging along with avid interest, speak to one of the security guards. Turns out the “guide” is unofficial, not union as advertised. Of course Marvin can lecture! Delighted, Marvin rushes back and corrects all of my mistakes….

      It has been wonderful, but my mind and body are fading fast. To my horror, Marvin decides we should explore the second floor which consists of contemporary exhibits. Given my condition, I am less than enthusiastic at the prospect of studying different types of huts, etc. So, I ignore everything, walking ahead of the group until I find a bench, on which I repose in a collapsed half-dead pose until they catch up, then I repeat the procedure. Finally, we are done.

      As I write, I can’t help but wonder if this trip is going to kill me. And we haven’t even entered the jungle yet! Tomorrow, we visit Teotihuacan. I’m going to climb the Pyramid of the Sun (the largest pyramid of the Americas) even if I have to pause after every step. After all, this trip is a life-long dream come true. Dreams don’t kill?

      SUNDAY — MAY 3RD, 1981 TEOTIHUACAN

      In 1968 I purchased a copy of “MEXICAN CITIES OF THE GODS” by Hans Helfritz, an archaeological guide with more than 115 photographs of assorted ancient buildings. It awakened within me the desire to see them in person. I especially wanted to climb the enormous, squat bulk of the Pyramid of the Sun. Now, 13 years later, my dream is coming true!

      Out of the Hotel Mario Angelo at six in the morning. Eager as all get out. We attempt to crowd on to a Mexico City bus but the driver shuts the door in our face. We stare at him, dumbfounded. He gestures at the rear door, then opens it. We pile in. I’m first to the front, attempting to cram assorted coins into the coin box. He covers it with his left hand, glaring at me, and holds out his right hand. Confused, I drop the coins into his hand, as do the others. Then the light bulb clicks. There’s no one else on the bus, so, taking advantage of the lack of local witnesses, the driver is pocketing the fares for himself. This explains why he made us get on via the rear exit. Had we come through the turnstile at the front door it would have counted our entry.

      After a short ride we get off at a massive central bus station and engage in a frantic search for the vehicle that will take us to Teotihuacan. I find myself fretting and worrying like a little kid, as if I’m afraid it’s all a joke and I’m not really being taken to the city of my dreams, but Marvin spots the bus and my fears subside. We run to the front door. The driver stares at us, aloof behind his airline pilot glasses. A conductor takes our fares. “Welcome, welcome Americans.” “Uh, actually, we’re from Canada.” The conductor glances at the driver, then both burst out laughing. As I take my seat I wonder if “Canada” means something in Spanish that I don’t want to know. Hmmm.

      We pull out of the station and head toward Teotihuacan, which is about 40 klics Northeast of Mexico City. I note that the conductor has the best “seat” on the bus, standing in the door well next to the driver. Endless numbers of concrete houses with sheet iron or tin roofs slide by, but I’m too awash in daydreams about what I am about to experience to pay much attention. Still very much a little kid, living the excitement of a little kid, as if I’m on the “bestest” school field trip ever, which—in a way—is exactly what is happening.

      Then, sooner than I expected, my first glimpse of the pyramids of the Sun and Moon, their shadowy blue bulks looming through the morning haze behind a tracery of power lines suspended from pylons just outside the archaeological zone. The sight takes my breath away. This is it!

      Well, not quite. We are forty minutes early. It’s not yet 8:00 am. Everyone is waiting for the ruins to open, even the people who work there. There’s a busload crammed with workers parked at the entrance. We’re sitting on the curb beside it, patiently enduring the last of the morning chill. More workers are behind us, huddled around a fire before a tent. Some sort of security police are wandering about, dressed in dark blue denim jackets, black crash helmets, and carrying yard-long padded leather clubs. Just how rowdy do they expect us tourists to get anyway? Interesting, fluted cactus pods abound. The air is cleaner, fresher than back in the city. I’m feeling better than last night, hope it lasts. Two of the girls have stomach problems already, but so far, I remain healthy.

      Fifteen minutes past opening time, and we can’t get in. Arrgh! Seems there are no tickets available to sell. Arrgh! Ah, Mexico….

      Still sitting on the whitewashed curb at the edge of the cobble stoned parking lot in front of the site museum complex. Or to put it another way, atop the unexcavated site of the “Great Compound,” a vast enclosure which archaeologists think may have been the principal market and possibly the administrative centre. Oddly enough, today it looks just like a parking lot. But the exciting promise of the giant pyramids looming in the near distance gets me thinking….

      Teotihuacan existed as a city from one or two centuries B.C. till somebody took the trouble to burn it down circa 750 A.D. At it’s height, around 600 A.D., it covered more than 13 square miles (larger than Imperial Rome!) and housed anywhere up to 200,000 people in an estimated 20,000 adobe brick and masonry buildings; including pyramids, temples, workshops (more than 500 discovered so far, many to do with carved obsidian—the city seems to have held a near monopoly on its trade), steam baths, palaces, and more than 2,000 one-story apartment buildings (if these numbers appear suspicious, just remember that archaeologists prefer round numbers, helps make their reports seem precise and tidy).

