by Levison Wood
‘My uncle is a medicine man,’ he said. ‘He lives at the end of the road, go and see him while you wait.’
And so we did. I figured that after the past day and seeing so many skeletons, a bit of protection against the ghosts and spirits probably wouldn’t go amiss. We knocked on the Shaman’s door and found a frail, little old man sitting on a wooden bench in a dark room watching television.
‘We’ve come for a blessing,’ said Alberto.
The old man was called Don Theo. ‘Sit down,’ he said, almost imperceptibly in Mayan. He spoke only a few words of Spanish, so that Alberto had to use signs and break down his language to the basic form. Don Theo seemed to understand, though. He pointed to a chair that faced against the wall, where a sort of shrine had been erected. There was a framed painting of Mary, and another, slightly smaller one of Jesus, hanging from the wall right in front of the chair, so that you sat staring into the eyes of Catholicism. Also pinned on the wall was a crucifix, a wind chime and a garland of plastic pink-and-yellow flowers. Underneath all of that was a wooden trellis-table covered in a white sheet.
On the table was all manner of holy relics. A postcard of the Last Supper sat next to a melted candle. There, too, was a jam jar filled with spices of some description, and a statue of St John the Baptist. There were coins, key rings, and three plastic children’s toys. Two superheroes and one dinosaur. But most prominent of all was the cut-off, bottom half of a Coca-Cola bottle, which formed a tray for the Alux.
‘What is it?’ I asked Alberto, as I sat down. I felt like I was paying a visit to the hairdressers as I made myself comfortable and stared at the paintings.
‘It’s like a little devil, or fairy,’ he said. ‘These people are very superstitious.’
The Shaman kept a solemn face, but touched the little stone idol that sat inside the Coke bottle on its head. It resembled a miniature Easter Island head.
‘They find them near the pyramids and dig them up, they’re meant to be lucky, and the Shamans worship them.’
I sat and waited for the magic to happen. Don Theo went to the corner of the room, where he picked up a handful of sticks with the leaves still attached. Then he stood behind me and began to chant. It was in Mayan for the most part, but I could just about make out a few Christian saints’ names and he invoked Mary and Jesus repeatedly.
‘It’s a combination of Christianity and ancient Mayan religion. Same with Day of the Dead – the Mayans kept the ancient traditions and merely gave the old gods new names – the saints. But the black magic carries on,’ said Alberto.
The Shaman then proceeded to whack me about the head with the sticks over and over, stopping only to take up a different and more effective angle. The ritual went on for a whole minute and then old Theo stopped to pick up something even more disturbing from the table shrine. In his fingers, I saw an enormous two-inch brown thorn. It looked like something from an acacia tree, except it had two spines so that it resembled a buffalo horn.
‘What’s he going to do with that?’ I asked Alberto, who had been watching the whole process from a safe distance behind the flailing witch doctor.
‘I have no idea.’
But the Shaman paid no heed. He took the thorn and started to stab me with short, sharp jabs in the forehead.
‘Ouch! What the …’
He grinned for the first time, flashing a mouthful of glinting golden teeth. He laid a hand on my scalp as if in blessing and nodded, suggesting that it was over, and that now I was safe against whatever ill may come our way.
‘Your turn,’ I said to Alberto.
‘You must be joking,’ he laughed.
Waiting outside was Fabian with the ricketiest-looking tricycle I had ever seen. Once upon a time it would have been bright orange, but now the paint was peeling off and every inch was covered in rust. The seat was broken and the pedals were hanging off and the chain didn’t look like it had seen oil in a century. But it did have a large frame basket at the front, even if the wooden floor was rotten and full of holes.
‘It will have to do,’ said Alberto. ‘It’s better than nothing.’
And so we loaded our bags into the basket, filled up a cooler with bottles of water from the village shop, thanked the Shaman and paid Fabian for our new trike.
I thought we would push it along the road, but Alberto had other ideas. ‘You can walk if you want to, but I’m going to ride it,’ he smiled, at which point he got on and wobbled off down the road.
