The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari

by Robin Sharma

  “Now,” said Chava, pointing at an assembly of stones laid out on the ground. It wasn’t a neat formation, but it didn’t look haphazard either. “What would you guess that was?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, moving closer. There were small tufts of grass between the stones. A lizard scurried across one corner and disappeared down the side of the pile. “Is it the beginning of a building? Or something that fell down?”

  “That, my friend,” said Chava, “is a wall. Not a wall that has fallen down, but one that was assembled ahead of time and laid here, waiting to be moved up there to make a second story. It was all ready to go, but the work was not finished. This is something you don’t see in a site that was abandoned because of long drought or disease. This work wasn’t stopped—it was interrupted.”

  When we had started this little tour, it all felt a bit random—taking a crash course in archaeology, becoming immersed in the working world of someone I just met. But I was beginning to see why Chava might want to show all this to everyone he encountered, why he might want to share his work with a stranger, why a job like his might hook a person. There were so many questions to be answered.

  “What do you think it was?” I asked. “Were they attacked or something?”

  “War or violence seems likely here, doesn’t it?” said Chava. “We have found a quantity of spearheads. But no burned buildings or walls or barricades for defense. And if it was an unexpected attack, well … you need to see another thing.” Chava gestured for me to come away from the wall. “Can you take just a bit more climbing?”

  Chava led the way, up a winding, twisting path. Here and there were the remains of crumbling stairs, which we scrambled over. Chava stopped climbing near the top of the hill and headed over to a flat area of stakes and stones. It was obvious that an excavation was under way. Cleared from the under-growth were the stone bases of walls surrounding dry dirt pits. In one, a young blond woman squatted in a corner, carefully sweeping dirt away from a buried object with a small brush. In another corner of the pit were various bits of rock and broken pottery with numbered flags and labels on them.

  “Jonathan,” said Chava as the woman stood up. “This is Ellen. Ellen, this is Jonathan.”

  Ellen was another field technician, working with a team from an American university.

  “I was just explaining to Jonathan about the recent discoveries. Maybe you could tell him about these hilltop homes,” said Chava. Ellen nodded and wiped her brow with a scarf she took from the pocket of her pants. Like Chava, she seemed to need no encouragement to talk about her work.

  She explained that what I was looking at were the remains of meal preparation. The grinding stone for the corn had been rested against the doorframe, but not put away. The neatly laid-out pots suggested that work had started but then stopped midway through. Everything had been left the way people would leave things if they thought they would be returning shortly. They left quickly, but they did not appear to have run off in terror. Everything was orderly, and there were no signs of chaos or attack.

  “Ah,” sighed Chava. “We have a lot of work to do before we solve these mysteries.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Ellen. “I hope you’ll excuse me while I get back to it. I want to get a bit more done before I leave for the day.”

  Chava and I stood on the hilltop for a few minutes more, gazing over the canopy of trees. I looked back at Ellen crouched in the dirt. There was less shade up here, and although the sun was not as high in the sky as it had been when I first arrived, it was still hot.

  “That’s one thing I don’t get,” I said to Chava.

  Chava cocked his head.

  “The work,” I said. “The digging. It seems to move so slowly. I thought electrical engineering and technical design were painstaking, but this…” I waved my hand in Ellen’s direction. “This moves by fractions of inches. How do you manage?”

  “Ah yes, I know,” said Chava, smiling. “You can work all day, and at the end of it, what have you done? Moved a few pounds of sand, right?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “It’s easy to make light of the work we do. The American fieldworkers sometimes refer to themselves as ‘shovelbums.’ But we all have to keep reminding ourselves that we can’t rush our work, that we must be patient. And above all, we must work carefully, accurately, with the greatest professionalism, even if we are feeling bored or restless. It’s so easy to destroy important artifacts or miss things altogether.”

  Chava began to head back toward the rough stairs. He looked over his shoulder at me.

  “Each carefully excavated square may seem small, Jonathan, but together, all these little plots can add up to an important historical discovery, a real advance in knowledge. I like to think that if we ‘shovelbums’ do our work well, our small contributions can add up to something really important. We can actually solve great mysteries.”

  On the way home, Sikina insisted that I sit next to the window in the truck while she squeezed herself between Chava and me. I kept the window rolled all the way down, and occasionally stuck my head out like a goofy golden retriever. The dry rushing air felt wonderful. Once we were winding our way through the house-lined streets of Oxkutzcab, there was another reason to keep my head leaning out the window—the seductive smell of cooking. I realized how ravenous I was, but it also dawned on me that, since we had all been out all day, it was unlikely supper would be waiting on the stove when we got back.

  “I’m just thinking,” I said to Chava and Sikina, “why don’t I take you two out for dinner in town? You’ve spent so much of your day entertaining me.”

  “Oh no,” said Sikina. “We can’t do that. Zama is waiting for us.”

  It turned out that we were heading to the home of Chava and Sikina’s married daughter. She and her husband had prepared a big dinner for us.