      The largest apartment complex discovered to date, called Tlamimilopa, contained 176 rooms and 26 patios over an area of 11,700 square feet, and appears to have been inhabited by numerous extended families. Bear in mind this was a city without windows. Light and air came from the courtyards and numerous light wells. And it was a city that was planned. With the exception of the principal monuments, most buildings were fixed to a rigid grid of blocks measuring 187 feet long and 187 feet wide. Urban planning is nothing new.

      Today, alas, most of this colossus of a city is mere rubble beneath farmers’ fields. So, it’s important to remember, as with virtually all Mesoamerican cities, that the visible monuments are but a fraction of what once existed but now lies collapsed and buried.

      To the Aztecs, Teotihuacan was a sacred city; it is they who gave it its current name (nobody knows what the original inhabitants called it). Roughly translated, it means something like “beloved city birthplace of the Gods.” The Aztecs held that the current universe, the Age of the Fifth Sun, began here when a poor, disease ridden God by name of Nanahuatzin sacrificed himself by leaping into a sacred fire and was transformed into the life-giving sun we see today. For this reason, the Aztec Emperors made annual pilgrimages, and when they died, were buried beneath a pyramid here rather than in Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital.

      In short, I am quivering like a racehorse about to be shot out of the gate. I’m so excited about “invading” this city I can barely contain myself. Huzzah! The gates are open, the tickets are selling, and I’m off, leading the pack! I race past the museum… and step on to the (modern) paving of the Avenue of the Dead (another name derived from Aztec usage). I am standing in the exact centre of the city (though at the Southern end of the existing archaeological zone). I turn to my left and face North, and the fact that the Avenue is a processional way leading toward the Pyramid of the Moon over a mile distant becomes vividly alive and obvious. No more dry lectures. This is the real thing!

      At the time the Avenue was laid down, the passage of the sun in and out of the underworld/Earth Goddess, called the axis mundi by today’s scholars, was perceived in horizontal, axial terms, in movement from the South, representing the profane, the world surface, to the North, the sacred realm, deep within the underworld. Pyramids are sacred mountains, and to climb a pyramid is to descend to the womb of the underworld, so naturally the pyramid of the Moon (a false name made up by the Spanish, both the Sun and Moon pyramids were originally devoted to the Earth Goddess) is the end point, the goal, of processions moving North along the Avenue of the Dead.

      But around 450 A.D., in one of the earliest manifestations of the Warrior cult with its emphasis on the Sun God rather than the Earth Goddess, a radical shift took place in architectural symbolism in Teotihuacan. The movement of the sun was now conceived in vertical, radial terms. At this time an Avenue running East/West was constructed to define the centre (where I am standing) of the city. In this centre, South of the Avenue of the Dead, the Great Compound was built. And in this centre, North of the Avenue, the so-called Ciudadela or “Citadel,” which now became the most important religious site in the city, superseding all others.

      I turn right to face the outer wall of the “Citadel.” Two Mexicans approach. The pockets of their shirts and pants are bulging with obsidian statuettes and effigy flutes. Do I want to buy any? No, I do not. Can’t afford souvenirs. I brush past the vendors. They shrug and move to intercept the rest of the group.

      Meanwhile, I experience a sudden rush of awe and exhilaration as I climb 20 or so steps and find myself atop the Citadel’s perimeter wall, better described as a quadrangular platform bearing 15 stepped pyramids, surrounding a sunken inner court about 400 yards by 400 yards. A third of the way into the courtyard is a large square platform about 15 feet high and 50 feet square with stairs on all four sides: a kind of giant altar or perhaps a stage for religious theatrics, even sacrifice! I run across the plaza and fly up the steps of the platform, seeking its exact centre, vaguely aware I am “desecrating” what was once, perhaps, the most sacred structure in the city, the spot where the Axis Mundi plunged vertically from the sky into the underworld.

      Or was the centre of centres atop the big pyramid a third of the way further in? Its four tiers rising maybe 40 or 50 feet exhibit the famous “Talud & Tablero” style typical of Teotihuacan and much imitated by other cities. The Talud is a heavy rectangular molding outlined by a thick frame, rising from the Tablero, an inclined plane. Thus the tiers of the stepped pyramids and platforms throughout the city exhibit a repetitious decorative pattern that it is powerfully somber and grim in its effect. To be fair, this may be due in large part to the fact that what greets the eye today are the dark coloured stones of the naked masonry. Originally, they were covered by painted plaster. Indeed, from fragments surviving here and there, it’s known that all the buildings and even the reservoirs and streets were painted, the colours of choice being either creamy white or red. Still, I doubt that these structures were ever exactly jolly or cheerful, no matter how they were painted. They were designed to impress, and boy, do they impress!