8
Trouble in Paradise
‘I’m going to call it the beast,’ said Alberto as he rolled down a slope, the wheels creaking as they wobbled. ‘After the train that takes all the illegal immigrants to America.’ He was clearly enjoying himself on the downhill, as I jogged on behind. ‘I know how they feel now. Walking in the heat, pushing their bags like this.’
‘Except we’re going in the wrong direction,’ I said.
‘True, we’re getting some funny looks.’
I suppose we must have looked like a right pair of oddballs. There we were, two men plastered in sun cream, wearing Indiana Jones hats, walking down the road in the heat of the day. It wasn’t exactly sane. As we trundled through the remote villages and past the isolated farms of central Yucatán, we were usually greeted with a curious wave or a grunt of disbelief. If we spoke to anyone, they would assume that our car had broken down and we needed help.
One day, as we were pushing ‘the beast’ down the main highway between Teabo and Xaya, a police car pulled over behind us with its lights flashing. Alberto was some way ahead and the policeman got out with his hand firmly gripping a black pistol. He looked like he meant business.
‘Where are you going?’ said the cop.
I’d learned from my years of expeditioning that it is best to not give too much away. People generally think you’re mad or stupid if you tell them you’re crossing an entire landmass on foot.
‘We’re walking to Belize,’ I told him. I figured that he’d know the distance to the next country and it was something he could visualise, rather than confusing him with the concept of an 1,800-mile journey.
It didn’t work. He just scowled.
Luckily Alberto had noticed and turned around to come and save the day. He did it with a charm and measured skill that I found impressive, and reassuring.
‘Hola, Señor,’ said my guide. ‘I’m glad you stopped. Thanks for taking the time. We’re a bit lost, you see, we’re trying to get to Belize with this rusty old tricycle. This mad Englishman has decided to walk in the midday sun and is making me go with him. I felt sorry for him and so I couldn’t say no.’
At that the policeman burst out laughing. He’d done it, I thought. He’d won the fella over in ten seconds flat. That was Alberto’s gift, he could charm the hind legs off a donkey.
The policeman found him irresistible, and Alberto had subconsciously made a plea by stating that we were lost.
‘No, no, you’re not lost, the border is that way, but it’s very far.’
Alberto smiled and thanked the policeman profusely. Cheeky sod, I thought, we’re not lost, I know exactly where we are. But his chat had worked and the policeman was on our side now.
He explained why he’d pulled us over.
‘We got some reports. Someone said you’re not from the Yucatán. People here are a bit scared and nervous, because last week in Cancún eleven inmates broke out of prison. They caught three of them, but the rest are still at large. We think they’re armed and will fight to escape, so we were worried that you might be involved.’
Alberto laughed. ‘This Englishman looks suspicious, I agree. I’d arrest him if I were you.’
The policeman pulled out his smartphone and scrolled through some pictures.
‘You look like this one.’ He pointed at one particularly nasty-looking criminal with a facial tattoo.
Personally, I couldn’t see the resemblance.
The policeman eyed me up and down, as if looking to see whether I had any t
attoos. He seemed confident that I was harmless, so he waved us on and said goodbye, with a warning for us to keep a vigilant eye out for the suspects as we walked.
In a bid to avoid further cases of mistaken identity, we once again took to the backroads away from the highway as we plodded ever further south. The tricycle was a godsend here in the Yucatán, since it was completely flat and for the most part the roads were paved, but we knew as we got closer to Belize the going was about to get tougher, and we’d probably have to leave it behind.
We’d spent the night at a small village called La Pantera, known for its juicy mangoes, and as we were packing up to leave the next morning, a man pulled up next to us in a pick-up truck filled with the fruits. Damian, a Mayan elder and community leader, who also happened to sell coconuts along with mangoes, asked us if our car had broken down and if we needed any help. We were used to it by now.
‘No, we’re walking, thanks,’ said Alberto.
‘What’s your field?’ he replied in a considered tone.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you both look respectable. What is your field? You must have a field? Are you a doctor? An engineer, a scientist?’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Alberto. ‘I’m a photographer.’
