CONT'D: Feeding the Well of the Mouth of the Itzaes | Page 1, 2

Our second day at the pyramids started at the southern end for another visit to Caracol. This time, I intended not to be caught. As I prepared for my second leap back in time, I overheard an American female voice whine, "Y'know, if they had just made it out of cement, it would look so much better." I just shook my head in disappointment.

When we deemed we were safe from unkind eyes, I was once again boosted into the hole in the wall. This time, I was an old hand, willing to face any danger in the line of duty. This time, I was exploring in the name of science--as I took readings through the astronomical sightings, I noted that they were five degrees off the horizon. The stars and planets that generally become available at night would have benefited the astro- side of my readings, but such luxuries weren't possible.

Once again, only about five minutes elapsed before we were alerted of possible trouble, this time in the form of an approaching tour guide. We went into CIA espionage mode, quickly evacuating the top level and heading into the stairway below. We could no longer be seen from outside through the hole in the wall. It was as if we had ceased to exist.

I caught a few words from the Spanish voices echoing through the cylinder building. Being daring, I stuck my head around the corner to see through the hole. Quickly, I pulled my head back just as, FLASH, a camera snapped a picture. That was close. Only later I realized how damn funny it would have been for the photographer to flip through their vacation snaps to find some white kid's head in the hole in the wall. I stuck my head out again and retracted quickly before another flash went off. Today, I regret the missed comic opportunity.

Waiting for word that the tour group had left, I peered around the corner to see a woman staring up at me. She couldn't see me, but she seemed quite puzzled anyway. When Ted walked up to the hole in the wall and said, "You can come out now," the woman probably felt it might be a good time to quietly exit. We shot from the hole, and tourists all around seemed to stop moving. The last of us evacuated just as another guide came around the corner. We had completed another successful guerrilla mission.

Our last day in the town of Piste was spent entertaining the local kids, who took the day off just to say goodbye. They seemed puzzled as to why us gringos weren't at school. I found myself hoping that they didn't view us as role models (being so young, they wouldn't have understood that we were in school). We'd been attending the best classes: anthropology (Mayans), architecture (Puuc design), language (Spanish and Garifuna), science (astronomy and observatories), and sport (tops).

From what I observed, every Mexican boy knows how to spin a top. They use the style of top that is wound to a string and thrown downwards until the top is released, spinning wildly, onto the ground. These boys are able to shoot their tops with amazing accuracy. Wanting to make one of them work for his money, I told him "If you can nail a peso from ten feet away , it's yours." His first attempt failed only because the top didn't actually touch the peso, but the boy recovered from his embarrassment and redeemed himself with the second dead-on shot.

Maybe (like us) the Mexican kids were in school that day. Maybe they added a few words of English to their vocabularies (formerly only comprised of "One moment, please," used for conducting sales transactions on the street). At the very least, they learned that there were faces different than theirs in the world. I hope we provided them with one of their best days of education. We taught them what we could, even showing one of the boys how to light fires with a magnifying glass. Unfortunately, the sun was too low to get anything lit. "A las doze... cuando el sol es alto": "At twelve... when the sun is high," I articulated the English syllables.

"Oh, si, si!" The boy ran off to show his friends his new discovery yelling "Fuego! Fuego! Fuego!"

Sensing an inferno on our hands, we disappeard quite quickly, just like the Mayas.

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Dane Strom is the webmaster, technical advisor of the magazine, and an occasional contributor. He lives on the waters of the Puget Sound.
E-mail: danestrom@poppulse.com