      Already I am jaded with a mere platform. Gotta climb the pyramid! I plunge off the platform and race to the foot of said pyramid and zoom up its (50 odd?) steps to the top. (Where the heck am I getting all this energy? Heart is beating a mile a minute. Something to do with a life’s dream coming true, I guess.) There I remember that this structure is itself a kind of “approach platform” to an even larger pyramid now nothing more than a gigantic heap of grass-covered rubble. I stare down at the latter’s facade, or rather, at the facade of one of the architectural treasures of the world, the pyramid of Quetzalcoatl, the Plumed Serpent God.

      You see, whenever the Aztecs or the Maya, or most other Mesoamerican cultures, felt like building a “new-improved” temple, they didn’t tear down existing structures, they simply built over them. Some ruined temple pyramids contain within them a dozen or more layers of intact buildings. In this case, sadly, when archaeologists cleared away some of the rubble of the later building, they found preserved within, of the earlier Quetzalcoatl pyramid, only four tiers of the original six, and only on the West side at that. Even so, what a sight! Magnificent! (Don’t worry, I’ll describe it in a moment, I’m trying to build your anticipation!)

      There’s only one problem. This word famous building depicts a Plumed Serpent God all right, but it’s NOT Quetzalcoatl! (Bang goes the Mexican tourist industry…)

      At this point I notice Marvin leading the others on to the narrow walkway separating the facade of the “Q” pyramid from the pyramid I’m standing on. I scrabble down the front steps and race around to join them. Face to face with the ancient Gods, I drink in the details.

      So what do I see already? Inquiring minds want to know! Okay, four tiers of typical talud/tablero construction split down the centre by a wide stairway flanked by stone balustrades, out of which project carved serpent heads every ten feet or so. Today the lower jaws are propped up by metal rods so that the heads, being about a yard long, don’t work loose and tumble down. To either side of the stairs the tableros on each level contain similar serpent heads surrounded by neck ruffles of feathers, said beasties alternating with chunky looking snout-less scale-covered crocodile heads with square teeth. The eye sockets of both types are hollow, the obsidian eyes missing. Originally the fine lines and details were picked out in red, the rest coloured a pale blue. Traces of these pigments remain.

      Wow! Quetzacoatls and Tlalocs (the male rain God), just like the guidebooks say!

      Not quite. The plumed serpent did not evolve into the male figure of the hero Quetzalcoatl until well into the Warrior cult era. This pyramid predates the warrior cult. At the time it was built (200 years before the Citidel), circa 250 A.D., both Tlaloc and the Plumed Serpent were in fact female, or to be precise, were variant forms of the Earth Goddess.

      Wait! It gets niftier!

      Examining the sculpture closely, I can readily see that what I’m really looking at are the bodies of rattlesnakes covered in feathers (the rattles are very prominent and were originally tan in colour), rattlesnakes with two heads; a Plumed Serpent head at the front of the body, and at the rear of the body, next to the rattles, a stylized crocodile head. To emphasize that this crocodile/serpent creature is swimming in water, the taluds depict a continuous undulating serpent body surrounded by conch shells and bivalve shells. Tlaloc, God or Goddess, is always the rain giver, and the crocodile is always symbolic of the surface of the earth, half exposed, half submerged, representing that which is between the heavens and the underworld.

      Clear as mud, right?

      Or to put it another way, there was only ONE two-headed serpent deity in Mesoamerica, usually referred to today as the “Bicephalic Monster Deity.” What I am looking at is the Teotihuacan version of the Maya Goddess Itzamna, the pregnant Earth Goddess symbolic of the rainy season. The crocodile head represents the summer solstice, the nadir of the Sun’s journey through the underworld, when its seed is reborn within the Earth Goddess as the rain begins, and the Plumed Serpent head is the Autumnal Equinox, its jaws agape, symbolically giving birth to the Sun God, who is also the reborn Maize, the desired result of the rainy season. Cool huh? Even neater, the ancients believed the Milky Way visible in the night sky was the reflection of Itzamna in the underworld.

      In other words, this pyramid was not dedicated to Quetzalcoatl, but to the Earth Goddess, albeit a very specialized manifestation or aspect of her.

      But for them as prefers politics to religion, let me point out this pyramid is an example of political one upmanship. It’s only natural for every new ruler to feel vaguely pained at the sight of old monuments advertising the power and glory of previous regimes. The “Moon” pyramid and associated “Avenue of the Dead” were built to “replace” the “Sun” pyramid. Then the “Quezalcoatl” pyramid was constructed as a new religious centre “to emphasize the power of the contemporary rulers and to de-emphasize the standing examples of their predecessors work” (I’m quoting myself from an essay I wrote for Marvin), i.e. to “replace” both the “Sun” AND the ‘Moon’ pyramids.

      Whoever built “Q” was innovative in the extreme, not only because they focused on the Earth Goddess as the rainy season pregnant with rebirth, but because this was the first major monument to employ the talud & tablero style, and the only one ever built (in this city) to crawl with projecting sculpture.