‘And the gringo?’ Damian nodded to me.
‘He’s a writer. He likes history,’ Alberto answered on my behalf.
Damian’s eyes lit up.
‘Then come with me. I need to show you something.’
Intrigued, we followed the man, away from the main road down a small farm track for about three miles. It was in the direction we wanted to go anyway, so we didn’t mind. As we progressed, the path got narrower and narrower and the forest closed in about us, until we were virtually covered by the canopy. The further south we got, the bigger the trees had become. No longer were we in the arid bush of the north Yucatán, but in the tropical south of Quintana Roo. Yet, it was still completely flat. We’d noticed holes as we’d been walking along, and signs for yet more cenotes, and thus far there had not been so much as a mound, let alone a hill.
We were somewhat surprised then, when Damian took us off the track and we found ourselves hacking through the lush forest and up the beginnings of an incline. It was impossible to see for more than a few metres, given the density of the vegetation, but our legs didn’t lie, this was definitely a hill, and a big one at that. Up we went, following a natural path where steps seemed to be carved in a straight line. Surely it couldn’t be?
I thought back to my inspiration – Stephens and Catherwood – the pair of unlikely explorers, who, in 1839, and only a couple of hundred miles away in Honduras, made their discovery of the ancient city of Copán. I already knew there were plenty of pyramids around in the Yucatán peninsula. In a previous life, I’d visited Chichen Itza, Palenque and Mayapan, as well as the coastal ruins at Tulum. And on this journey we’d seen the famous pyramid in the town centre of Acanceh, but I wasn’t expecting this.
As we crawled up the mound, now on hands and knees amongst the tree roots and vines, I was sure.
‘This is a Mayan pyramid, isn’t it?’ I said to Alberto.
‘It must be,’ he said. ‘There’s no reason there’d be any hills here.’
I looked down at the way the steps were evenly carved out of the stone. Most of them were covered in soil and grass, but they were almost certainly not natural.
Damian grinned. ‘Write about this,’ he said.
‘What’s it called?’ I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t have a name.’
How could it be true? I got out my phone as we stopped for a breather and searched the Internet. No name, no place mark on Google Maps, nothing except an obscure reference in a PhD thesis from a decade ago, which suggested there might be archaeological remains in the area of Nueva Joria, ‘as yet unexcavated’. This was real exploration, and proof there are still wonders out there that lie hidden by nature.
As I clawed my way up the steps, following behind the man who was clearly pleased by his secret pyramid, I noticed hundreds of fragments of pottery poking out of the soil. I was astonished, but not as much as when we reached the top. As we emerged onto a small flat plateau, I was pleased to find that we were above the trees. The view was remarkable. Up there we had plain sight, for the first time on the journey, of the vastness of the landscape surrounding us.
For as far as the eye could see, it was nothing but a completely flat expanse of green, with the exception of three other mounds close by. They looked like pyramids too, but the one on which we were standing was the tallest of them all. I checked the altitude. We were almost forty metres high. That made it a clear ten metres higher the highest pyramid at Chichen Itza. If that was the case, then that made this unknown and unnamed pyramid one of the highest in the entire region, if not the country.
Alberto, huffing and out of breath, was equally impressed. ‘Those Mayans must have had strong legs to get up these things. Why did they do it so steep?’
‘Human sacrifice,’ said Damian, who’d barely broken a sweat. ‘This is where they beheaded people.’ He patted a large boulder that sat on top of the rocks. ‘People coming up here didn’t need their legs for much longer.’
For a moment, we were all quiet. I simply wanted to enjoy the moment of discovery and imagine the joy the early explorers must have felt when they, too, found these monuments in the jungle. Of course, they would have also had their Damians: locals who knew that these wonders were here, but had half-forgotten who built them and why.
‘We used to come here as teenagers,’ he broke the silence and winked at Alberto. ‘It’s where we’d bring our girlfriends.’
‘Poor girls,’ was Alberto’s reply, as we looked down into the vastness of the jungle below.