  It was a crowded, noisy evening. As well as Zama and her husband and their three small children, various neighbors dropped in to say hi. Music played, my glass was filled and refilled, and my plate was piled high. As the children chased one another around the backyard, my eyes followed Zama’s six-year-old son, Eme. He was a bit smaller than Adam, but with his bubbly laugh and the way his body was constantly in motion, even when he sat down, Eme reminded me of my son. After I’d finished eating, I walked through the house and out onto the dirt street, where it was a little more quiet. I tried to phone home, but my cell reception had been spotty since I landed in Mexico, and I couldn’t get through. I composed a message to Adam.

  Hey buddy, I wrote. I am seeing the most amazing things here. When I have more time I will tell you all about them. But right now, I just wanted to say that I love you.

  The message would get sent out whenever my phone got reception. In the meantime, I would go back to the party, but my heart was no longer in it.

  Chava seemed to notice how quiet I had become after my return, and about thirty minutes later he suggested we depart. By the time I was lying in my bed later that night, having written in my journal about watching Chava’s happy family, my chest was tight from longing. I wanted nothing more than to have my son sprawled next to me. How had I not treasured those moments when they were so easily in reach?

  THE NEXT MORNING, Chava and I picked our way through the car park in the predawn darkness. I had toyed with the thought of asking Sikina to take me back to the airport in Mérida instead, to see if I could get an earlier flight out of Mexico, but Ayame’s words returned to me. Julian seemed to be pacing this trip with a reason. What’s more, Chava seemed intent on continuing my Mayan education, and I would have felt bad suggesting that we cut it short. He had insisted that we come out here, to Uxmal, before daybreak.

  “When the sun comes up,” he had said, “the people appear. You want to see this alone, or almost alone.”

  Chava had many connections with the people who ran the site, so a security guard had been instructed to meet us at the entrance to the building that acted as the gateway to the te
mples and the ruins. We could see his uniformed figure silhouetted against the museum’s front door.

  When we approached, he and Chava exchanged a few words in Maya, and the guard opened the door for us. Then he pointed across the lobby and said something else.

  “I know the way,” said Chava. “Just follow me.”

  Ten minutes later we were standing outside. In the dim light, a magnificent pyramid rose before us over a hundred feet high and at least two hundred feet wide. Unlike the small pyramid I had seen yesterday, or the pictures I had seen of other Mayan pyramids, this one seemed to have an oval base. “Temple of the Magician,” said Chava.

  While we stood, the sun climbed behind us. As it did, its light hit the stones of the temple, making them glow golden, as if an enormous fire had been lit inside the pyramid.

  Chava leaned sideways toward me and said in a low voice, “Amazing, no? To think that men built this. Ordinary men like you and me, capable of such accomplishments, such excellence.” I nodded, dumbstruck by what was before me.

  We watched the pyramid as the sky lightened around it. Then Chava started walking. He was heading toward the structure.

  “Tourists are no longer allowed to walk up the steps, but we have special permission.” Instead of starting up the steps directly in front of us, Chava walked around the base. The thought of scaling the pyramid excited me. I was suddenly glad that Chava was taking my education so seriously.

  “The other side is better for climbing,” he explained as he led me around to the opposite face of the pyramid.

  As I stood at the bottom of the pyramid, the stone rising high above me, the staggering height became clear. It would be a tough climb. Chava started up, and I followed. We made our way slowly up the smooth, hard steps. They were steep and narrow, and the sensation of moving up an enormous open staircase was disorienting. Chava told me that many of the pyramids have metal chains to hang on to as you climb. I could see why. By the time we reached the very top, I was sweating like I’d just finished a marathon.

  “This is the best view of Uxmal,” said Chava. “Sit, rest, look.”

  Chava dropped his small canvas backpack to the ground and squatted down onto his heels. I did the same.

  The Uxmal site stretched around us for hundreds of acres. Much of the remains of the ancient city were still covered in vegetation. The only suggestion of many of the streets and buildings were flat stretches broken by squarish mounds. Directly below us, however, was a series of vast stone ruins.

  Chava told me that when Uxmal was inhabited, the houses would have stretched out for many more acres than what I now saw before me. He pointed out another pyramid, half-covered with vegetation, that was called the Great Pyramid, and he told me about the other ruined buildings that we could see all around us.

  “Have you ever heard the legend of this pyramid?” Chava asked me after describing the city at our feet. I shook my head.

  “There are many different versions of the tale,” said Chava.

  The legend that Chava recounted described how, long ago, the king of Uxmal was warned that when a certain gong in the city was struck, his empire would fall to a man not born of woman. One day, indeed, the gong sounded, and the king was dismayed to discover that the person who had struck it was a dwarf boy hatched from an egg by an old, childless woman. The king summoned the dwarf to his palace and was going to execute him, when he had a change of heart. Instead of killing the boy on the spot, he decided to set the dwarf an impossible task. If the dwarf could build the king a magnificent temple, taller than any other building in the city and could do this in one single night, his life would be saved.

  When the king awoke the next morning, he was astonished to see towering before him a majestic pyramid. The dwarf’s life was spared, and the pyramid became known as the Temple of the Magician.