      Subsequent rulers, like the warrior cultists who built the “Ciudadela” over “Q” (in order to bring THEIR beliefs into dominance), probably thought the visual appeal of such sculpture didn’t justify the time and labour involved. Or maybe they thought it was too darn gaudy. At any rate, the so-called “Temple of Quetzalcoatl” is an idea that didn’t catch on. Sure is a certified, nifty son-of-a-gun to see though.

      (I described the pyramid of “Quetzalcoatl”, explaining that the feathered serpent depicted on its facade was in fact a Teotihuacan version of the Mayan Earth Goddess Itzamna. In a recent issue of National Geographic magazine (December 1995) there is a very nice article on Teotihuacan. Interesting to note that not once does the author refer to the above structure as the “pyramid of Quetzalcoatl” (as was traditionally thought) but instead calls it the “pyramid of the Feathered Serpent.” Nice to see orthodox scholarship catching up to the cutting-edge interpretations of Prof. Cohodas. However, the author does fail to point out the two headed nature of the serpents (the key to their identity), which makes me wonder if he even noticed….)

     (Of additional interest, it has also been discovered that the Pyramid of “Quetzacoatl” was a funerary monument. Beneath the perimeter of the pyramid lay the remains of 200 or so sacrificial victims, and underneath the centre, an empty tomb chamber which probably once contained the body and offerings of the dead guy for whom the pyramid was built, long since looted, either by disgruntled relatives of the sacrificees, or by architecture critics outraged by its gaudy facade…)

      I am following Professor Marvin and the others North along the fifty yards-wide Avenue of the Dead which culminates in the Pyramid of the Moon complex. We tromp across a modern bridge above the San Juan River, its waters confined to a wide canal dug by the original inhabitants, then climb at long intervals flights of steps which have the effect of converting the rising slope of the Avenue into a series of level platforms. Easy to imagine long processions of befeathered priests climbing with me, perhaps stopping to perform sacred dances and rituals while others on the continuous series of temples and platforms flanking the Avenue blow conch shells and wave banners and what not. Colourful. Then again, maybe the ancients used the Avenue for marathon charity runs to raise ‘funds’ for those severely disabled by too many hallucinogenic tobacco enemas (Oops, sorry, that’s a Mayan practice. Not Teotihuacano, as far as I know.)

      Meanwhile the enormous mass of the Pyramid of the Sun looms larger and larger ahead to our right as we progress, the details emerging from the fog of distance as we get closer. I can feel my heart beating faster. I want to climb the sucker!

      But first a mass of statistics. Built around the time of Christ, it is the first (and the biggest) religious monument constructed in the city, and the second largest in North America. (The biggest was in Choula, of which more later.) A giant, squat mother of a pyramid, it’s 738 feet wide at the base and over 200 feet tall (height of an office tower of twenty stories—think of it that way ), though its original height is estimated to have been even greater, around 250 feet. (Don’t get too excited, the Pyramid of Cheops in Egypt was almost twice as high.) The Pyramid of the Sun contains (according to somebody who had nothing better to do but whip out his calculator) approximately thirty-five MILLION cubic feet of adobe bricks and rubble fill. Can you say “make-work project to keep the dry season peasants employed?”

      Today it rises in four wide tiers (and one narrow tier), its slope remarkably pebbly and gritty in appearance due to myriad projecting stones whose shadows impart a fussy, textured look that somehow increases one’s impression of infinite mass.

      Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with its original appearance, which consisted of smooth cut stone covered in painted plaster. Circa 1905 to 1910 the Mexican Archaeologist Leopoldo Batres peeled off the ruined facade, confidently expecting to find an earlier, intact pyramid within as nearly all Mesoamerican pyramids consist of multiple versions, each one bigger than its buried predecessor. Oops, not this one. Nothing inside but fill. So Leopoldo took the rubble from the dismantled facade and stuck it back on, sort of. The projecting stones originally served to anchor the outer stonework and were not meant to be visible at all. Oh well, it’s still as impressive as all get out.

      So, Marvin turns to me and says, “Tell everyone the significance of the Pyramid, and in particular the meaning of the platform at its base. You have twenty minutes.”

      Great. We’re dripping with sweat (and we haven’t even begun climbing yet), standing out in the open beneath a hot sun, and I’m supposed to deliver an impromptu lecture. This is what I get for writing a ten-page essay on “Astronomical Orientation at Teotihuacan.” The others stare at me. I can see the light of enthusiasm shining in their eyes, or is it exasperation?

      Well, 15 years later (when I wrote this, and now even later than that), even I can’t figure out what the heck I was getting at in the essay, so I’ll just give you the gist of it, which more or less approximates whatever babble I inflicted on my fellow travellers at the time.

      Originally the inhabitants of the valley lived on the slopes of Mt. Cerro Gordo to the North, whose eighty springs supplied water (therefore life) to the valley. In particular, a thin vertical shaft from which the sound of rushing water can be heard was probably—given the belief that a cave represents the watery womb of the Earth Mother and that all terrestrial waters spring forth from her womb—the site held most sacred by the early inhabitants of the valley.