It took another three days to reach Chetumal. The further south we got, the darker the clouds became. Despite this being the rainy season, we’d been quite lucky. Apart from a few downpours in the evening, we had escaped without getting too soaked. But as we trudged past Bacalar and on towards the border with Belize, it seemed like a storm was brewing.
‘Lev, wake up!’ shouted Alberto.
I rubbed my eyes, but it was dark and I couldn’t see anything.
‘Is it morning?’
‘No,’ came the reply from outside the door of my hut. ‘There’s a hurricane coming. Come and see the news.’
I looked at my watch. I’d only been asleep for a couple of hours and it wasn’t even midnight yet. As I pulled on my trousers and shirt, I listened to the hammering rain as it pummelled the thatched roof. Geckos flitted around the wooden frame of the cabana, escaping the wet, but the water was already flooding in under the door and seeping through the walls. I opened the door, but Alberto was gone.
‘Over here!’ he shouted above the din of the thunder. I saw him over at the main Palapa, a bigger, open hut, where there was a kitchen table and a TV blaring from the corner. The owners of the guest house were huddled around it, watching intently.
I darted across the garden barefoot, my toes squelching in the sodden grass, which was now just a vast puddle, to get to the hut as quickly as I could. There I joined the crowd as they stared at the screen. It was clear to see it wasn’t good news.
‘Hurricane Earl … Dozens dead, thousands homeless. Entire coastlines destroyed,’ said the newsreader in Spanish.
‘It’s going to miss us,’ said Alberto, ‘it is already going inland south of here.’
There was a sigh of relief from the Mexicans.
‘Where is it worst affected?’ I asked, as the images of decimation rolled on loop: flapping palm trees, cars overturned, homes under water, boats bashing against the piers.
‘Belize,’ said Alberto solemnly. ‘Exactly over the water from here. The Island of San Pedro.’
I looked at the map. The obvious choice was to avoid the coastline altogether and carry on due south to Orange Walk and through the central forests. But by serendip
ity rather than design we’d drawn closer to the Caribbean than we’d expected, and now we had just escaped a close call with a hurricane. If the weather girl was to be believed, then in a couple of days it would have transformed into a storm as it crashed inland over Belize City and into the jungle beyond. It seemed safer now to pass in its wake along the coast, rather than risk blocked roads and fallen tress inland. Also, a part of me couldn’t resist wanting to see with my own eyes the destruction caused by this incredible force of nature.
So, after a short wait as the winds died down, we took the first boat from Chetumal to San Pedro – La Isla Bonita – the beautiful island. Now, it seemed, the storm had gone. The water was calm and the sky was clear. It was as if the news of the last few days was a mere story, designed to keep people watching.
‘Goodbye, Mexico!’ shouted Alberto, as the boat sped across the straits to the cays.
‘I’m going to miss your tacos.’
I’d almost forgotten that this was his first time in Central America outside of Mexico, and he was as wide-eyed as I was.
An hour later the coastline of San Pedro came into view. As we approached the port, I noticed immediately the level of damage that Hurricane Earl had inflicted. It was real after all. Most of the piers and jetties were smashed beyond recognition, leaving only their skeletal remains jutting from the water. Emerging onto the gangplank and walking onto the concrete dock – the only part of the port that had survived intact – I looked around.
‘Chinga,’ said Alberto. ‘This place has been fucked.’
Not one to mince words, he was, of course, correct. The beach was littered with debris: planks of wood, fallen trees, masonry and tonnes of plastic and corrugated-iron roofing. It was incongruous to see such wanton destruction in this paradise isle. Beyond the beach were the wooden houses where people lived. Fortunately, most appeared to have survived.
We picked up our bags and walked through the gate to where a customs official stamped us in.
‘Welcome to Belize,’ she said in English, with a flashing smile. After the weeks I’d spent in Mexico, it was strange to hear English again, but the warm Caribbean lilt felt welcoming. As we stepped onto the street, we were immediately reminded that this was a very different country. Almost everyone was Afro-Caribbean for a start, and their creole patois was almost unintelligible.