  “In some versions of the story, the dwarf himself is created by the old woman overnight. In others, he is set many feats of strength and tests, including the building of the pyramid. But what each version has in common,” said Chava, “is the idea that this extraordinary structure was created in the space of just one night.”

  Chava took two water bottles out of his pack. He passed one to me and took a swig out of the other, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Perhaps it’s because of the work I do,” he continued, “but that story delights me. It tells us so much about our dreams, our desires. What does the king wish for? No, it’s not so much that he wants a great temple. He could have had his subjects build him that at any time. What he wants is for this remarkable creation to happen overnight!”

  “I guess nothing changes,” I said with a laugh. “Everyone wants everything in a hurry.”

  “Yes, exactly,” said Chava. “But that is just not possible, is it? After all, the accomplishment of the king’s task proves that the dwarf is, in fact, a magician. It is not in the power of a mere human to make something truly marvelous in an instant. People need patience. People need to build things slowly, one brick at a time. As much as we would love to achieve great things quickly, it is not the way our world works. Genius is a process.”

  Chava had placed his canvas knapsack on his lap and was digging around inside. After a few seconds, he pulled out a small cloth bag and handed it to me.

  “Shall I open this now?” I asked. Chava nodded.

  The top of the red woven bag was tied with a bit of string. I worked at the knot until it fell open, and then lifted the bag and emptied its contents onto my lap. There was a note and a tiny red clay object. I picked it up and looked at it. It appeared to be a miniature model of a pyramid.

  I unfolded the piece of paper and read the words on it.

  Make Small Daily Progress

  The way we do small things determines the way that we do everything. If we execute our minor tasks well, we will also excel at our larger efforts. Mastery then becomes our way of being. But more than this—each tiny effort builds on the next, so that brick by brick, magnificent things can be created, great confidence grows and uncommon dreams are realized. The truly wise recognize that small daily improvements always lead to exceptional results over time.

  The sun was considerably higher in the sky than it had been at the start of our climb. Its heat was beginning to press down on me. I lifted the corner of my shirt and wiped some perspiration from my brow.

  Chava looked over and immediately began to stand up.

  “I’m sorry for keeping you so long up here,” he said. “I know you are not used to the temperatures. Let’s head out. On the way down, I want to show you one more thing.”

  We began our descent, which I found more difficult than the climb up. Walking down the steep, narrow steps, facing out across the plaza, made me realize the heights I’d scaled and the absence of anything that might prevent me from slipping and crashing down these smooth stone steps. I was relieved when Chava signaled me to stop lowering myself and instead move along sideways. Chava was ahead of me, but eventually he stopped in front of a large arched doorway that opened along one side of the pyramid.

  “This,” Chava said, with a flourish of his hand toward the doorway, “is the irony of that legend, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “This pyramid was supposed to have been built overnight, but nothing could be further from the truth,” said Chava. “Instead, it was built over hundreds of years. In fact, it was rebuilt again and again. Five times! And each time the new pyramid was constructed on top of the old. My ancestors thought this imbued the temple with all the accumulated power and greatness of its predecessor. This doorway is just a remnant of one of the earlier pyramids that was here. What you see around it was added on later.”

  “Wow,” I said. I was looking up at the carvings of mystical creatures, or perhaps Mayan gods, that ran along the door frame. It was intricate, detailed artistry. It would indeed have been magic if anything like this happened in months, never mind overnight.

  �
�Yesterday I was telling you that I hope my work will uncover clues about the end of the Mayan Empire,” said Chava. “But the beginnings are what really interest me—how all this came to be. You talk about an archaeological dig being painstaking work, but the creation of a civilization, the building of vast cities, these pyramids here—that is slow, painstaking work.”

  I nodded, and we were both quiet for a minute.

  “It is good to remember that,” Chava said quietly. “That every big dream starts small.”

  IT WAS CHAVA who took me to the airport in Mérida the next day. The drive was almost two hours long, and after chatting amiably for the first half-hour we fell silent. I took out my phone, but I still couldn’t get a signal. I started to scroll through some of my pictures. I paused over a shot of Adam in his soccer uniform, his foot resting uncertainly on a ball.

  Chava glanced over. “You are feeling a bit homesick,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You are on your way home, Jonathan,” he replied after a moment. “You are on your way home.”

  We had passed through the small town of Ticul, past scruffy farmland and rocky pastures. We sat without talking for a little longer before I pulled my journal from my backpack and took out the most recent note. I had been writing my reflections about the journey, the talismans and the letters in the journal, as Julian had asked. I wasn’t entirely sure what I thought of this most recent message.

  Eventually Chava looked toward the notebook on my lap and said, “Jonathan, did Sikina tell you about our son, Avali?”

  “Just that he lives in Mexico City, and she misses him,” I replied.

  That made Chava laugh loudly. I looked at him quizzically.

  “Sorry,” said Chava, “I can’t believe she stopped there. Avali is a doctor. Sikina is very proud of him. Usually, that’s one of the first things she tells people.”