      With me so far? Okay. Then, with newfangled irrigation techniques, the people spread out over the valley, and they discover a cave with a spring in it. In my essay I suggested this “was interpreted as the obvious counterpart to the shaft on Cerro Gordo, with the result that a substitute sacred mountain was built above it so that every aspect of the Earth Goddess fertility cult could be brought under the control of the newly emerged central leadership in order to emphasize their power. The building of the ‘Sun’ pyramid (actually devoted to the Earth Goddess) therefore represents authority taking advantage of a unique geological coincidence in order to utilize religion for political purposes.”

      If you think the above is gobbledygook, you should read the paragraphs where I explain why the orientation of the pyramid’s principle (western) facade is aligned 15 25’ East of North. But I won’t inflict this on you.

      Suffice to say that the entrance to the cave is smack dab in the middle of the Western facade (you’re facing East when you look at it), and that the cave runs East more than 330 feet to a complex of chambers more or less directly underneath the centre of the pyramid. I suspect the architects of the pyramid believed they had established, spiritually speaking, a vertical axis between the cave’s end—a clover-leaf grouping of chambers suggesting the world axis at the centre of the four directions—and the centre of the shrine atop the pyramid, representing the same concept… Then again, maybe not.

      So, what’s with the platform Marvin referred to, or “Adosada” as it’s called? Massive enough to be considered a building in its own right, it’s a four-tiered platform about 200 feet wide and fifty feet tall leaning against the base of the Pyramid of the Sun (and incidentally closing off the entrance to the sacred cave). It was constructed at the same time as the Pyramid of “Quetzalcoatl” (250 AD). Since the Adosada has a different alignment than the Sun Pyramid behind it, namely 21’ East of North, through a lengthy, convoluted series of suppositions I argue it is a symbolic representation of the pregnant Earth Mother, patron of the rainy season, identical to the Goddess depicted by the feathered serpents on the “Quetzalcoatl” pyramid, and therefore represents an effort to downgrade the significance of the Pyramid of the “Sun” and subordinate its function to that of the “Quetzalcoatl” temple-pyramid… Then again, maybe not.

      So enough with the details already! Time to climb! Hoo boy, it’s steep. Each tier has its own degree of slope, which makes for variety. Even so, we’re talking over 240 steps. I take it slowly, perspiring as if I were the source of all terrestrial waters. Meanwhile lithe young vendors bound past carrying crates of pop atop their heads, knowing full well we will willingly pay a small fortune for said pop once we make it to the top. If we make it to the top.

       Suddenly we are there, a tiny group of twelve clustered on the small platform ten feet square which caps the mighty pyramid. The whole city is laid out at our feet. It’s a beautiful sunny day. Mountains all around. Blue haze fills the valley. There’s a terrific wind up here, to keep my straw hat from flying away I have it firmly pushed down on my head. Someone takes a picture of me with my camera. I have the same picture hanging on the wall above my computer as I write this. Dressed entirely in white cotton clothes, I’m standing in a typical hero pose against a backdrop of the Pyramid of the Moon and Cerro Gordo beyond. I look happy as a clam, and I am. Climbing the Pyramid of the Sun is one of the highlights of my life. Better than sex. (More strenuous anyway.)

      I treasure the moment. Then we have to descend. I’m proud of myself, I walk all the way down, rather than slide on my ass like some of the others. (I won’t be so brave on the Mayan pyramids, some of them are darn near vertical.)

      After briefly poking about in the ruins of the “Sun Palace” looking for mural fragments, we head on up the Avenue of the Dead toward the Moon Pyramid. The avenue opens up into a plaza in front of the Pyramid, a square lined with 12 lesser pyramid/temple-platforms, each one a worthy tourist attraction in its own right. I sit atop one eating my lunch and writing post cards, feeling supremely happy. Man, the ceremonies that must have gone on in the plaza below….

      The Moon Pyramid’s stones are black, red and grey in colour, separated by white cement full of black pebbles. This is all reconstruction work, dating from the 1960s, but looks nifty. But the top level of the pyramid is still a tumble of uncemented stonework, some of it loose. One has to be careful moving about. Though smaller than the Pyramid of the Sun, it is still the third largest pyramid in North America, and besides, being built on higher ground, its height is roughly equal to that of the Sun Pyramid. Looking back down the length of the Avenue of the Dead is quite a rush. Even the Romans would have been impressed by monumentalism on this scale. Raw power is laid out before me, cosmic, political, imperial—maybe a combination of all three. To those who think of Indians as being nomads living in tents, this view would come as a staggering revelation. Few modern cities have anything as spectacular. Just bloody amazing.

      In my essay I argued the Moon Pyramid was built (circa 100 AD) to replace the Sun Pyramid as the principle religious focus of the city. The reason for this being that the latter was visually unsatisfactory, in that facing it, Cerro Gordo lay off to the left and appeared unconnected. Whereas when you face the Moon Pyramid, Cerro Gordo looms beyond and seems to outline its shape, thus reinforcing its status as a substitute sacred mountain. Besides, around this time the sacred spring in the cave beneath the Sun Pyramid had evidently dried up, a bad enough omen as to cripple the spiritual functioning of the building. In other words, the Moon pyramid was a badly needed replacement which was visually much more satisfactorily symbolic, and therefore a much better crowd pleaser for them as watched the ceremonies and pageants and what not. Maybe. And then again, maybe not.

      At any rate, I suspect the priests who used to stand up here were damned proud and arrogant. There was nothing in the view before them to suggest they should feel otherwise. I wonder though, did any of them ever squint at the magnificent city below and try to imagine it in a ruined state? Did any of them ever have a vision of hordes of non-believers in Bermuda shorts and straw hats swarming over the pyramids like ticks on a deer? One hopes not….

     It has been 15 years since I visited the Teotihuacan palaces with their myriad, wonderful wall paintings. As I have long since forgotten the religious symbolism involved, I will just describe my favourite paintings in the hope that this will give you some idea of what it is like to wander through these ancient, frescoed halls.

      Just West off the Moon Plaza lies a trio of superimposed palaces, the Palace of the Feathered Conches (4th Century AD), the Palace of the Jaguars (5th Century AD), and the Quetzalpapalotl or Quetzal-butterfly Palace (7th Century AD).

      I find renewed energy and run delightedly along a cinder path between two Moon Plaza pyramids, sprint up a flight of steps past a massive stone serpent head with rather “squashed” features (an ugly piece of sculpture) and find myself in the shade of a square-pillared arcade belonging to the Quetzalpapalotl. At last, I am going to see where the Teotihuacanos lived! Or at least where the rich and powerful lived….

      Like all Teotihuacan palaces, only the floors and varying heights of walls in the Quetzalpapalotl survived the great fire (an act of war?) which destroyed the city circa 750 AD. However, sufficient debris remained to allow archaeologists to reconstruct the walls to their original height and re-roof the structure, so that one can pass from sun-drenched courtyards into the cool shade of assorted rooms, arcades, and corridors, and back into open patios burning under the hot Mexican sun. Other palaces have walls but are partially restored, with a modern tin roof resting on metal girders, and some palaces remain open to the sky. The best-preserved paintings in these buildings are those along the base of the walls, as they did not need to be reconstructed from fallen fragments which is usually the case with paintings which had been located higher on the walls.

      The Quetzalpapalotl has an interior courtyard lined with square pillars on which, sculpted in low relief, are feathered butterflies and what are usually described as parrots, though Professor Marvin Cohodas points out are more probably, given their raptor beaks and talons, a form of eagle. Staring at the critters, I am unable to make up my mind. The “butterflies” look more like the human-headed ant critters in the “ZANTI MISFITS” episode of OUTER LIMITS than butterflies, and the birdies look feisty, ever ready to snap your fingers off, a trait which might apply equally to parrots and to eagles. It is doubtful they are Quetzals (the name given to the palace refers to the Quetzal feathers on the butterflies) since, for one thing they look nothing like Quetzals and for another, although Mesoamericans appreciated the jade-green colour of its tail feathers, Quetzals are so spectacularly stupid I fancy the Indians were ashamed of them, which may explain why the birds themselves are never depicted in Mesoamerican art, as far as I am aware.

      (How stupid are Quetzals? While awake they are shy and elusive, but at night they sleep close to the ground on the lowest branches so that any predator, including man, can sneak up and grab them. This according to the Oct. 1946 National Geographic. If you can’t believe them, who can you believe?)

      Still, some insist the birds are Quetzals. Other scholars say owls. The original paint scheme might have provided clues, but it’s long since faded. All the same, the natural colours of the stone, pale reds and greens, are very pleasing to the eye. One does get the impression, however, that archaeologists don’t know their birds…

      Whoever commissioned the fresco decoration for the Palace of the Jaguars was obviously nuts about jaguars. “Nothing but jaguars,” he must have said to the artists, “I want you to wig out on jaguars. Go for broke. Every conceivable jaguar. Here, have some drugs. It’ll help you paint the niftiest jaguars you can think of. Remember now, just jaguars please. I’ll pay you by the jaguar…” etc., etc.

      Actually, the most astonishing thing about these jaguars, and about Mesoamerican art in general, be it Teotihucano, Aztec, Mayan or whatever, is how disconcertingly cartoon-like, one might even say “Disneyish,” the art often appears. I even know one theoretician  who insists archaeologists hired Disney artists to fake the art in the first place, back in the thirties, to bring in the tourist dollars. Since some of this art was discovered long before Disney was even born, and since this same theoretician also believes the Aztecs were a pensioned-off Mongol horde (who built numerous pyramids in and around Vancouver when they passed through, including our city hall, he says) who also happened to possess jet fighter aircraft to intimidate the locals… I think we can safely cast aside the “Disney Did It” theory…..

      One of my favourite frescoes shows a pair of goofy-looking jaguars outlined in blue lines and red triangles walking on water. I particularly like their red, glaring eyes and round, red noses. But best of all is the sway-backed red jaguar with a feathered headdress blowing into a conch shell (also wearing a feathered headdress). Water and a speech scroll are depicted dripping from the conch shell. The guidebooks usually say something like “blowing a hymn to the Sun God” but your guess is as good as mine. Marvin says this jaguar is a symbol of rebirth, representing both the setting and rising sun.

      The Palace of Feathered Conches depicts, as you might suspect, conch shells with Quetzal feathers. Let’s see, Quetzal feathers = jade green colour = jade = water symbolism + conch shell = water symbolism which adds up to doubleplus water symbolism which represents the surface of the underworld into which the sun must penetrate in order to die and out of which the sun must emerge in order to be reborn, which = “let’s keep the cycle of the seasons going,” which = a kind of pious “let’s hope the universe doesn’t come to an end” good luck symbolism… I think. But then, you can say that about almost any Mesoamerican religious iconography.

      They had an obsession with ritual acts of sympathetic magic designed to perpetuate existence itself. But at the same time, the reflection of this in the design scheme of this palace (or any of the others) is meant to enhance the prestige of the occupants by implying THEY have something to do with maintaining the fabric of the universe. In short, political propaganda, as well as wishful thinking. Nifty stuff all the same, though. Looks Tres cool.

      Now we tromp back outside into the hot sun and dry dust to search for the Tepantitla palace East of the Moon Plaza. Here exist fragments of a number of murals depicting the Rain God Tlaloc wearing an ornate tree like headdress (according to most scholars) or the Earth Goddess standing in front of a Ceiba tree (according to Marvin). For instance, the figure has yellow hands, which only female deities possess, says Marvin. Be that as it may, I am particularly taken by the “Sowing Priests” panel in the next room. These are busy little guys, swamped in feather corsets and huge, feathered crocodilian masks nearly as big as their bodies, striding manfully along (actually, their bodies are so short and fat one gets the impression they are skittering over the ground as fast as their tiny legs will carry them) and pouring out of their hands a mixture of water, seeds and flowers. They look quite animated and have a “Don’t bother me, I’m busy” air about them. Charming and delightful, which I am sure is not the impression originally intended, but that’s how it strikes my modern eyes.

      Speaking of modern, we take a shortcut back to the Avenue of the Dead by cutting through the village of San Juan. Here each lot consists of a compound lined with high adobe walls painted bright blue or yellow, though more often just whitewashed. In several cases, instead of adobe bricks, rows of huge cactus provide an impenetrable barrier to would-be intruders. A nice concept. Trees inside the compounds provide shade, and plenty of wires strewn overhead indicate the locals have electricity. It strikes me this would probably be a reasonably comfortable place to live.

      It turns out to be market day in San Juan and we pass by numerous wooden stalls displaying fresh fruits and other goodies. I briefly wonder why the dangling chicken carcasses are bright yellow, then realize it’s because of the fat. The chicken soup boiling in a huge earthenware pot looks vaguely tempting, but Marvin hurries us on, as we have much to see before we go.

      We visit the “Viking Group” and search for the famous multiple cross inside a circle glyph which the city’s builders apparently used as one of the survey points to lay down the street grid. I’m proud to be first to find one, albeit very faint and worn. Then Marvin finds a clearer one and lectures us on their use. I ignore this and sit in the shade and rest. My arms feel itchy. Almost like a developing… sun burn! Damn! I wore short sleeves because the sky was overcast throughout much of the day, but it was but a thin haze that got ever thinner as the day wore on. And we are 9,000 feet plus above sea level, and a lot closer to the equator. The sun is much deadlier down here. Blast! Seems I miscalculated.

      What is particularly awesome about the Viking group (named after some outfit which funded their excavation) is a section of floor and wall—shown to us by a custodian who unlocks a huge metal cover and moves it aside—tiled with transparent sheets of Mica. What a fantastic concept! Would sparkle magnificently by torch light, I imagine.

      Then we explore the “Superimposed group,” a set of buried buildings one atop the other. We traipse along a wooden boardwalk provided to prevent hordes of tourist feet from eroding the living rock out of which the lower rooms are carved. At one point we find ourselves staring down a deep, seemingly bottomless well. A prodigious effort to carve it out of solid rock. Impressive.

      At last Marvin relents from his relentless sense of pace and allows us to take refuge in the Los Pyramides restaurant above the main parking lot. I am rather pleased by the “Temple of Quetzalcoatl” swizzle sticks and swipe one to add to my minute collection of obsidian glass fragments and pottery shards I’ve been picking up here and there on the site. The only kind of souvenirs I can afford. Free ones.

      Then we leave the ruin park and tromp along country lanes amid farmer’s fields to reach the 6th Century AD Tetitla Palace. Here the walls are only partially reconstructed, the whole complex of 56 rooms and patios gloomy under a vast tin roof. I am first to walk into the room containing the Warrior Cult Eagle murals. Am absolutely delighted to see them in situ, having studied them hitherto only by slides in Marvin’s classroom. They consist of full-frontal views of Harpies Eagles with wings, legs and tail outstretched against a red background. Pendants of blood dangle from their beaks. Images of sacrifice and implied rebirth. Because their bodies are red (like the red feathers on the breasts of quetzals), most scholars refer to these birds as “Red Quetzals,” but they’re obviously birds with red bodies covered with white feathers (which Quetzals don’t have) who are rather fierce and raptor-like, the very opposite of Quetzals, whose diet consists of soft fruit. Or to put it another way, scholars often devote their lives to disagreeing with each other, even about the most obvious things….

      Again, keeping ahead of the group (and Marvin and his never-ending lectures), I discover several extremely well-preserved depictions of the Earth Goddess along the wall of a corridor opening onto a large courtyard. Though, of course, most insist it is the Male Rain God Tlaloc, or a priest impersonating Tlaloc. Once again, take note of the yellow hands, with red fingernails, no less. Marvin claims this is the Female Earth Goddess. At any rate, the individual depicted is wearing an ornate Quetzal feather headdress, has braided hair, huge jade ear plugs, and is making like a cornucopia, spraying all sorts of goodies from outstretched hands.

      As Marvin and the others enter the corridor, I walk to its end and turn to my right, walking into a large room. My jaw drops. On the far wall is the magnificent “Net Jaguar Entering a Temple” mural. I squat before it all on my lonesome, drinking in all the details and the vivid colours. It shows a somewhat human-like jaguar (possibly a priest impersonating a Jaguar) covered in a net-like pattern brilliant red and green in colour, crawling along a yellow footpath (complete with red human footprints to show the way) toward the door/mouth of a red, green and yellow temple covered in spots like a jaguar pelt and crested by a green Quetzal feather headdress. (Okay for butterflies and conch shells, so why not temples?) More symbolism re: penetrating into the womb of the Earth Mother (womb = cave = mouth of temple, etc…).

      Gasps and much “oohing” and “aaahing” announce the arrival of the others, so I retire to the large courtyard to give them room to gather close before the mural. I notice a little skink run straight up a wall, pause at the top to stare at me in miniature dinosaur-like fashion, and then scuttle off. I mention this to Marvin when he appears, and he suggests I have just encountered my shamanistic image counterpart. Hmmmm….

      More wandering down lanes past farmhouses and corn fields searching for outlying palaces. We reach the entrance to the Atetelco Palace and pause to listen to a group of Mexican schoolchildren sing a song in front of their teachers. I stir the compacted soil beneath my shoes and discover yet more pottery shards—red ones with black and white lines. Neat.

      The palace itself, dating to the early 8th Century AD, is undergoing restoration. It may be said to represent the last phase of Teotihuacano Fresco art, consisting almost entirely of figures outlined in white on a red background, figures which are supremely warrior cult in nature, such as coyotes and jaguars (with the ubiquitous Quetzal feather headdresses) munching on human hearts dripping blood, or the procession of priests wearing headdresses of eagle talons and carrying short blades on which human hearts are impaled. So, when I say “Disneyish” in reference to art style, I am sometimes thinking of the more macabre bits of the “Night on Bald Mountain” sequence in “Fantasia,” I guess.

      (For that matter a recent discovery in Teotihuacan of pottery pieces appearing to show pregnant women in the act of being sliced open while bent backwards over sacrificial stones would seem to account for the number of fetal sacrificial victims found buried under the corners of certain buildings. This would suggest that, as the final crisis approached, life in Teotihuacan was becoming very grim indeed.)

      One particularly interesting feature of the Atetelco Palace is the “Adoratio” or miniature temple in the centre of a sunken plaza. It consists of a three-tiered pyramid topped with a tiny one-room temple, the whole structure probably being only ten feet high and originally serving as an altar. The current black and red stonework makes it look a bit grim. Its original plaster covering was probably painted bright red, which must have made it look quite grim. One hesitates to imagine what went on in this patio in the old days.

      At any rate, time to return to our hotel. I’ve definitely got a sunburn on both forearms, and I’m mindbogglingly tired. I’m barely conscious sitting in the middle of the back seat of the bus as it bumps along the highway back to Mexico city, passing endless clusters of concrete houses with sheet iron or tin roofs. A Mexican father falls asleep on my right shoulder, his young son asleep in his arms. On my left the man’s wife sits bolt upright, spending every waking moment making sure no part of her or her possessions comes into contact with me… I don’t care. I’m oblivious, even delirious, with fatigue.

      All the same, what a magnificent, magical day.

To be continued in part two.